The Damsel's Defiance. Meriel Fuller
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the stiff breeze, his cloak swirled about him, blocking the sun from her eyes to cast her into gloomy shadow.
Emmeline shivered, suppressing a leap of…what? Was it fear, or some other emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint? She would not be cowed by this stranger, no matter what his opinion of her; he’s just a man, she reminded herself. After everything Giffard had done to her, hadn’t she learned anything about how to deal with the opposite sex? Have some courage! Her eyes travelled warily from the thick leather of his great sea boots, up the muscled length of his legs to a broad chest encased in a buff-coloured leather jerkin. His vast cloak, rippling out in the breeze, was of a rich blue, a colour denoting him to be a member of the nobility by the sheer expense of the indigo dye. The colour matched the fiery vividness of his eyes, an azure brightness so intense that her heart skipped in shock as her indignant stare locked with his.
‘Pray tell me, how else does one address a whore?’ The dispassionate nature of his voice enraged her, raining down on her head in hollow censure.
With sharp, angry movements, Emmeline began to tuck her wayward hair back into her hood. Her fingers moved over the back of her head; her skull ached. ‘I’m no whore, sire. Surely anyone with a whit of sense can see that!’
The stranger chuckled, a deep, throaty rasp. ‘Then I must have none. In my experience only a whore or an extremely foolish woman would come this early to the dockside with her hair unbound and not ask for trouble. Which one are you?’
‘’Tis none of your business!’
‘It became my business when I pushed you away from the falling wine cask. Count yourself lucky, mam’selle, for another man might not have bothered saving one such as you.’
One such as you. God in Heaven, he really does think that I’m a whore. ‘Then why did you?’ she asked out loud.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Instinct, I suppose. No one likes to witness a life lost unnecessarily. You would have been crushed to death. That cask weighs at least six times your body weight.’ He looked down the arrow-straight ridge of his nose at her. ‘Most people would be thanking me by now.’
‘Thank you,’ she chanted, her tone faintly mocking, aware that the cold from the jetty began to seep through her clothes. Collecting her cloak and skirts about her, she pondered on how to rise with dignity, unwilling for this arrogant stranger to witness her disability. If only she had something to pull herself up with! The sooner she could escape this horrible man, the better!
‘Let me help you,’ he offered, grudgingly. She stared at the neatly stitched hide of his gloves, his hand reaching out to her from his great height to where she sat in a miserable puddle of skirts, her inadequate leather slippers and wrinkled stockings on show for everyone to see, and gritted her teeth. ‘I can manage,’ she mumbled, shaking her head at his offer.
‘’Tis your choice.’ The hand withdrew.
Around her, the men of the port had gathered, some concerned, some smirking slightly to see her humiliation. Annoyed, she flicked her skirts back down to cover her ankles, as one of the merchants pushed through to the front of the crowd.
‘Ahh, Mam’selle de Lonnieres, it’s you! A thousand apologies,’ the small man blustered, his fat little hands fluttering nervously before his mottled face. ‘I assure you, I checked the ropes thoroughly!’
‘Not well enough, it seems,’ the tall stranger remarked drily. ‘This woman could have been killed.’ The blue gleam of his eyes assessed the other man scornfully.
The wreckage of the cask lay before her on the edge of the revetment, splayed out in bits like broken bones. The red wine had soaked into the rough timber boards, winking in the sunlight as the gulls wheeled overhead, sensing the drama below, their shrieking calls piercing through her…
‘Mam’selle?’
She scarcely heard the stranger’s voice as a fierce trembling overtook her, the enormity of the incident becoming sickeningly clear. He grunted impatiently, before bending down to lift her up with two broad hands under her armpits.
‘Monsieur!’ she squeaked in surprise, eyes snapping wide as she realised the dangerous proximity of his large thumbs to the sensitive underside of her breasts. A peculiar, fluttering feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she quashed it smartly, retreating hurriedly from his imposing build as soon as he set her on her feet.
‘Let me be!’ She raised a hand up as if to ward him away as he removed his hands abruptly.
‘Have no fear, mam’selle, I have no intention of taking advantage of your “trade”.’ His brilliant blue eyes bore down into hers. ‘I wanted to make sure you were steady.’
Emmeline drew herself up to her full height and found herself looking at the lacing holes of his leather jerkin. Cursing her lack of stature, she tilted her head back, bristling with irritation. ‘Now, look here!’ She wagged her finger bossily at him, intending to put this raven-haired barbarian firmly in his place. ‘You have made a serious misjudgement! Mother of Mary, just look at me! I’m far too old to be…to be that sort of thing!’
The man’s lips twitched, his mouth, wide and generous, softening the raw-boned angles of his upper cheekbones, just visible above the growth of beard. This woman, a woman who scarce reached his shoulder, amused him—nay, intrigued him, despite the fact that she should be clapped in irons for her outspokenness. His hooded eyes snapped over her, standing straight and proud and defiant before him. With her stunning pale gold hair now hidden by the all-enveloping cloak, her clear green eyes sparkled like brilliant jewels set in the creamy alabaster of her face. Her skin bloomed with a lucid suppleness that for some odd reason he itched to caress. Beneath the billowing folds of her cloak, he already knew the delicious svelteness of her figure; his hands held the memory of the narrowness of her rib-cage, the lightness of her frame as he had lifted her.
He shook his head slightly. ‘’Tis not apparent to me, mam’selle.’ His voice, low and melodious, curled seductively around her. ‘You certainly have the face and body to pleasure a man.’ His insulting words dropped like blows, ripping through her to shatter her precarious control. Shuddering, she took a hesitant step back, cheeks flaming.
‘You go too far, monsieur! Your words bring shame on you!’
The stranger’s expression remained unconcerned. This virago’s performance afforded a pleasing diversion after the arduous sea crossing, a veritable feast of feisty womanhood. Idly, he wondered how far he could push her before her temper burst, but he quashed the impulse rapidly.
‘Well, monsieur? What have you got to say for yourself?’
She treated him as if he were a child, refusing to bestow him the proper respect that his nobility required—nay, demanded. She obviously had no idea of who he was, or what he represented.
‘Are you always so ill-tempered?’
Her fingers bunched to fists at her sides; he wanted to laugh. Did she really think she was going to take him on? He raised one eyebrow in derisive surprise. Catching the gesture, she grimaced, then relaxed her fingers. He faced her impassively. Experience had taught him to be wary of women; simpering manners and cunning ways often obscured their true natures, yet this little maid was no whore. Her reaction to his offensive words had been evidence enough: the heat of her blood suffusing her face in embarrassment, a pink wash imbuing the fresh delicacy of her skin.
‘Emmeline, Emmeline, what on earth has happened?’ Geoffrey appeared at her side, red-faced and out of breath. ‘I heard the crash from inside the warehouse…oh, Lord Talvas, I bid you good morning.’ To Emmeline’s great surprise, Geoffrey swept off his hat and swung a deep bow toward the stranger.
‘Geoffrey, do you know this man?’ Emmeline demanded imperiously.
Geoffrey smiled. ‘Of course, we shared the journey over from England.’
‘On my ship?’ Emmeline responded scathingly.
‘On your ship?’ The stranger quirked