What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,3
floor to ceiling. A deep red rug lined the floor, its pattern illuminated by a thin ray of sunlight. Beyond, a pedestal stood by the window. It was empty. Presumably, someone had broken in and stolen whatever ornament had graced it.
A sound came from behind, but before he could move, pain exploded in the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
*
The unconscious man at Lilah’s feet seemed to have shrunk in size compared to the ogre which had emerged through the door.
But nevertheless, he was a man, and a large one. Save the stubble on his chin, he looked every part the gentleman. A dark green jacket fitted his form like a glove, leaving little to the imagination regarding his athletic, broad-shouldered form. A wicked heat pulsed inside her body at the sight of his breeches through which muscular calves and thighs were visible to the point of wantonness. Polished black boots completed the ensemble, mud spatters evidence of his efforts to conquer the weeds and brambles surrounding the house.
A man of tenacity.
Thick, honey-colored locks framed a strong face with a high forehead, straight nose, and a square jaw, which could have been chiseled by Michelangelo. Her lips parted involuntarily as her gaze traced the line of his mouth.
He let out a low groan and turned his head. The sunlight caught the strands of his hair, igniting a flare of red. Then he opened his eyes.
Her senses were assaulted by the most striking blue she’d ever seen. Two pools, the color of an ocean, stared back at her, and she took a step back.
Until now, she’d always believed her brother to be the most handsome man of her acquaintance. But he was nothing compared to the specimen before her. Had she not felled him by her own hands, assuring herself of his mortality, she would have believed him a gift from the gods.
He sat up, rubbing the back of his head and uttered an ungodlike curse.
“Fuck!”
Then he noticed her. A slow smile crept across his lips. An uncomfortable heat bloomed across her body as his gaze caressed her form, and he made no attempt to disguise his frank appraisal of her. Then his lips thinned as his expression hardened as he spotted the shard in her hand—a shard to match the remnants of the vase on the floor.
“What the devil do ye think you’re doing, foolish lass?”
His voice, a low baritone, rumbled with a rich Scottish burr which resonated in her bones, and she drew breath, willing the cool air to temper the little pulse of longing.
How could a man have such an effect on her?
But the best way to fight fire was with fire—as she had learned years ago. He might be bigger and stronger than her, but he was only a man and, by the look of him, an arrogant one. There was nothing for it but to employ equal arrogance.
She dropped the shard and folded her arms.
“I might ask you the same thing,” she said. “This is private property.”
“Is that so?” He held out his hand. “Help me up, would you?”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Frightened, eh?” A tone of amusement lightened his voice.
“I’m frightened of no man,” she said.
“Then ye’re a fool.”
He rose to his feet and brushed the front of his jacket. A puff of dust swirled in the air, and he coughed.
No—not dust, but the contents of the shattered vase. Unable to suppress a giggle, Lilah let out a snort.
“What’s so funny, lass?”
“The fact that the owner of Clayton House is blissfully unaware that a trespasser is currently breathing in his ancestor.”
“I don’t understand.”
She gestured toward the shards. “The seventh duke has resided in that vase for almost two centuries. He weathered the great Fire of London, the riots against the gin taxes, a shooting inside his ancestral home—only to be felled at the hands of a woman defending his home.”
“Not his home anymore, though, is it? The current owner would be within his rights to recoup the cost of that vase from the woman who broke it.”
“I was defending myself against a trespasser!” she cried.
“Are you the owner?”
“I’m acquainted with the family.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. After all, the late duke’s widow, Anna, was Lilah’s friend.
The man folded his arms, mirroring Lilah’s earlier gesture. “Then perhaps you’d care to tell me where the current duke resides.”
“I have no idea,” she said, “but I doubt he’d wish to see someone like you.”
His expression hardened. “Ye mean a Scot?”
“No, a trespasser,” she