The Lady Most Willing

impractical otherwise.

He hadn’t given marriage much thought, really, except to think—not yet. He needed someone wellborn, who came with money, but whoever she turned out to be, he didn’t need her right away.

And yet, if he were to choose a duchess . . .

He looked at Miss Burns, peering into her bottomless brown eyes before his gaze dropped to the corner of her lips, where a tiny spot of strawberry jam lay temptingly pink and sweet.

“You’re not going to marry me,” he murmured.

“Well, no.” She sounded confused.

“So what you’re saying,” he said with soft calculation, “is that, for my own safety, I ought to remain in your company for the duration of our incarceration.”

“No!” she exclaimed, clearly horrified by his leap of logic. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“But it makes sense,” he pressed. “Surely you can see the wisdom of it.”

“Not for me!” When he did not answer quickly enough, she planted her hands on her hips. “I have a reputation to consider, even if you do not.”

“True, but we need not steal away from the rest, as delightful as that sounds.”

She blushed. He quite liked that she blushed.

“All I really need,” he continued, “is for you to act as a deterrent.”

“A deterrent?” she choked out.

“A human shield, if you will.”

“What?”

“I cannot be left alone with that woman,” he said, and he felt no remorse at the low desperation in his voice. “Please, if you have any care for your fellow man.”

Her lips clamped together in a suspicious line. “I’m not certain what I get out of the equation.”

“You mean besides the joy of my delightful company?”

“Yes,” she said, with an impressive lack of inflection, “besides that.”

He chuckled. “I shall be honest . . . I don’t know. The joy of thwarting Miss Marilla?”

Her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “That would be a joy,” she conceded.

He waited for a few more seconds, then said simply, “Please.”

Her lips parted, but whatever word she’d had resting on her tongue remained there for an endless frozen moment. “All right,” she finally agreed. “But if there is a hint—even a whisper—of anything improper . . .”

“You can be assured there will not.”

“You can’t kiss me again,” she said in a low voice.

Normally, he would have pointed out that she had been doing her fair share of the kissing, but he was far too desperate for her agreement to argue. “I will do my best,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It is all I can promise,” he said quite truthfully.

“Very well,” she said. “What shall we do?”

“Do?”

“Or hadn’t you thought that far ahead?”

“Apparently not,” he said, flashing her what he hoped was a winning grin.

“We can’t just stand here all day in the old buttery.”

For the first time, Bret paused to take a look about. They were in a pass-through room, with one door that opened to the great hall, and another that was presently shut but probably led to the kitchens. There were a couple of tables, but other than that, the small chamber was mostly empty, save for a few ancient barrels in the corner. “Is that where we are?” he remarked.

She gave him a look of mild disdain. “You do know what a buttery is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I live in a castle.”

“An English castle,” she said with a sniff.

“It’s a castle,” he ground out. Not as ancient as Finovair, of course, but the Brettons predated the Tudors by at least two hundred years.

“You do know that we don’t make butter in a buttery?” Miss Burns said.