A Warriner To Protect Her. Virginia Heath

Warriners’ land. She also knew the huge gates were now locked because Jacob had moaned about the effort it had taken to do so and the splinters he had received in the process. A little further along, and purposely hidden behind tangled vines, was a smaller gate, a secret escape route which sounded positively medieval and very romantic. The Warriners of old must have needed such a device, as well as a great deal of fortified protection, if they had built such defences, yet those same defences now gave Letty a great deal of peace of mind. She had been here three days and nobody had come a calling. The more time passed, she hoped, the less likely it was they would do so.

      Directly below her window was a cobbled courtyard which housed a large iron pump handle and a small mountain of buckets balanced haphazardly on top of each other. Other than that, the courtyard was bare. Her bedchamber must face over the kitchens then, in the rear of the house and well away from prying eyes in the lane. The drop from her window to the courtyard was significant enough to cause injury, she estimated, yet not quite high enough to result in death. There was trellis alongside her window, covered in the gnarled old branches of a wisteria left quite barren by the winter. If she had to, she could lower herself from it carefully and make a dash for the woods.

      Satisfied the outside was safe, Letty turned and began to hobble towards her bedchamber door to investigate the layout of the house when the door opened and Jack Warriner strode in.

      Then stopped dead.

      She was wearing his shirt. That should not have come as a surprise because his brother had dressed her in his shirt when they had transferred her unconscious body to Jack’s bedchamber because the only other one in any habitable state had mould creeping over the damp, cracked walls. Except the sight of her standing there in it was simply staggering. She had legs. Lovely, shapely female legs which were bare to mid-thigh where the tail of the shirt hung. And the most wonderful golden hair Jack had ever seen. A tumble of corkscrew ringlets fell past her shoulders, the short curls around her face framing it like a halo. His words dried in his throat and his eyebrows shot up as he stared at the beautiful creature right in front of him.

      Emerald-green eyes stared back at him in surprise before she crouched and her arms covered her thighs. ‘Would you mind turning around, please!’ she squeaked and his wits returned.

      ‘Yes, of course! Sorry!’ Jack spun on his heels and faced the door, grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath and simply breathe.

      There was a woman in his bedchamber.

      Because after seeing her legs there was no way he could continue to think of her as a patient. There had not been an actual woman in Markham Manor since his mother had died a decade ago and he could barely remember the last time he had seen a woman’s bare legs. May? Last spring, in Lincoln? Although at the time he had not really taken much notice of the tavern maid’s legs because he had had to travel home before dark and he was more concerned with other parts of the woman. Perhaps he should have, because surely one pair of legs was much like the next? What was it about these particular legs he suddenly found so alluring?

      He heard her scramble back towards the bed and the rustle of the covers as she made herself decent. ‘You can turn around now Mr... Jack.’

      Somehow, seeing her sitting up in his bed, all tousled and proper, made it worse and he felt the falls of his breeches tighten uncomfortably. She looked as tempting as a baker’s window and, by God, he was desperate to taste her. But he had no time to spare to consider such unexpected yearnings, definitely not for a woman in his care and definitely not when he sensed impending danger.

      ‘We need to talk... Violet.’

      Her lovely eyes widened further in alarm at the use of her proper name and Jack finally knew for certain she had been economical with the truth. However, it was difficult to be annoyed at her for the omission. In her shoes, he’d have probably done much the same.

      ‘There are men in the village looking for you.’ A look of terror washed across her delicate features which he experienced an enormous desire to soothe. ‘We did not alert them to your presence here. I thought it prudent to talk to you first before I entrusted them with any information.’

      She visibly sagged with relief, the motion causing the open neck of the capacious linen shirt to fall to one side, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her delicate, feminine shoulder. Jack’s groin tightened again and to cover it, he sat down heavily on the mattress in front of her. ‘I think it is time you told me the truth. Don’t you?’

      Her golden head bobbed in assent, causing the blonde curls nearest her face to bounce. He suppressed the urge to reach up and touch one. Run his fingers along the length of it to see if it actually did feel like spun silk. She worried her bottom lip nervously with her teeth, drawing his hungry eyes there too. Her mouth was pink and plump and ripe for kissing. For some inexplicable reason, Jack was sorely tempted to kiss her. Not that he would, of course. The poor girl was frightened enough already, the last thing she needed was his case of rampant, wholly inappropriate lust.

      ‘How many men?’

      ‘Three. The others and their coaches have gone elsewhere to search for you, although I doubt they are too far away either. There are not many villages in this part of the county. They claimed to be working for your family.’

      Her expression hardened. ‘In a manner of speaking, they are.’

      ‘They also claimed you were abducted, although I gather you would rather not be returned to them?’

      He watched a flurry of emotions play on her face. Fear, confusion, mistrust, then finally acceptance. She stared back at him levelly. ‘Those men—was one of them an older man? Grey hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue?’

      Jack shook his head. ‘No. The man I spoke to called himself Mr Smith. He had a scar across his cheek here.’ He swiped his finger in a jagged line down his own cheek to the jaw in demonstration.

      ‘Layton. His name is Layton. He works for the Earl of Bainbridge.’ She sat back on the pillows, tucking her knees to her chest and hugging them. It was an unconscious gesture which suggested she needed to protect herself from whatever it was these men had come to achieve. It sparked something visceral inside him. Something primal and male and territorial. It made him want to slay dragons for her—a ridiculous notion which suddenly came out of nowhere and blindsided him. She could be lying through her pretty teeth, yet that made no difference to his urgent need to be her knight in shining armour. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. Jack did not usually have those sorts of feelings for women. He liked them well enough...but always in a pragmatic and sensible way. He had never been a romantic man—although a part of him was certainly feeling that way if he was thinking of himself as her knight and conjuring imaginary dragons in his obviously addled mind.

      It was probably because of the golden hair, he reasoned, he had always had a penchant for blondes. The legs were a bonus, of course, and then there was the fact that she was lying in his bed. Staring a little warily at him with her beautiful green eyes. She regarded him thoughtfully for several moments, then sighed.

      ‘Letty is my name. It is the name I prefer to be called, at any rate, because my mother used to call me it as a child. However, my full name is Violet Dunston.’ She paused briefly as if he should recognise the name, and when he didn’t she seemed a little surprised, but continued. ‘My parents died in a carriage accident a few years ago and since then I have been under the guardianship of my father’s brother. Whilst I have never been particularly close to my uncle, I had no reason to suspect he wished me ill. He moved into my family house to fulfil his guardianship duties, although apart from that we really had little to do with one another.’

      ‘A few weeks ago, he introduced me to the Earl of Bainbridge, a man old enough to be my grandfather who apparently had expressed a desire to marry me. Unsurprisingly, I was not thrilled with the proposal and turned him down. He is a completely odious man, who has already outlived two wives and has the reputation for being a dreadful gambler. I was surprised he would even condone such a proposal. However, since then, my uncle has been relentless in his insistence that I marry the vile man—because they were friends, or so I was led to believe. We argued