The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,66

won’t even buy a book for you . . .” A child’s voice cut through her silent musings, and Emma picked up her head.

“He will,” another boy shot back. “He would. He offered. I chose . . . stop it!” Those words came more strident, more desperate than commanding.

There came the distant sniggering.

Emma narrowed her eyes. It was a sound she knew all too well. Not a true laugh, but more a taunting cruelty disguised as mirth. Shifting course, she followed those voices. Those jeers and sniggers grew increasingly louder.

She stopped, at last finding a trio of children. Two tall, gangly boys of similar height, but one in possession of bright crimson curls and the other ink-black hair, stood over a much smaller child, who sat on the floor. Even seated as he was, Emma could make out the slight, painfully slender form, a good deal smaller than the ones now confronting him. Even so, there was an impressive strength and courage to the cornered child, who, behind spectacles that appeared too large for his face, glared up at his detractors.

Fury for the child, and on the child’s behalf, sizzled in her veins as rage briefly blanketed her vision.

“He doesn’t even like to be seen with you . . . ,” the redheaded boy jeered.

“You’re wrong. He’s here. He’s—”

The other nasty child kicked the book out of the smaller boy’s fingers, sending the volume flying back into his face and knocking his spectacles loose. The literary missile landed hard on the floor, knocking into the small stack of leather-bound titles that had been sitting there.

That pile tumbled over, toppling forlornly open upon their now-wounded spines.

That was really enough. “You there.” Three sets of gazes swiveled her way as Emma stormed over. “You miserable little cur.” She looked between the two bullies. “The both of you.”

The ginger boy, the clear ringleader of their pair, flushed as red as the hair on his head. “I’m not little,” he blustered, while his still cruel but somewhat wiser friend edged away from Emma.

Resting her hands akimbo on her hips, she ran a condescending stare up and down each of their persons. “I’m a woman, and I have you pegged a good six inches shorter than me.”

The color on both children’s cheeks deepened by several shades. “I’m not done growing,” the mouthier of the two shot back.

She snorted. “That remains to be seen. In fact, who is to say you haven’t stopped already?” Emma continued marching forward until both boys, this time, retreated from the silent, wide-eyed child on the floor.

Mouthy Boy and his follow-along friend backed square into the shelving until she had put an effective end to their retreat and had them anchored perfectly so she could dole out the lecture they were in desperate need of. “And let me be clear . . . ?” she began, looking between the two.

When both boys were too cowardly to respond, she cast a glance over at the solemn-looking little boy who’d just taken to his feet.

The child cleared his throat. “Lord Whitley”—he stuck a little finger in the redheaded boy’s direction—“and Lord Asher,” he supplied, earning matching scowls from his bullies.

“Shut your mou—”

She glared away the remainder of that threat from Lord Whitley. “Let me be clear, Lord Asher and Lord Whitley. You may think you are tall. You may think you are strong. But you are both small in the ways that matter most. You are bullies,” she said bluntly. “You are beasts. And you think you’re clever, but your strength only comes from hurting others, which makes you the smallest of boys.” She took a step closer, and leaning down and highlighting the height difference between them, she stuck her nose close to Lord Asher’s. The boy’s large Adam’s apple jumped. “And no matter how much you might grow in meters? As long as you remain the same vile, heartless, ruthless beasts you are this day?” She shifted, fixing all her rage on the ringleader. “Then you will never grow to become a man.”

Shamefaced, both boys dropped their gazes to the hardwood floor.

She clapped her hands close to their faces, startling their focus back to her. “Now go,” she snapped.

The pair bolted, taking off running.

The moment they’d gone, Emma looked to the nameless little boy staring wide-eyed up at her. With those children gone, she now had her first real look at him. Thin to the point of gaunt, his skin pale and his green eyes enormous, he couldn’t be more than