Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,24

a man I don’t know.”

“But I introduced myself.”

“Over there!” she hissed. Obligingly, he stepped aside, and Pru went to the shop door, opening it for Mrs. Northgate. She handed Pru the fabric.

“Now that’s done. Shall we go home and begin?”

“If you’re not too tired,” Pru said, watching Mr. Payne out of the corner of her eye. He was paying them no attention, which was a relief.

“Tired? My girl, I have enthusiasm to spare! Come along now.”

Still carrying the bundle, Pru hurried after her.

“I HAVE A LETTER FROM your father,” Rowden said that evening at dinner.

Nash set down his fork. Up until that point, he’d actually been enjoying the meal. Rowden had purchased bread, soup, and pies in Milcroft and Mrs. Brown had managed to warm them up and present a decent dinner. But now Nash’s stomach tightened. He peered at Rowden with his right eye but could not see the paper Rowden held. He could hear the man rattling it, though. “What does it say?”

“He’s not sending the men from the asylum. Yet,” Rowden said. “So you needn’t look like you’ve been summoned to a funeral.”

“Easy for you to say. You aren’t threatened with spending the next twenty years in a strait-waistcoat.”

“He does say,” Rowden went on, “that he is coming for a visit.”

“My father is coming for a visit?” Nash asked. This was difficult to believe. At the end of their last meeting, the earl had said he never wanted to see Nash again. The earl never said anything he did not mean.

“A representative is coming,” Rowden said.

Nash relaxed slightly. He would not have to face his father again. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“I thought I had better mention this before the men arrived in the morning and began pounding and hammering. It will be a bad start if you shoot one of them before they’ve made any real progress.”

Nash’s hand went immediately to his pocket where his pistol lay comfortable against his hip. “Absolutely not. I will not have strangers traipsing about Wentmore.”

“I’ve already made the decision. The men arrive tomorrow. They’re not strangers. I’ve hired most of them from Milcroft.”

“I said no.”

“Nash, be reasonable. For once.”

“Now you think I have gone mad too?” Nash asked, even as his hand curved around the butt of the pistol. He could hardly blame Rowden if he did think Nash daft. What other man walked around with a loaded pistol in his pocket and felt the need to touch it whenever distraught?

“I don’t think you have gone mad, but you cannot see what I see.”

“So you throw that in my face.” Nash stood. “You think I am weak? I might be blind, but I’m not helpless.” He lunged toward the form of Rowden, crashing into him and sending both of them tumbling to the floor. There was the sound of splintering wood—most likely the chair Rowden had been sitting in—and then the feel of Rowden’s large hands pushing Nash off him. Nash rolled away and came up swinging. He missed with his first punch but landed the second. If the blow made any impact on Rowden, the man gave no sign. There was no exhalation of sound or an attempt to move away.

Nash struck again, but his fist sailed through empty space as Rowden ducked far more quickly than Nash could react. Nash climbed to his feet and Rowden was up too, moving backward and out of Nash’s range.

“Stand still,” Nash panted.

“You’re behaving like an arse,” Rowden said. “Hitting me won’t solve anything.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Nash lunged for Rowden, missed, tripped over a chair and cursed as pain shot through his knee.

“Are you finished?” Rowden asked.

“Come and fight me,” Nash said. “Or are you afraid of being beaten by a cripple?”

“You’re not a cripple, and you’re not weak. But you can’t see the state of this house and your father’s representative—whoever that may be—can and will see it.”

Nash was following the sound of Rowden’s voice and the shadowy form of his large frame. He swung again, missed, and fell forward. Rowden moved out of the way, and Nash crashed into a wall.

“He will report back that not only do you carry a pistol in your pocket and brandish it at anyone who comes close, you live in a house damaged by fire and falling into ruin.”

Nash struck again, and Rowden caught his fist in one hand, closed around it and yanked Nash close. So close Nash could feel his wine-scented breath on his face. He was almost ashamed that his first