Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,11

her. Rip had never been a fool, though most people dismissed him as merely muscle.

“Know when a woman’s tryin’ to give me the ‘eave-‘o, Esme.” He stared straight ahead. “I’d ask why, but I think it’s got ought to do with what ‘appened yesterday.”

Silence was a sudden, awkward wall between them.

“I was trying to be considerate,” she replied stiffly. “You’ll be tired.”

“Stop tellin’ me what I feel and what I ought to be wantin’,” he snapped. “You know you can tell me anythin’, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

When she said nothing else, his lips thinned. The soft dawn light softened the harsh slant of his brow and the jagged break in his nose, but he would never be considered handsome. Still… For a moment, her heart twisted in her chest as she stared at his familiar profile. So strong. So stubborn. She’d stared at that face for years, wondering what thoughts he entertained behind those beautiful green eyes.

Jerking her gaze away, she focused on the street. Theirs were the only footsteps marring the pristine white. It made her feel terribly alone with him, her body prickling with dangerous awareness. And that only made her furious with herself.

“You’re still angry with me,” he said gruffly.

“I shouldn’t think why.” Esme strode ahead, desperately wanting to avoid this conversation.

A steely hand caught her upper arm and when she spun, he was staring down at her with those far-too-clever eyes. “We can dance in circles all day, Esme, but the ‘onest truth is I ain’t got a bloody clue why you’re so upset.” He rubbed his forehead, fingertips leaving white marks in his swarthy skin. Frustration edged his voice. “I spent ‘alf the night thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Let me go,” she said quietly.

“No.”

“Damn you, J—Rip!” She threw all of her weight against his grip and felt his hand slip on the fabric of her sleeves.

He held them up in surrender and she fell back a few steps. The thin rigid spars of his right hand reflected the morning light. As if sensing where her gaze was drawn he jerked it low, shoving it in his pocket, a flush of heat turning his cheeks ruddy. “So I’m thinkin’ right, ‘bout what you said yesterday, and I’m thinkin’ this ‘as got nothin’ to do with me so-called lie.”

Esme swallowed. “I see.”

Those wicked eyes narrowed at her non-committal answer. “You’re angry with me,” he said slowly. “Because I were drinkin’ me blood from someone else? Because you thought you’d be me thrall? I should ‘ave told you I wouldn’t ‘old you accountable to that. You don’t need to be me thrall – you don’t need to be anyone’s thrall.”

Esme shook her head, trying to step around him. How to tell him she’d wanted to be his so desperately? Especially when he’d made it clear he didn’t think of her in that way. “It doesn’t matter--”

He grabbed her again. “Damn it, Esme. I’m tryin’ to work this out.” Hard fingers – metal and flesh – dug into her upper arms as he stared down at her. “I’m tryin’. Please. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Suddenly she couldn’t hold it in any longer. It was either this or burst into tears. She shoved past. “I—I have my pride, John Doolan. I do! I won’t beg you, damn it. You don’t want me and I won’t--”

He danced in front of her and Esme staggered into him, hands pushing at his broad chest.

“I don’t want you?” he demanded. “I don’t want your blood?” A dark glint came into his eyes. “That’s it, ain’t it? That’s what this is ‘bout? Because I don’t want your bloody blood?”

Something hot slid down her cheek and she dashed the tear away, hoping he wouldn’t see it. “Leave me alone,” she said hoarsely.

The wall of his chest stiffened. “Esme?” he asked. “Are you cryin’?”

“N-no.”

Suddenly his hand cupped her jaw, the cool steel of his right one slick against her skin. Esme shut her eyes as he tilted her face up to his, one last tear sliding silently down her cheek. She didn’t want him to see it but the firm grip gave her no choice.

A roughened thumb traced the tear’s path. “Fuckin’ hell,” he said in a breathless, bewildered tone. “Christ, luv. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I ain’t worth that.”

“Yes, you are,” she whispered. “I won’t have you belittle yourself.” Everyone else did enough of that.

As dangerous as sin, the whores on the street whispered. Oh yes, she’d heard it and knew he had too. But in her