“I believe you’re exactly the redheaded spitfire of a hellion that I’ve been searching for these several years. Analise Crewe, daughter of the late Lieutenant John Crewe.”
“I don’t want a guardian, or a keeper, or protector or whatever you choose to call it. Do you hear me? I will fight to the death!”
Fight to the death.She was her father’s daughter and make no mistake.
She pummeled him with her tiny fists, shouting that she wouldn’t be owned by any man. He deserved her punches, her hatred, her fear, and more. He was the reason her father was dead and she was alone in this world. The reason she’d been forced to seek shelter in that derelict guesthouse. She thought he was attempting to purchase her body for his pleasure.
The sickening thought flashed through his mind that perhaps she’d been so used before.
Goddamn it. He hated himself. He was too late.
Hit me harder, he thought. He stood stock-still as she beat him until she was exhausted and panting.
“Leave me be,” she gasped. “Let me go in peace.”
“Miss Crewe, if you’ll be still for one moment, I’ll explain myself. Your father—”
She kneed him in the groin again, and this time she connected. Pain twisted in his gut and stars danced before his eyes.
Enough.
With one easy motion he pinned both of her wrists behind her back, pushing her up against the vine-covered brick behind them. “Hold still and listen to me now. I’m not trying to purchase you. I’m the Duke of Warburton. I made your father a battlefield promise that I would protect you. I’ve been searching for you ever since the war ended. You’re an extremely difficult young lady to find.”
She went quiet in his arms. Finally.
She was so small and fragile, the bones of her shoulders visible beneath the cloak. Delicate, diminutive, and... fiery. Like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. She was gloriously alive and vibrant even half-starved and frightened to death.
He transferred both of her wrists to one of his hands, using his other hand to dig through his waistcoat pocket. “Look.” He held out her miniature. “He gave me this portrait of you. And a packet of your letters. I made a promise to become your guardian. The paperwork is complete. You are my ward.”
She didn’t much resemble the girl in the portrait anymore. In his mind’s eyes, she’d stayed fifteen, a young girl with her hair in precise ringlets, tied with a schoolgirl’s white bow above her head. A girl with an emphatically pointed chin, laughing green eyes, wearing an emerald necklace and eardrops that were far too adult for her age.
The woman he held pressed against the wall was nothing like the portrait.
Her face was still oval but her green eyes flashed with hatred, not humor.
She was slim, but shapely. He couldn’t help noticing the shapely part because her cloak had parted and her bodice had been pushed askew in their struggle.
No portrait artist could have captured her effect in person. The vibrant green of her eyes, the sunlight-on-old-copper of her hair, which had tumbled loose when she pulled the pencil free, falling in tangled curls around her neck and bosom.
The pencil that could have blinded him.
He still held her wrists. He didn’t fancy another jab from whatever other weapons she concealed on her person. He’d keep her immobile until she trusted him. He was acutely aware of how they must look to any passersby. He had her pressed up against a wall. Covering her with his body. It was a good thing the alley was deserted.
“You fought bravely, Miss Crewe. Just as your father did.”
Her breath caught, she stared into his eyes, attempting to read the truth of his words.
“You knew my father?”
“I was his commanding officer.”
“Warburton.” Understanding began to dawn. “Papa mentioned you in his letters to me but...” Confusion flooded her eyes. “You don’t seem like the man he described. He said you had an easy laugh and you were...”
“Handsome? Carefree? I’m not that man. Not anymore.” Now he was scarred. Hideous. Ill-tempered. “If I release your wrists, will you run away again?”
“Tell me about my father. Describe him to me.”
“He had your eyes. Steadfast, deep green. He and I played whist in our tents and drank to your health every night. He gave me a packet of your letters to know you by. I read the chapters of the fantastical novel you were writing. What was it called, again? Something about a dragon?”