The mouth of the Iniquitous Monster’s cave opened in a baleful “O” before her, scarring the granite face of Mount Runemor. From deep within curled a plume of sulfurous smoke, accompanied by the tinkling of a million metal objects being trod on by a body of unimaginable size. This was the Dragon’s home, and he was, apparently, awake...
—The Dragon and the Blue Starby Analise Crewe
He was gaining on her.
Ana knew these streets well, but the man thundered after her on long, powerful limbs and she didn’t stand a chance unless she found a way to evade him and hide. She feinted to the right and ducked behind a passing man, hoping to lose her pursuer, but when she reemerged, he was right there behind her, closer than ever. He must be the nobleman Miss Flanagan’s sister had promised her to, a huge, menacing hunter intent on capturing her.
He would never have her.
She knew a shortcut, a narrow lane that veered off up ahead,its entrance nearly covered with vines. If she could reach it before he saw her...
She summoned a burst of speed, legs aching and lungs bursting, and was through the vine-covered entranceway and halfway down the alley when a hand clamped around her arm.
She struggled and twisted but he held her easily.
“Stop running,” he commanded.
She stilled, panting from the exertion of running. She shouldn’t have chosen this deserted alleyway. There were no people in sight. He held her trapped easily, there was nowhere to run.
The light was growing dim and he was wrapped in shadows. He wore all black. One side of his face was crisscrossed with a webbing of raised purplish scars.
A nobleman of high rank, Miss Flanagan had said, not considered handsome, but not cruel. The iron grip on her arm felt cruel enough.
He’d called himself Warburton. One word to define him. Throwing his title around, as if she should be grateful to him for attempting to purchase her, make her his property. His name rang a bell in her mind. A warning bell, no doubt. She’d probably read about his exploits in the scandal sheets.
“I’ll be no man’s doxy,” she cried fiercely.
“No one’s trying to make you a d—”
She stamped on his foot with the heel of her boot.
“Oof,” he grunted, but his grip on her arm never loosened. She fought and scratched but he held her immobile, his huge arms around hers, holding her tight against his chest.
She stomped on his shiny black boots a second time but it didn’t seem to even make a dent.
“Are you quite finished? Will you allow me to explain?” he growled.
“I won’t! I won’t be purchased like a sack of flour. I will defend myself to the death!”
A disbelieving guffaw. He dared laugh at her? She’d show him.
“Release me,” she said passionately. “You’re hurting me.”
He instantly loosened his grip. His mistake.
She twisted one arm free and plucked the pencil from her hair. She’d intended to jab him in the eye but his face was so far away and the sharp point of the pencil impacted somewhere closer to his nose. She dragged it downward, adding another scar to his collection.
He caught her wrist, gave one firm little twist, and the pencil clattered to the paving stones.
What had Miss Flanagan said when she’d been inebriated one afternoon and regaled Ana with tales from her past? When you had to defend yourself from unwanted advances, it was best to go for the eyes, or the kidneys, or soft, fleshy parts. If that didn’t work, knee him in the bollocks.
She brought her knee up suddenly. He grunted.
“You missed,” he said, his voice rough, his lips far too close. “You’ll have to work on your timing and aim.”
This wasn’t an ordinary man. This was a scarred warrior who could break her arm with a flick of his wrist.
“You don’t want me,” she said desperately. “I’m a redheaded spitfire of a hellion with unfortunate freckles. I don’t have much padding and, believe me, I’m not biddable. I should make a terrible mistress. I’d embarrass you greatly. Wouldn’t you rather have a willing woman? I’m certain a more voluptuous and experienced lady would be delighted to be kept by you.”