for horsemen. There was nothing sexier than a well-made man in tight breeches.
Still, a delicious derriere and the fact the hall was emptying at an impressive pace didn’t excuse his arrogance. It would have been nice if he’d seen fit to consult her before he started carting up her mother’s china without so much as a by your leave. She was in charge here. He took orders, he didn’t give them.
Elowyn started down the staircase, ready to do battle. It was not her first choice of introduction but he’d left her no option with his unorthodox barging in. It would be a long trip to Vienna if she didn’t put him in his place. One should always begin as one meant to go on; it was the essential rule of establishing control in any relationship. If Westmore thought he could just walk into her home and start moving her things without permission, who knew what other presumptions he’d make?
A bit of naughty excitement trilled through her. There were presumptions and then there were presumptions. He looked like a man who didn’t let the difference stop him. Dear Lord, she hadn’t even officially met him and her imagination was already running away with her. Now was not the time. There was business to take care of. When he’d written to say he’d call in the morning, she’d never equated that two-line statement with this.
Elowyn raised her voice to be heard over the noise. “What do you think you’re doing, Captain?” The foyer fell silent, all activity freezing in motion at the sound of her challenge. Captain Westmore pivoted toward her and advanced, hands on lean hips, drawing her eyes to the core of his swagger—hips, pelvis and the place in between.
What had been impressive physicality at a distance was imposing masculinity up close. Elowyn took an involuntary step up the staircase to establish an equality of heights and tried to focus her gaze on the rugged features of his face instead of that one place a well-bred lady never looked on a man. It would have certainly helped if he’d been wearing a coat. Then again, the man fairly exuded raw sexuality. It was likely to find its way out regardless of how many coats he put on. Well, this was just fabulous. Her father had managed to hire the most dashing guard in London.
“What does it look like I’m doing, princess?” Westmore planted a booted foot on the bottom stair and gave her a gray-eyed perusal that suggested the answer to his question was less about moving boxes and more about something else altogether, something that sent a slow trail of heat straight to her stomach.
Elowyn met his gaze evenly. “It’s hard to say, since what it appears you’re doing isn’t scheduled for another two days.”
“There’s been a change of plan.”
That was it? There was no attempt at an apology, no effort to be conciliatory. Not even an explanation. This was not the attitude of a model employee.
Elowyn crossed her arms and stood her ground. Leave it to her father to also hire the most arrogant escort available. She was beginning to wonder if her father had even met Westmore. He wasn’t really her father’s type. “Since when do you make the plans, Captain?”
“Since the weather changed.” Again, the unrepentant stare. “My sources on the Channel coast say there’s a storm moving in. Unless you want to be holed up in an inn with your wagons stuck in a stable yard for a few days, we leave now and hope we can beat the weather.”
She hated being cornered. The captain had to know very well she wouldn’t want the wagons exposed to the elements and possible theft any more than they had to be.
Captain Westmore gestured to the room behind him, now empty of boxes. “I believe we’re packed. We’re just waiting on you, miss.”
She wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face. There was winning and then there was gloating. He was gloating. He thought he had the upper hand. The captain was about to get his comeuppance. “I believe you are mistaken. There are still the trunks in my room. I always have them loaded last so they’ll be first off.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it is.” Elowyn gave him a sweet smile and moved past him, unable to resist a parting shot. “You would have known if you’d asked first.” Round one to her. Elowyn stopped in the foyer to claim her victor’s prize. She got to watch that derriere of his go up the stairs five times. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed moving quite so much.
Grahame couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed ruffling someone’s feathers quite so much. He whistled a little tune atop his big bay stallion, Aramis, as London disappeared behind them. Miss Bagshaw had shown a surprising amount of fire this morning when faced with his dictatorial orders regarding an early departure.
True, it would have been easier if she’d meekly acquiesced. Meek acquiescence was always easier but a lot less fun. It was also true that she lived up to his expectations, or down, depending on how one looked at them. She was a diplomat’s daughter, haughty and used to getting her own way. When she’d stared him down with green eyes, hard as emerald shards, he knew he’d been right on that account. But she’d done more than stare in anger. She’d also stared in interest.
He’d not been oblivious to the gaze that had followed him up the stairs. Over the years, he’d come to know when a woman wanted him. He’d also come to know when things could be allowed to progress that far. This was not one of those jobs. This was not escorting a notorious widow to a ball or accompanying a lonely woman to the opera while her husband was out of town. Elowyn Bagshaw fit into neither of the usual categories. She was a diplomat’s daughter.
It was a pity, really. Her demeanor suggested she was a passionate woman by nature, a woman who had not reached her mid-twenties without some experimentation. The realization wasn’t all that surprising considering her extensive travel and the fact other countries had more lenient outlooks on female sexual purity—outlooks he personally favored. He could well imagine all that carefully coiffed chestnut hair of hers falling over naked shoulders, candlelight limning her curves in provocative shadows as she sat astride her lover. Of course, her lover would have to be a man who could take that attitude of hers in hand or she’d never respect him. Respect was just as essential in bed as it was elsewhere.
Grahame shifted uncomfortably in the saddle against the pressure of a growing arousal. His little fantasy had brought on a rather awkward erection. It was not a pleasant way to ride. He turned in his saddle and surveyed the road behind him for distraction, anything to keep his mind off more prurient subjects. The five wagons of goods stretched out at decent intervals and were keeping up but the going was slow. Caravans were always slow. At this rate it would take two days to reach Dover. It would put their arrival on Thursday night. They could sail on Friday, just ahead of the reported storm front.
Grahame drummed an impatient hand on his thigh. When he had thought of all the inconveniences that would manifest themselves on the journey to Vienna, he’d not counted celibacy among them. He’d been hired for her safety, not her seduction. Never mind that she had a siren’s own body and a caramel cascade of Rapunzel-esque hair that would drive any man mad. She was not in the job description and he’d do well to remember it. A woman like her never would be. Single women of her background had expectations of their men like titles, wealth, social standing, none of which he had to offer. Elowyn Bagshaw was off-limits.
The captain was technically off-limits but that didn’t stop her eye, or her maid’s, she noted, from wandering to the coach window on frequent occasion to view the masculine scenery. Elowyn had come to the conclusion long ago that she
