he barked out when she didn’t immediately respond.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ Sybella gasped through the fine wool barrier formed by the ski mask over her mouth.
‘What are you, journalist, protester, what?’ He gave her another shake. ‘I’m losing patience.’
‘Put me down,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’
But even to her ears her plea was muffled into incoherence by all the wool and the wind.
Nevertheless, he dropped her and she landed heavily on the soles of her boots. Before she could react he whipped back the hood of her parka and gathered up a handful of her ski mask, yanking on her hair in the process. The ski mask came away and with it her long heavy flaxen curls. Freed, they began whipping around her face in the frigid wind.
His arms dropped to his sides.
‘You’re a woman,’ he said in English as if this was entirely improbable. His voice was deep and firm and weirdly—given the circumstances—reassuring.
Sybella pushed the wildly flapping hair from her eyes and, finally able to be understood, choked out a little desperately, ‘I was the last time I looked!’
He stepped in front of her, and if she didn’t suspect a little brain damage from all the pushing and shoving, she’d think it was to shield her from the wind and elements.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded, his head bent to hers.
‘N-no.’ Scared the life out of her, but she was in one piece.
At least she no longer felt in danger of ending up on her bottom again. She was also staring, because you didn’t see men like this every day in Edbury.
He was a good head taller than her and she couldn’t see around his shoulders and up close he had slightly slanted grey eyes, thick golden lashes, high flat cheekbones and a strong jaw stubbled in gold. He was gorgeous. His mouth was wide and firm and she found her attention constantly returning to it.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded.
She could have asked him the same question.
Trying to gather her wits, Sybella took her time checking the seams on the arms of her parka. They appeared intact. Seams, that was. Apparently the fabric could withstand being dangled by a bear, but not the ingress of water. She was soaked through.
And cold.
‘I asked you a question,’ he repeated. He really was very rude.
‘Minding my own business,’ she said pointedly, making a show of brushing the snow off her cords to cover the fact her hands were shaking.
‘Never show them you’re rattled’ was one of the few useful lessons a draconian English public boarding school education had taught her. Also, ‘be the one asking the questions’—it made you look as if you knew what you were doing.
‘Maybe the better question is what are you doing here?’ Pity her voice shook a bit.
‘I own this house.’
Her head shot up. ‘No, you don’t. Mr Voronov does.’
‘I am Voronov,’ he said. ‘Nikolai Aleksandrovich Voronov. You are talking about my grandfather.’
Sybella’s knees turned to jelly and a funny buzzing sound began to ring in her ears.
‘Kolya?’ she said a little faintly.
His eyes narrowed and Sybella felt as if she’d been knocked over in the snow for the second time tonight. Somehow, some way, she’d got this all wrong.
He looked her up and down.
‘Who did you say you were?’
IN TROUBLE, THAT was who she was.
‘I asked you a question,’ he repeated.
Yes, he had, and he expected an answer, she interpreted from the way he just stood there, arms folded, on closer inspection less like a bear and more like some angry Norse god.
‘Speak,’ he commanded.
She literally jumped but then her training kicked in. She handled tour groups of small children regularly and knew one had to establish rules and boundaries if chaos wasn’t to ensue.
‘I think you need to calm down,’ she said shakily, aware her heart was beating so fast she should probably take her own advice.
He took out his phone.
‘Wh-what are you doing?’
‘Ringing the police.’
Oh, that wasn’t good.
Sybella didn’t think, she just made a snatch for his phone. It wasn’t the cleverest thing she could have done, but once the area’s constabulary were involved this would be around the village in a flash. Her parents-in-law already thought she wasn’t handling her life to their satisfaction. It would be another reason why she and Fleur should move in with them.
He held the phone just out of her reach, which was easy for him, given he appeared to be a god stepped down from Asgard. Sybella wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d grabbed a stake of lightning while he was at it. Only he was looking down at her as if she were a puppy with muddy paws that had suddenly decided to jump on him.
It was beyond frustrating.
‘Please,’ she tried again, ‘this is just a misunderstanding.’
‘Nyet, this is trespass. I want you off my property.’
Sybella shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you going to let me explain?’
‘Nyet.’
She stepped up to him and laid her hand on his forearm. ‘Please, you have to listen. I’m not a trespasser.’
He frowned.
‘I’ve never trespassed in my life. Not knowingly.’
Which was when the committee members of the Heritage Trust appeared out of the side entrance of Edbury Hall, humming like a hive of wasps.
Sybella’s heart began to beat so fast she seriously thought she might pass out.
‘Who in the hell are they?’ he demanded, because clearly nothing was getting past this guy.
‘The Heritage Trust committee,’ she croaked. This was a disaster! She had to go and warn them.
Turning quickly, she didn’t notice the bag at her feet until her boot caught on it and Sybella
