LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Three

       Four hundred and twelve crystals...

      Max knew that already because he had counted every damn droplet on the chandelier above his bed twice this week when sleep evaded him. For once, he had someone else to blame for his restlessness. The tart-mouthed, not easily intimidated new bane of his life: Miss Euphemia Nithercott.

      He would lay good money she was out there. Since laying siege to his study and frightening the life out of him two days ago, he knew full well she was still digging despite his expressly forbidding her to do so. Annoyed, he threw the covers back and padded to the window, staring sightlessly at the darkness, impatiently willing dawn to break an hour earlier than usual.

      He knew she was out there because he had become unhealthily obsessed with checking up on her. Each morning since, as soon as the sun came up, he rode to her haphazard cluster of holes in his ground and each time he had seen as clear as the sparkling crystals on his bedchamber chandelier her dratted hole was getting bigger. Although she was taking her own sweet time about it as only a few inches of dirt had been neatly scraped away from her stupid pot. Why she hadn’t taken a shovel to the earth to get the damn thing out once and for all was beyond him. That she hadn’t strangely intrigued him.

      So much so, the chit had apparently taken root in his thoughts since—although Miss Nithercott was hardly a chit. She was, he estimated, probably nearer thirty than twenty and undeniably all woman. And a damned attractive one at that. The entire time he had been forced to look at her in his own study and inhale the sultry scent of her perfume, his senses had been assaulted with that unfortunate fact. And despite the addition of an entirely respectable pretty dress, his imagination kept conjuring up the image of her lush curves encased in the tight breeches and softly worn shirt he had first encountered her in, when he was certain her femininity had not been tamed by the rigid restrictions of a corset. It was a memory he visited often.

      Those errant but ultimately futile thoughts only served to depress him. Max did not want to contemplate Miss Nithercott’s corset, any more than he wanted to contemplate Miss Nithercott. But contemplate both he did with alarming regularity.

      Aside from his morning reconnoitres, he had also taken to riding past the ruins every afternoon and evening around sunset, too, and finding no sign of the wench. Which meant she had to be doing her digging in secret in the dead of night like a grave robber, much too close for comfort.

      Damn and blast it all to hell! Why couldn’t she just leave him alone as he had asked?

      Or threatened, more like.

      He huffed in disgust and thumped his head against the cool pane of glass. Actively trying to intimidate a woman was a new low, even for him. Max still winced each time he thought about the way he had loomed over her and wished he’d handled the entire situation differently. Been more reasonable, commanding and resolute as opposed to a snarling, panicked mess. But she had caught him off guard and unprepared and he’d lashed out. Lashing out had become a bit of a habit and another thing about himself he had come to loathe. Not that the intrepid Miss Nithercott had listened one jot.

      All credit to her, she had neither run nor screamed, or even looked slightly intimidated by his irrational performance. If anything, she had seemed amused, almost as if she saw right through him before she had pierced him with the perfect set down to bring him up short and remind him his behaviour was wholly unacceptable no matter what the provocation.

       Am I supposed to be terrified now, Lord Rivenhall?

      Words which had haunted him since. Not his finest hour and not a memory he could easily forget thanks to his constantly niggling conscience which ensured he felt heartily ashamed of himself. It was one thing being bitter and twisted and unpleasant to be around, it was another entirely to be a bully to boot. There was never any excuse for that. To have sunk so low as to have attempted to bully a woman was beyond the pale.

      Shameful.

      He had scarcely slept a wink since.

      He’d even given serious consideration to apologising for his ghastly treatment of her—but hadn’t. Out of cowardice—pure and simple. Because apologising meant seeking her out, which inevitably meant leaving the sanctuary of this sprawling estate in the middle of nowhere. Exposing himself and feeling vulnerable. Enduring the curious stares. The pointing. The unsubtle whispers about the horrendous state he was in as if the flames had rendered him deaf as well as hideous and devoid of all human emotion.

      It also meant having that reasonable discussion she wanted, when he really wasn’t up for one of those either. A discussion required extended conversation which he had lost the knack for. It was hard being erudite when you knew all focus was on the ugly scars rather than his sentences and being reasonable might open the floodgates and before he knew it, every Tom, Dick and Harry would assume they could call on him unannounced and engage him in conversation. A prospect which was, frankly, terrifying. Besides, the people of Cambridgeshire were already proving themselves to be an over-familiar lot. At least one new neighbour took it upon themselves to traipse up his new mile-long drive every day seeking an audience. So much so, it was becoming a job of work simply avoiding them. All much too neighbourly for Max’s liking. All much too intrusive and overwhelming when what he wanted was to be left well alone to lick his wounds in private and find a way to reconcile himself to his future as he mourned the past.

      Not that he was alone now because she was out there. He could sense her even though he couldn’t see her. Not that he could really see anything tonight. With the moon and the stars obliterated by cloud, it was as black as pitch out there and would be for the next hour at least.

      He

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