Page 4 of A Duke's Keeper
He blinked, seeming taken aback by the force of her distaste. “One of my least offensive titles, trust me.”
“Idon’ttrust you.”
“Obviously.” He stood.
She thought it was to intimidate her into accepting his help, but she grudgingly noticed he’d backed away, as if giving her room to think or get away.
Her shoulder screamed. Her wrist smarted. Left to her own devices, she’d make it home,eventually. If her luck held out and no more demons solidified from the shadows.
Camille gritted her teeth. “Fine,” she said, awkwardly getting to her feet on her own. She’d always had shit for luck.
She’d lost her rock when she’d fallen, not that the measly pebble would be any use with her throbbing wrist. Sprained at best, at worst, she was down two arms and at the mercy of a man more skilled than first calculated, and with no idea of his motives.
“Here,” he said.
She stared at the rock he offered on his open palm.
His gaze was direct, his expression knowing, as if he suspected she didn’t like being defenseless.
She didn’t take it. She’d never accept anything from a gentleman. Ever. Again.
Shaking his head, amused or exasperated—it was hard to tell in the dim light—he pocketed the rock and inclined his head in the direction of the docks. “There’s a doctor who lives by the water who can look at that arm of yours.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t vouch for his bedside manner, but he’s got miracles in his fingertips.”
Camille watched his gestures with a critical eye. He didn’t give off the aura of a man setting a trap, not that appearances and gut instinct added up to anything.
At her silence, he shrugged. “Well, I could use another drink after that bout. I’m going to walk in that direction at a leisurely pace.” He tapped his chin as if it weren’t glaringly obvious what he was doing. “I may even whistle, in case someone loses sight of me.”
He turned and walked—strolled—at a most suspicious slow pace.
The man was planning to escort her all the way back to the harbor?
Camille gingerly touched her head where Flank’s punch had glanced over her temple. Was it a head injury? Had her brainconjured up this scene to overcome Hawkins and his men’s violence?
A charge of fire shot through her wrist. She dropped her arm and grimaced. The pain was certainly real. If she’d had a mind to overwrite the pain of being assaulted, she’d have taken the rest of the pain as well.
Which meant the man was real... and his tall frame was disappearing down the alley. Camille bit her lip. Home was in the opposite direction, but no one in residence would know how to set her arm. And knowing the procedure herself didn’t change the fact that she didn’t have the strength to set a dislocated bone. Plus, if she showed up battered and broken, the sight may set her mother’s already fragile mind into another episode; she’d barely recovered since the last one.
Decided, Camille followed, finding comfort in the fact that, if the man truly meant to go back to the Cock ’n Hen, she had friends there who wouldn’t hesitate to bleed anyone who meant her harm, even if he owned a title and a handsome face.
Camille scowled. The man was certainly not handsome. Trim and clean, with an odd shade of eye and hair, didn’t change the ugly fact that the man was gentry born and used to the privilege of things going his way.
She wasn’t attracted to him. She was grateful, that was all. And the man hadn’t proven her gratitude warranted or not. She caught up, though she made sure to keep him squarely in front of her.
“Decided to come along then, chicken?” he asked.
With two useless wings, she felt the flightless fowl, but she couldn’t let his condescending tone go unchallenged. “My name isn’t chicken.”
“You can’t possibly be a sparrow.” The teasing tone in his voice was unmistakable. “And if you’re a pheasant, that makesme a plumed peacock, and my fragile ego can’t take that ridiculous comparison.”
Her lips twitched in a fleeting moment of insanity. It had been a long night. First the incessant rush of patrons at the Prodding Pony, where the wandering eyes of Hawkins and his ape-like friends had left her jumpy all night. Then the lovely, and all-too-memorable, evening ‘stroll’ through the alleys of Dockside. It was no wonder she found this strange man amusing—she was too exhausted for her normal contempt. That was the only possible reason she offered, “My name is Camille Forthright.”
Seeming as surprised as she, he glanced over his shoulder and gave her a grin she saw even in the dark.
A strange fluttering filled her stomach.
“A pleasure, Miss Forthright. Please,” he said, his eyes brightening, “call me ‘Renard.’”
She sneered. “I’d hardly call a man I just met by his given name.”
