The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War), Eva Devon [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗

she’d imagined it all. If it wasn’t ’t for the bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon that she’d read again and again and again, she might not believe it herself.

She climbed the steep path up over the moors. The rocky ground beneath pressed into her booted feet. The way wound through lush green wild grass made so by the rain that came in off the sea.

And just as she crested the hill, that darkening cloud seemed to expand and darken to the shade of a blackish purple. Suddenly it opened up and poured down upon her.

As the water thundered down on her, she scowled. The sudden storm rather represented her feelings about life.

She snorted.

Even the weather was as gloomy as her thoughts.

Her cloak plastered to her frame, rain lashed down upon her straw bonnet, streaking her face, and she blinked against it. One might have thought of running, but that seemed pointless. The castle was still a good twenty-minute walk away.

She trudged through the slashing wall of water, and as she turned the corner of the path, she came out between two hills. Just as she came to the other side of the twin mounds, she spotted a dwelling.

Finally, she felt a spark of optimism.

The cottage in the distance was perfect to escape such a deluge.

And so, she motivated herself to race across the slick grass and thick heather.

Her skirts stuck to her legs and her shoes soaked, she knocked fiercely upon the door.

She prayed someone might let her in. For even standing under the small awning, the rain was relentless, the wind making the rain seem positively wild.

She peered at the cottage through her dripping lashes.

It was a rather large stone affair and beautifully kept, though it was somewhat dour. After a moment, there was no answer and her teeth began to chatter.

She knocked again, this time banging until the heavy door shook on its iron hinges.

The rain came down more sprightly. Vengefully, one might even say. This time thunder echoed high above her head and she nearly yelped.

Hail began to crash around her and she cursed the wild weather. The last thing she wished was to be coshed in the head by a ball of ice.

What a terrible end that would be. After having accomplished so very little with her short life.

There was a voice on the other side of the door, almost as fierce as the thunder. And it seemed to be cursing too.

“Go away,” it roared.

“I would,” she roared back, undaunted due to the growing size of the hail, “but it is rather terrible out here. Could you not let me in for a moment?”

There was a long pause on the other side, and she could just hear the scraping of boots on the other side of the panel as she waited.

After several more moments and more hits of wind mixed with the pelting of little ice balls upon her flesh, the door wrenched open.

And she came face to face with a man.

Not just any man.

The most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

Also, perhaps, the most unwelcoming.

His hair was dark.

His eyes were a wicked shade of blue. His skin was burnished as if it had been touched by the sun for hours and hours. His white shirt was open at the throat and loose about his big body, a body that looked as if it was quite used to labor, and his breeches hugged his legs. Black boots clung to his calves and feet, but his face did not bear any kindness.

In fact, he looked furious and tense.

As a matter of fact, jagged scars marred the left side of his face, the only thing keeping him from pure perfection. Those scars trailed down his neck into his shirt.

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. They looked like two chips of ice staring into her.

“Get in,” he growled tightly. “You may shelter here until the storm is done.”

He pulled back and staggered into the small hall. Immediately, she noticed that his gait was most odd.

He all but hobbled.

He held onto the walls with his big hands braced open and splayed. One foot held all the weight as he barely managed to rest any weight on the other foot.

And then he turned into a room, each move seeming to make his stance more rigid.

She followed him into the hall, rather reticent now.

Would he be truly angry if she followed him into that room? Should she? Was he dangerous?

He mostly seemed angered to be bothered. He had said nothing else. He certainly hadn’t threatened her. And he looked like she might be able to topple him with a solid shove, despite his massive body.

He seemed most gruff.

And even though he seemed unable to hold steady, there was an inner strength to him that couldn’t be ignored. As well as a pain that coated her much as the rain had done.

“Forgive me,” she called from the hall, winding her hands together before she caught herself. She would not be silly. She dropped her hands to her sides and continued, “I do not mean to intrude upon your solitude, but it grew quite foul out there. I did not wish to chance being slain in such a way. Death by Cornish rain feels rather demoralizing.”

He grumbled. “It's fine,” he boomed. “You were right to seek refuge from the storm. I just don't care for visitors. I live here so that I can stay away from everyone.”

“Yes,” she replied before she nibbled contemplatively on her lip. “It seems like a remarkable place for that.”

She then decided that it was quite all right for her to follow him into the small room. Lingering in the hall felt awkward. It was also terribly cold.

She drew in a breath, braced herself, and crossed through the open doorway into the chamber.

The front room was cozy. Everything was close together as if it was meant to be easy for him to get. The long settee was positioned before the fire, which crackled merrily.

There was a table by