Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) by Cheryl Holt

Hubbard and Mr. Robertson were fencing. Mr. Hubbard was obviously the better of the two, and he was steadily forcing Mr. Robertson to retreat.
    They were dressed in trousers again, most of their torsos bared to the hot sun. Their pants were the flowing, silky sort she always observed them in, the ones she imagined a sultan might wear when visiting his harem. She wondered if they realized how far they’d moved from moral behavior.
    Though she knew she should go back inside, she couldn’t stop watching. They were so fit and agile, so deft at parry and thrust. It was thrilling to view their muscled arms, their heaving chests, the sweat on their brows. And of course, the longer she studied them, the more meticulously she recalled how Mr. Hubbard had looked with no clothes at all.
    Just from remembering, she flushed with heat, and though she tried to push the prurient picture out of her mind, she couldn’t manage it.
    She understood that she was a healthy twenty-five-year-old female who’d spent very little time around men. Yes, she was marching down the road to becoming a nun, but she was only human. She couldn’t fail to be intrigued, especially when he was so fascinating and flirted so outrageously.
    If she found herself liking his attention, it wasn’t surprising. It had been an eternity since anyone had noticed her as an individual person, and it felt marvelous to be singled out. She wouldn’t deny it, but she couldn’t continue to revel in his regard. She had to make plans and begin implementing them.
    By traveling to the villa, she’d hoped to receive assistance from the occupant, but clearly no assistance would be forthcoming. Mr. Hubbard had no funds to loan, no advice to give, and no interest in helping her out of her predicament.
    She needed to journey on to Scotland, needed to transport Mary, Martha, and Millicent to the convent while she figured out what was to be done with them now that their aunt, Mother Superior, had passed away.
    Rowena had to head for home too, before she wandered off her path and abandoned it forever. So it was ridiculous to dawdle, to stand on a secluded balcony and drool over Mr. Hubbard’s fine form and dashing manner.
    But she couldn’t desist.
    She wished she had his ability to discount the outside world. She wished she had his ability to pretend she had no responsibilities. And he didn’t actually seem to have any. There was no family or position calling him to England. He could loaf and play to infinity, but she couldn’t. She had to get going, but just that moment she couldn’t recollect why.
    Mr. Hubbard delivered a hard jab with his sword that sent Mr. Robertson’s weapon flying.
    “I win again,” Mr. Hubbard said, “and you’re dead.”
    He stuck the tip of his blade at Mr. Robertson’s throat, and the younger man laughed and pushed it away.
    “You’re a menace, Chase.”
    “Yes, I am,” Mr. Hubbard agreed, “and don’t you forget it.”
    “You enjoy beating me.”
    “Yes, but I’m trying to improve your skill too. I’m doing you a favor, you pathetic ingrate.”
    “You’ve taught me well. If I’m ever in a battle, I’m sure I’ll be able to hold my own.”
    “If you don’t, you’ll be dead for real. No bandit will pass up the chance to plunge his blade through your heart.”
    “I always intend to stay right by your side so if we meet with criminals, I’ll hide behind you.”
    “What if they kill me?”
    “Then I suppose I’ll be in deep trouble.”
    A servant was hovering next to Mr. Hubbard. It was the gigantic man who’d initially greeted her, the man with the shaved head, braided beard, and strange tattoos. She’d since learned that his name was Akmed, and he couldn’t talk. His tongue had been cut out by slavers when he was a boy.
    She tamped down a shudder. She wouldn’t remain in a country where boys had their tongues cut out, where pirates threw gentlemen into the ocean to drown. She wanted to return to Britain, where life drifted