His liquid gaze poured over her body, causing heat to pool from her breasts to her belly to her toes. When he reached her burning face again, he said, “I don’t recall having made your acquaintance, Miss—?”
“Dashing!” a rough male voice interrupted. “You meddling little hussy!”
Francesca jumped a foot and clunked the back of her head on the stable wall.
“I warned you I would shoot you if I ever caught you on my property again. Now get off!”
Lanky, unwashed, and unshaven, Will Skerrit stood behind Winterbourne, an ancient blunderbuss in his hand. He pointed the rusty gun at her, and her anger returned.
“Yell at me all you want, Mr. Skerrit.” Francesca rubbed the burgeoning knot on the back of her skull, barely managing to keep her voice and temper steady. “But do not think I will sit idly by and ignore this blatant cruelty.” She crooked her thumb toward the stable and the horse inside.
“Why you—” Skerrit took a menacing step forward, thin face flushed vermilion. He waved the gun at her threateningly.
Francesca planted her feet defiantly then stole a glance to gauge Winterbourne’s reaction.
The marquess hadn’t moved. Hadn’t turned around. Hadn’t so much as twitched since hearing the farmer’s voice. In fact, he was staring at her, mouth slightly open—the picture of disbelief. She gave him a questioning look. Though she could hardly imagine Winterbourne was Skerrit’s guest, she wasn’t at all certain she could rely on him to support her cause or defend her.
“Bitch!” Skerrit finally choked out.
Francesca whipped her attention back to the farmer.
“Who the devil do you think—” Skerrit began.
In a blur, Winterbourne turned and lunged for the man, clutching him by the throat and slamming him hard onto the dusty ground. Skerrit yelped and the blunderbuss tumbled into a yellowed patch of grass.
Francesca gasped and stumbled out of the way. She’d never seen anyone move so quickly and with so much force. Winterbourne attacked with the skill of a seasoned warrior, seeming more warlord than gentleman. Hearing Skerrit gurgle, she took a tentative step forward. Winterbourne straddled the farmer, and she had to crane her neck to see around the marquess’s broad back. She didn’t fail to notice that the taut fabric of his tailcoat outlined the honed muscles underneath. And at the mercy of those muscles was a creature lower than the scum that might have lined the poor horse’s water bucket.
“I’ve warned you about using profanity before, Mr. Skerrit.” She couldn’t resist scolding the wheezing farmer. “Lord Winterbourne is not accustomed to such coarse manners.”
Winterbourne tossed her an incredulous glance, and she shrugged. She was impudent, she knew, but she hated Skerrit for what he’d done to the colt. Goading the horrible man was the least of what she would like to do now that she had the upper hand—or at least now that Winterbourne did. Evidently he was on her side.
Winterbourne shook Skerrit by the neck. “Next time you’d better find out who you’re dealing with before waving your gun about. I could kill you for less.”
Francesca didn’t doubt it. Neither did Skerrit. His eyes bulged, and he struggled for another breath.
“Lord Winterbourne?” She had to tap his back several times before he jerked his head to glare at her.
“Miss?”
He said it through clenched teeth, and Francesca summoned every ounce of courage to stand her ground. She couldn’t very well justify a retreat with Skerrit looking so decidedly purple underneath Winterbourne’s flexed fingers. The struggling farmer’s rotting teeth were bared in a last effort to squeeze a bit of air past those unforgiving hands.
“I think you’d better release him,” she said. “He looks as though he can’t breathe.”
Winterbourne’s cool gaze locked on her face, and his fingers tightened on Skerrit’s neck.
“Unless you really would kill him?” she squeaked. She hated Skerrit, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.
Winterbourne’s fingers flexed, and she began to fear he really did intend murder. Finally, with a last shove, Winterbourne released Skerrit and rose to his knees, gulping air like a fish caught in a net.
“Lord Winterbourne! Forgive me, your lordship. I had no idea it was you.” He struggled to his feet, hands on his knees, still trying to catch his breath.
Winterbourne wiped his hands on his breeches then locked his arms across his chest, watching the man labor as one might watch the toils of an ant.
“Why are you here?” Skerrit wheezed between gulps of oxygen.
At the farmer’s demanding tone, an ominous look crossed the marquess’s face.
“My lord,” Skerrit added quickly.
“My horse threw a shoe,” Winterbourne answered after a moment. “I saw your farm and thought you might lend assistance.”
“Of course,” Skerrit answered too quickly, with an obsequious little bow. “I’d be honored to assist in any way I can.” He spun toward the barn, but Francesca wouldn’t allow him to scurry away so easily.
“Mr. Skerrit! Wait just a moment.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to discuss this latest incidence of abuse with you. I’ll have you know I won’t tolerate it.”
Skerrit turned back, looking down his thin, crooked nose at her. At times like this, she hated her short stature. It particularly galled her to have to look up at the odious farmer. She felt more like an indignant child than a dignified woman of one and twenty.
“To what abuse are you referring, Miss—Dashing, is it?”
Francesca beamed at the marquess, pleased to see that he shared her concern.
“My lord, excuse me,” Skerrit answered for her, making the ingratiating bow again. Little toady! “This girl is a nuisance.” He pointed a dirty finger at Francesca. “What I do with my animals is my business. Now get off my property!” He screamed the last, apparently forgetting Winterbourne.
Francesca set her jaw. “Not until you release Thunder to me.”
“Look, you stupid little chit—”
Francesca raised her voice over his. “I won’t leave him here after the way you mistreated him today. I saw you ride by, whipping him and pushing him past the limits of any animal.”
“I told you. My animals are my business.”
“Thunder needs medical attention.”
Skerrit turned beseechingly to Winterbourne, probably hoping to tap into some shared male condescension toward women. But as far as Francesca could tell, the marquess’s face didn’t betray any emotion.
“Who is Thunder?” Winterbourne asked. He sounded bored.
Francesca gave him a frown.
“It’s the ridiculous name she’s given to my colt.” Skerrit gave a derisive laugh. “The chit’s daft, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” Winterbourne reached into his charcoal tailcoat and extracted a slim silver case. “How much do you want for the animal?”
Francesca stared at the marquess, her breath coming out in an indignant huff. “My lord, I appreciate your assistance, but I really must insist you allow me to handle this.”
Winterbourne shifted, blocking her view with his bulky shoulder. With an exclamation of disbelief, she scooted around him.