Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

“Good evening, Mistress of the Manor.”

      Belle’s heart fluttered again, as the treacherous thing had done the previous night when Mark had first reappeared in her life. The impish wiry boy whom she remembered from her childhood had turned into one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His devilish brown eyes that had so often goaded her to tantrums in those distant sunny days now shimmered in the lantern light with sensual promise. Her mouth went dry when she looked into their bottomless depths. No maid had resisted Mark’s honeyed wooing when he was her father’s squire. Surveying the man that he had become, Belle knew that he must have left a wide swath of broken hearts in Ireland. She yawned to prove to herself that she didn’t give one fig for Mark’s lusty odyssey.

      “I have a plan,” she told him without bothering to wish him a good evening nor to inquire the state of his health. He looked far too virile.

      Mark cocked one of his dark brows in the most beguiling manner. “How now, Belladonna? No kind word to greet me?”

      She blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “In case your sight has failed you, Mark, we are not seated amid civilized company. All my kind words have dried up in this hellhole.”

      Mark’s unnerving grin only widened. He put down the sack that he carried. When he untied it, a delicate warm aroma of fresh bread tickled her nostrils. Dexter crawled out from under the blankets and sauntered over to inspect the latest offering.

      Mark cast the cat a wary glance. “Not for you, kitty,” he muttered as he rummaged in the bag. “Here.” He handed Belle something wrapped in a well-used napkin. “Tis a chicken pie, not rat poison, chou-chou,” he added. “And I suggest that you eat it before your beast does.”

      Belle almost thanked him but decided that she shouldn’t encourage him. The memory of last night’s surprise kiss still unnerved her. Instead, she stuffed her mouth full of the delicious meat and vegetables. Dexter pounced on stray crumbs. Before she had finished the last of the pie, Mark handed her a thick slice of bread slathered with fresh butter and garnished with pickled relish. She sighed with contentment. Mortimer might be a spare man in many areas, but he certainly did not stint when it came to his cook.

      Mark sat down on the filthy straw and stretched out his legs. His blue hose tightened over taut calf and thigh muscles. His presence was so utterly male, so bracing. Belle sucked in her breath, though she affected a sneer.

      “Mind your pretty clothes, Marcus,” she taunted. “You are not sitting on perfumed sheets in some lady’s bower.”