Timeless Desire by Gwyn Cready Read Free Book Online Page B

Scots grandfather of yours. Your mother wanted nothing to do with him, you know. What you’re doing goes against everything she would have wanted.”
    “Do not talk to me about my mother,” Bridgewater said through clenched teeth. “Ever. You are unworthy of uttering her name.”

     
    P ANNA WAS AFRAID TO MOVE , AFRAID to breathe. But the savage edge in Bridgewater’s voice so surprised her, she needed to see his face.
    The narrow space into which Bridgewater had shoved her provided access to the back of the bookshelves via wood doors, at least for the length of hallway she could see. As a librarian, this would have driven her crazy, since the spines of the books wouldn’t show, except that someone— Bridgewater? his servant?—had written the name and author of every single book on a label in a fine copperplate hand and stuck them along the shelf, an organizational arrangement she could see because the library’s designer had thoughtfully put a small oval window at eye level in the back of every bookcase. This allowed her or anyone traveling down the hall to see the room over the tops of the books, but given the low light and the small size of the windows, Panna assumed it was considerably harder for someone in the main part of the room to see in. She ducked her head just enough to see.
    Bridgewater vibrated with fury, and the general stared him down, as hard-eyed as a panther.
    Whatever this was, it was not an army issue, for the general would have surely thrown Bridgewater in the brig, or whatever they called it in the eighteenth century, for that level of insubordination. This was something more personal. Why would Bridgewater object to the general talking about his mother? Had the general insulted her? Arrested her? Stolen her fortune?
    And who was Thomas, the boy the general mentioned? Bridgewater’s son? But no, the general would surely have known the boy then. The general talked as if he and Bridgewater shared a relationship beyond that of superior and inferior. In fact, the way the general shouted at him sounded almost exactly like her father used to shout at her—
    She froze.
    Good God! She looked at the two men, nose to nose in profile. They shared the same leonine eyes, the same broad, slightly bent noses, the same clefts in their chins—why, even the way they stood with balled fists at their sides was identical. She nearly laughed. The resemblance was impossible to deny. But it was the attitude with which they confronted each other that in Panna’s mind argued for a relationship closer than general and officer.
    Panna had two older brothers, one an insurance agent and one a Marine captain in Afghanistan, both great guys. Her father was gone now—both her parents were—but during her teen years her brothers had tried their father’s patience to the point that Panna thought one, two, or all three of them would have to move out of the house. The anger and resentment in the eyes of the men before her certainly seemed to have the same look and feel to it.
    Was Bridgewater, the future Earl of Bridgewater, staring down his father, the current earl? Panna would have been willing to bet her 401(k) on it.
    The general brushed off his coat. “You look a fool, Captain. Pressing your suit to me like a common bounder—”
    “I do not want your money,” Bridgewater said with unrivaled fury. “I have my own. More than I could ever need.”
    The general looked around. “The ruins of a castle do not exactly spell grandeur. And the servants cannot feed themselves if their master is in prison.”
    “I make something,” Bridgewater said. “Something that people can use. Something that comes from my own hands, my own mind. What have noblemen like you ever made?”
    “Peace!” He slammed his fist against the wall, and a nearby painting jiggled. “And war! When we choose! At our discretion! This is 1706, Captain. We are no longer mired in the dark ages of our ancestors, forced to endure what God sends our way.