8

S tephen cleared his throat. The one boxed in by sharp blades.

"Just one small detail," he said politely. "I'm not the Earl of Densmore."

It was not what he was supposed to say. Stephen would do almost anything for his cousin, but he drew the line at decapitation.

Beth the Berserker scoffed at his claim. Hers was not a coquettish scoff—more of an I hold you in eternal disdain sort of scoff—but Stephen could not help but notice how much more attractive she was in front of his face than the pretty picture she'd made through his telescope. Taking off his helmet to see her clearly was the best decision he'd made all day.

It did not hurt that the trough of water had drenched her ample bosom, plastering her wet bodice to the contours of her chest. Since the berserker's blades were at his throat and she obviously knew how to use them, Stephen did his best to keep his eyes on her suspicious green gaze and not on her enticing décolletage.

There was also the chopped door to consider, and the fact that the shirt, coat, and waistcoat he'd donned that morning were now rent in two, and hanging from his shoulders in tatters.

"Not the earl? A likely story," sneered the berserker, with a curl of one of her plump, pink lips. "Am I supposed to believe you to be a butler?"

"If you know anything at all about the Earl of Densmore," Stephen replied calmly, "then I needn't convince you that his lordship is not the sort of person to answer his own door. Or care why it is that you have come to call."

The berserker considered this, then inclined her head. "He's about to care. Take me to him."

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

"He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," Stephen admitted.

She harrumphed. "When will he return?"

"I don't know."

Her green eyes flashed. "Do you know anything?"

Stephen knew he had to get this lady off his property and attend to shoring up the castle's defenses. Already, the water had drained from the floor. The marbles had followed each other down specially designed cracks between the stones to a neat queue against the wall, for ease of restocking the traps.

Easier to do, when one wasn't being held at sword-point.

Stephen sighed. "I know that there's a 0.000152 probability of you finding the earl before he intends to be found. Indeed, I am three hundred and eighty-nine percent more likely than you to divine his whereabouts. Yet despite my having collated and analyzed all the—"

She nudged a battle-axe into his cravat. "Stop flirting with me."

His eyes widened with interest. "You interpret my use of logical reasoning as… flirtation?"

"Everyone shows off when they're flirting. If you don't mean for it to be arousing, then cease doing so."

He closed his mouth obediently. Arousing, did she say? A torrent of theorems and equations was suddenly bursting to pour out.

"If you're not the earl," said the berserker, "then who are you? And why do you have such a phenomenal physique?"

"I… What?"

"Your abdomen. Why does it have so many muscles?"

"I possess the same quantity of muscles as everyone else."

"I don't think you do," she muttered. "Stop it. It's distracting."

"It's my anxiety," he admitted. "When the world presses down on me, I drop to the floor and press up instead. It's my solution to stressful situations."

Her gaze lowered, and she licked her lips. "I shall endeavor to be more stressful."

"You're doing a wonderful job," he assured her. "If it weren't for the razor-edged blades at my throat, I'd be doing press-ups at this very moment."

She looked tempted to lower the battle-axes. "I shall take that into consideration, Mr…."

The berserker trailed off and looked at him expectantly.

He smiled without responding. It was one thing to avoid an inconvenient beheading, and another to take a berserker into one's confidence. Then again, her blades were still at Stephen's throat.

Which was perhaps her idea of flirting.

"I'm waiting for your name," she said.

"I know," he answered.

He also now knew several facts about her. She was clever and determined and dotty as a ladybug. She had also come closer to breaching the castle in the space of an hour than anyone else had managed since his arrival. Perhaps even centuries.

Other traits he observed were less important at the moment. Such as the soft smoothness of her skin, and the fetching curl to her blond hair. Or the wet flower petal from her bonnet that now clung becomingly to her round cheek, just begging to be plucked by Stephen's fingers.

He was not going to touch her, he reminded himself firmly. He was not the sort to touch anyone. He was a turtle who liked his shell. There was safety in solitude and science. Interaction with others led to confusion and risk. He was better off alone than accompanied.

Yet here he found himself.

With her.

"I'm still waiting," she reminded him.

"I know," he answered.

He had always liked taking time to think things out. Preferred being methodical, deliberate, careful. None of his inventions would work properly if Stephen comported himself willy-nilly. His life had always been a constant, and he was unprepared for this new variable.

There. That was where he could start.

"Before I answer any more questions," he said politely, "might I inquire who you are?"

"Elizabeth Wynchester," she answered without hesitation.

"Oh, for the love of…" He winced and closed his eyes. "Anything but a Wynchester!"

The battle-axes scraped at his throat. By now, his poor cravat was in ribbons.

"How is being a member of my family possibly worse than whatever you thought was happening?" the berserker demanded. "What's wrong with Wynchesters?"

"Rumor has it, you're a pack of relentless madmen with no scruples about operating outside the law." He opened his eyes and tilted his gaze toward the closest blade. "The gossip seems credible."

"Take note: We're the pack of lawless madmen you want working on your side, not against you. I will ask you one last time. If you're not the Earl of Densmore, who are you?"

"Stephen Lenox," he said with a sigh. "Scientist, mathematician, inventor… and first cousin to the earl."

"Cousin as in…" She tilted her head, as if mentally scanning Debrett's Peerage . "You're heir presumptive to the earldom?"

"To my eternal consternation. Come to think of it, perhaps you should impale me with your blades. I'd rather die an honorable death than present myself in the House of Lords."

Miss Wynchester leaned forward and glared deep into Stephen's eyes, as though determining the veracity of his introduction by staring into his soul. Her lips were almost close enough to kiss. Temptingly close.

With a sigh of frustration, she yanked the battle-axes down to her sides. "I no longer wish to impale you."

Stephen's inexplicably aroused body wouldn't be opposed to having a thrust or two.

"Are we finished here, then?" he asked, instead of pursuing a flirtation. "I have a pot of tea I ought to get back to."

"Good idea. I'll take mine with brandy." She passed both axes to one hand and curved the other about his arm. "Whilst you explain the whole tale from the beginning."