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the protection of the boys.”
“The boys?” He lowered his chin. “You intend on placing me under the care of your children? I assure you, madam, my mind isn’t that far gone.”
She gurgled out a laugh. He was so bizarrely adorable. “Nah, it isn’t like that at all. Though sometimes I do wonder.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lowered her voice. “They’re men who act like boys, so I call them boys, see? They’re known for havin’ a black reputation, and believe me, they live up to it, but I know how to yank their collars. I’m just makin’ sure nothin’ happens to you prior to my yankin’ those collars.”
“And who are these men to you?” He eyed her. “Are you involved with any of them?”
“Not in that way, no. They’re more like flea-ridden dogs I can’t get rid of.” She scanned his clothes again and sighed. “I’ll have Matthew loan you some of his clothes. You’re about his size. Give or take a few stones.”
He squinted. “Matthew? Who is that? Your husband?”
“No. My son.”
His lips parted. “You have a son my size? You don’t appear to be a breath over twenty.”
She grinned, tilting her face up toward him. “Thank you for that, but I’m well over twenty. I’m two and twenty.”
He scanned her face. “That still doesn’t make you old enough to have a son my size. He isn’t really your son, is he?”
“Not by birth, no.”
“So whose boy is he?” He leaned in, trailing his gaze to her lips. “And why are you taking care of him?”
She stepped back. “Don’t look at my lips.”
He stepped toward her. “I will keep looking at them until you tell me everything I want to know.”
She scrambled back, sensing that he wanted to do far more than look at them. “He’s Raymond’s boy. All right? Not mine. Raymond’s.”
“And who is Raymond?”
She glared at him. “I’m not about to tell my life story to a man who doesn’t even know his own. Now give me your hand.” She pointed. “We can’t have you wearin’ those gloves.”
He set both gloved hands behind his back and eyed her expectantly. “I don’t intend to cooperate until you tell me who Raymond is.”
“The man is dead,” she bit out. “All right? Now cease actin’ like a bogey and give me your hand.” She forcefully grabbed his arm and jerked it out from behind his back, tugging it up toward her. Digging her fingers beneath the cuff of his linen shirt, she peeled the fitted leather glove from his large hand and tossed it toward the desk.
Without any resistance, he quietly watched her strip the glove from his other hand. His large and remarkably smooth hand tightened possessively around her own.
She paused, entranced by the heat of his hand penetrating her skin. Her body seemed to drift, while her mind remained anchored and fully aware of him and that hand. There was something very different about his touch. Whilst incredibly firm and strong, it was also…soft. Slowly turning his large palm upward, she ran the tips of her calloused fingers against the smoothest masculine palm she’d ever encountered. It was as if he had never touched anything with those hands.
Georgia glanced up. “You most certainly aren’t a pirate.”
“And how do you know? I could be.”
She lifted his hand and tilted it palm upward for him to better see. “Look at your hands.”
He hesitated and lowered his gaze to the hand she held up.
She traced her fingers toward the length of his long fingertips and back toward his large smooth palm. “They’re untouched. See? If you were a pirate, you would have handled ropes and crates, which would have covered your hands in calluses. Given their softness, ’tis obvious your only trade is money.” She snorted. “That would explain why you couldn’t remember how to shave or knot a cravat. You had servants doin’ it for you.”
His mouth tightened as he tilted his hand against hers, intently observing it. “They are smooth, aren’t they?” He sounded disappointed.
She