Read Hero is a Four Letter Word for Free Online

Mistress Carterhaugh. Nor to your guests. I come for you, only.”
    “ Come for me?” Jennet repeats, both eyebrows caterpillering towards her hairline. “And you think that doesn’t sound threatening?”
    “I live down the way,” he says, gesturing vaguely behind him. “I walk the woods often. More now that I’ve clapped eyes on you. I saw you, at the funeral.”
    Jennet sucks in a breath, hands suddenly shaking. “Right, now you’re sounding like a creeper. Just so you’re aware.”
    “I came upon it by accident, I swear,” Liam says, hands now towards her, placating. “And you looked so sad.”
    “I was burying my father!” Jen snarls.
    “Of course,” Liam allows. He looks younger when his smile dissolves, his face relaxing into pity, the lines falling away. Far too young for a man who is now suddenly holding her free hand, a thumb running along the back, soothing and very obviously attempting to be seductive. Succeeding, if she’s honest.
    Right, Jennet reminds herself, this is how missing persons reports begin. But there’s something so entrancing about his touch, the look in his green, green eyes. Something … irresistible.
    His breath is sweet and cool against the back of her hand when he lifts it to his cheek, eyes closed as if the texture of her skin is the most exquisite silk. “And in your bedroom window, such sorrow upon your face when you look to the woods.”
    Right, no. Never mind. The spell is frayed with a sharp slap of worried disgust.
    “You’re a stalker,” Jen says, and it’s meant to be an accusation but it comes out far more weak, like there’s is something … different in his touch. Something calming. Something nearly magical, only there is no such thing as magic.
    She reaches for the self-righteous fire she throws at all the men who think a woman of Jen’s age and marital status are easy prey, but finds it banked into a small coal of absent-minded worry. She has nothing to throw. That’s … wrong.
    “A stalker, no. I am an admirer, and you must admit, I am a polite one,” Liam purrs. “No obnoxious boom boxes, or pebbles thrown at your window. Put away your mobile, Jennet.”
    She swallows hard and pushes her mobile into the back pocket of her jeans, unthinkingly. Then she wonders why she did it. She reaches for it again, perturbed that she did as she was asked so quickly, so neatly, but is distracted when Liam’s grip on her hand shifts. He slides them so that they are palm to palm, fingers folded over the backs of each other’s knuckles, and he pumps her hand in a slow shake.
    “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Carterhaugh,” he whispers. His eyes are gravity wells. As deep and as appealing as Da’s grave.
    “Pleased to make yours, Liam,” she replies, enchanted far too easily by his smooth manners.
    He raises her hand to his mouth, brushes a dry kiss across the back of it. Then, from somewhere behind him, he produces a flower. It is one of the late-blooming wild roses, two blossoms fully blown on a single stem.
    Jennet can’t help it. The spell is broken. She throws back her head and guffaws.
    He stands there, roses upheld, looking equal parts surprised and hurt.
    “Oh, your face!” Jennet howls. “Did you think that would work? ”
    “It always has,” he pouts. “Do ladies no longer like roses? Have they fallen out of fashion?”
    “Do you hear yourself?” Jennet laughs. “You sound like a period drama!”
    Liam drops her hand and turns away, obviously upset, and rubs his free palm on the thighs of his dark jeans.
    “Oh, come on,” Jennet says, calming down. “Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle. It’s a very nice rose. And your manners are lovely. And I do appreciate you not throwing rocks at my windows.”
    He turns back to face her, face twisted in a strange rictus of amusement and horror. “Ladies are not at all what they used to be,” he says, definitive.
    “Nope,” Jennet agrees. “And thank the Lord for that.”
    Liam runs