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found her very attractive.
    Payne was obviously not one of those men. “I came to talk,” he replied in that voice that reminded her of velvet rubbed the wrong way—rich and rough. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
    There was no advantage to lying. “The loo,” she informed him, using a word she’d heard other Brits use. “Seems I wasn’t quite up to the task.”
    His cinnamon brows pulled low into a scowl as he stomped toward her. Was he swearing under his breath? Claire might have laughed had he not seized her by the arm and slung it over his shoulders as he bent low and put his own arm around her waist. “Lean on me.”
    She’d rather stick her face in a wasp’s nest, but she did as she was told and was grateful for his support. He practically carried her to the bed, then set her upon the mattress with surprising tenderness. It still hurt like the devil, but not as much as it would have if she’d done it on her own.
    “Thank you.”
    The earl seemed to understand how difficult those words were for her to say. He gave a curt nod and pulled the chair she’d abandoned closer to the bed so that he might sit. He could have remained standing to intimidate her, but he didn’t. She would not assume it was out of chivalry. The Earl of Wolfred didn’t need to stand to be intimidating. The man was built like a prizefighter, albeit a rangy one, and he had a gaze as cold and hard as steel.
    He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned toward her. His black greatcoat pulled across his back, the fine wool stretching to accommodate the movement. Normally she would love that he put himself so close, as it would make it all the easier for her to strike him in the throat or crotch, but right now she was painfully aware of just how little of a threat to his safety she was in her current condition. He was no doubt aware of it as well.
    “Are you going to tell me why you are here, or are you going to stare at me all night?”
    He didn’t so much as blink at her words. “It m Cordht?ust be difficult for you to be locked up.”
    “Yes, because these are such spartan conditions,” she replied drily. As if she would ever confide just how confined she truly felt. How vulnerable. Were the room any smaller or the ceiling any lower, she’d be sitting in a corner, foaming at the mouth, mindless.
    He arched a brow. “Indeed. Still, it must wound your pride as the Dove to have been so easily delivered into Warden custody. That’s an absolutely rubbish code name, by the way.”
    Claire drew back. It hurt, and she winced. That would teach her to react. “I didn’t choose it,” she informed him—why, she had no idea. It wasn’t any of his business. “Will you tell me what they call you?”
    “Reynard.”
    She frowned. “As in the trickster fox?”
    He looked impressed. What, did he think because she was female she was ignorant? Or perhaps it was because she was American. “That’s somewhat insipid, isn’t it?” She might have put more sarcasm behind it, but she had heard stories of Reynard, and being in the same room as him—within striking distance—bothered her. The man was augmented with metal “bones” and supposedly incredibly sharp eyes that . . .
glowed
when they caught the light.
    Good God. It was
true
. He had the eyesight of a cat.
    “No more than calling a dangerous woman ‘Dove.’”
    Whatever her reputation, this man’s was just as formidable—or worse. The last woman to cross him—a sympathizer sleeping with a Company agent—had left him for dead beneath an overturned carriage. He not only survived; he was part of the team that tracked down the woman and her lover.
    No one knew what happened to the pair after he captured them.
    “You came here for a reason,” she said, all bravado. “Either tell me what it is, or leave.”
    Something flickered in his eyes—something would have made her squirm were it not that it would hurt too much. “You’re hardly in the position to order me