Mallory glared at the scoundrel, her soon-to-be husband if her father had anything to say about it, daring Lichfield to repeat his previous folly and utter the word mad again. Her blood boiled, and she suspected her cheeks were aflame despite the chill in the air.

Space. Distance. Time.

To think. To reconcile. To breathe.

That was what Mallory needed.

Instead, she took another step forward, and he answered by retreating.

It was the word whispered behind raised hands in her household: mad, insane, lunatic, crazed, frenzied…

Each spoken to wound her or Aunt Hettie.

Spoken behind closed doors by her father, uttered directly to her face by Adam, and whispered behind her back by the Blandford servants.

Years of pent-up hurt and anger surrounded the use of that one, simple word—or any of its derivatives.

And Lord Lichfield was unaware of her gift and therefore associating the spiteful comment to other portions of her person.

It was he who was in the wrong in this situation, and it had naught to do with her. She hadn’t so much as breathed a word to anyone about her visions. Though one had overtaken her earlier, Mallory had recovered quickly and even fooled Aunt Hettie into thinking it hadn’t happened.

Damnation, but she was doing everything she’d promised her father. She was putting on a show much like any actress upon the stage—normal, poised, and proper.

Not unconventional, unsuitable…rejected by those who should cherish her most.

“Lady Mallory.” His pleading tone darkened her resentment as he attempted to reach out to her. Sidestepping his reach, she could not allow him to touch her and risk another vision. “I spoke out of turn, I did not mean to insinuate that you lack any—”

“Unfortunately, you did,” she seethed, her fury rising again at his obvious effort to justify his words. “Lord Lichfield, you lied to me.”

“I lied to you?” he asked, startled by the switch in topic.

“Yes, you told me you were on your way to Castle Keyvnor when you left Tetbery, but here you are, at the public tavern, imbibing spirits long before the hour is proper.” A sudden cold breeze pushed her curls over her shoulder, and she clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering. Perhaps it was Lord Lichfield who was unsuitable, not her. “Am I to wed a drunkard, my lord?”

A single, perfectly arched black brow shot up at her demand. “It is not against any law for a man to enter a tavern to quench his thirst.”

“Very true. However, my concern is not with the drinking itself, unless you tend to imbibe in excess, but with the fact that you lied to me and in front of my aunt.” Mallory supposed she might well be overreacting a tad and her grievance was not solely with his falsehood. “Furthermore, I wish to know if you have a penchant for carousing and physical altercations.”

Her finger still jabbed at his chest—his solid, muscular, broad chest—as she spoke, and Mallory dropped it to her side. Thankfully, his chest was not bare, and her gloves were solidly in place. There was a small likelihood someone from the castle had witnessed their argument and recognized them.

Perhaps Lord Lichfield had a point: her behavior was a bit erratic. Surely not mad, but when she’d spotted the man as big as an ox pummel the earl in the ribs and then nearly bash him again, she’d had to put an end to it all. The boulder sitting near the tavern entrance had been an adequate weapon, especially as neither fighter had seen the blow coming.

If her betrothed were to perish, it would not occur with Mallory standing helplessly by.

Unbeknownst to this man, he’d not only committed to a betrothal and a marriage to her, but he was her lifeline, her chance at a future above and beyond being the spinster daughter of a marquess. He was to give her a family and a home of her own. A place where Mallory could be herself and fear nothing.

Felicity had that at Tetbery, and bloody hell if Mallory did not long for her own sanctuary.

The man before her was her ticket out of her father’s—and brother’s—control.

And he would damn well follow through with things.

Lord Lichfield exhaled in a labored burst, his shoulders falling. The arrogant set of his chin seemed to relax, as well. “No, Lady Mallory, I am not a drunkard nor prone to lying.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, but Mallory remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “I was hungry and in need of a drink. Meeting one’s betrothed for the first time can be downright taxing, and the castle is overrun with guests, servants, and the like, all preparing for the weddings and ball to follow. I did not wish to be underfoot or a nuisance to anyone. So, instead of returning to Keyvnor, I came into Bocka Morrow for a meal and a pint of ale.”

“Yet, that led to fisticuffs with—”

“That was in no way fisticuffs,” he said, cutting her off. “That offensive man thought himself justified in harassing a barmaid. I was merely showing him the error of his ways by escorting him out of the tavern.”

“You could have been seriously injured,” Mallory said, releasing the breath she held as all fight left her. If this man would go to such lengths to honor a maid he did not know, how far would he go to support his own wife?

“That was a possibility; however, the potential injury to the barmaid at the rascal’s hands was far greater, do you not agree?”

“It…I…well…” Had she judged him wrong? Had she been too harsh with him? The fact of the matter was that they were to be wed in a few short months, and Mallory needed to know the quality of the man she’d be tied to for all her days. If he were cruel and callous, prone to drinking, or quick to temper, Mallory would fear ever allowing him to learn of her gifts. “I suppose your actions were very gallant, my lord.”

“Silas, my given name is Silas.” He ran his fingers through his hair, the curls landing precisely in place. “I suppose if you’ve bashed a man senseless to save my hide it is only right you call me Silas.”

Silas. A unique name, indeed.

Very fitting.

Odd, but she’d never once thought to know the man beyond his title or address. Certainly, he’d given his name when he introduced himself earlier. It would be peculiar if she continued to address him in such a formal manner—even in their private chambers.

“Am I wrong to assume you came to town without benefit of a chaperone?”

“You would not be incorrect,” she mumbled, embarrassed for the first time at her rash decision to follow him. “Though I can assure you, no one will notice my absence.”

He turned away from her and paced a few feet before swinging back around to face her.

“Did you bring a horse, or did you make it here on foot?”

She glanced over his shoulder to where the young lad held the reins of the Tetbery mare she’d borrowed. “A horse.”

How had she gone from scared that he’d be injured to furious at his hurtful word to feeling like a recalcitrant child who needed forgiveness?

“Let us get you back to Tetbery Estate before anyone misses you,” he sighed.

“No one will miss me, and I can find my own way back.”

“While I am certain both of those statements are true, I cannot allow you to go unattended.” He held up one finger to stop her protest before it had even formed on her tongue. “It is not for your sake but mine. I will worry incessantly if I do not witness you arriving safely at Tetbery with my own eyes.”

She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that a jolt of approval coursed through her at his proclamation. Something fluttered in her chest.

Lord Lichfield, Silas, was not a cruel or crass man.

Perhaps they would suit well.