Bert shrugged as he brushed a few crumbs off his wrinkled shirt. “A little jiggle of the handle, that’s all. Needed a midnight snack. And ’twould seem I got more of a treat than I intended.”

As he sauntered toward her, the lust in his dark eyes unleashed an avalanche of ice down her spine. They were isolated here in the cellars. Most of the servants slept up in the attic, and the housekeeper and cook had quarters at the other end of the corridor.

They were too far away to hear her scream.

Natalie edged back, hoping to put the worktable between the two of them. The knives must be in one of the many drawers, though she didn’t know which one. If she attempted to search, he would be on her in a moment.

What else would serve as a weapon? The fire iron. It must be behind her, for she remembered propping it against the hearth.

Pretending a confidence that went only skin-deep, she said coolly, “If you value your position here, you’ll keep your distance. I won’t hesitate to inform Lord Wymark of any uncouth behavior.”

“Now, what’ve I done? There ain’t no law against admirin’ a pretty lady.” Judging by his smirk, Bert appeared to enjoy stalking her as she retreated. “His lordship won’t mind, anyhow. He said ye’ve been livin’ with savages in America. Ever laid with one?”

His denigration of her character was infuriating enough, but worse was his belittling of the Shawnee natives. She had encountered many good, kind people who traded animal skins and dried meat in exchange for various goods. They’d smiled and used gestures when she couldn’t understand their broken English. She had been studying their dialect in the weeks before the massacre had changed everything.

“You overstep your bounds,” Natalie said in her sternest schoolteacher voice. “I’ve heard quite enough of your insults. Leave this house at once!”

Bert slowed his steps, his voice lowering to a croon as if she were a mare in need of taming. “Calm down, missy. Don’t matter to me who’s had ye. I only want to touch that soft skin. To undo yer braid, see yer hair spread over your nekkid bosoms.”

Natalie resisted a shudder. He would attempt to force himself on her. She had seen that predatory intent once before.

Trying not to panic, she neared the fireplace. Though her gaze remained fixed on Bert, she could feel the heat of the flames and hear the snapping of the wood. The bubbling milk in the pot gave off a slightly scorched scent.

She inched closer to the hearth, furtively groping behind her for the slender rod. The roughness of the brick met her fingertips.

The groom sprang like a panther.

He seized the fire iron along with the ash shovel, stepping back to hold them aloft like war trophies. “Watch out there,” he said, snickering. “Wouldn’t want ye to hurt yerself.”

He flung both implements across the kitchen. They clattered to the stone floor and skittered into the deep shadows.