‘I think not.’
Peering down through the leaves once more, Selina trained her eyes on her captor’s blond curls. He hadn’t moved so much as an inch, blast him. She herself was beginning to feel the sharp texture of the bark digging into her skin, forcing her to shift her position, and she could have cursed aloud when the movement sent a rotten branch crashing down through the canopy.
Hearing the sudden noise, the man whipped his head round, searching for the direction of the sound, and as his profile turned Selina saw the face of her tormentor clearly for the first time.
It was as though she had been winded all over again.
She knew him. Not by name—it hadn’t seemed the right time for formal introductions many years ago, when Selina had come across a strange boy in these very woods and held a pad of moss against his cheek to stem the flow of blood that had seeped between his fingers.
How old had he been then? Perhaps twelve to Selina’s eight? He had been the first gentry boy she’d ever seen up close, and the rare combination of his hazel eyes and golden hair, so foreign to Selina’s childish mind, had burned itself into her memory. There could be no mistaking the fact that this man was the same person, and Selina felt a thrill of some unknown feeling tingle down the length of her spine as she watched him searching upwards, confusion rushing in to replace where moments previously she had felt only fear.
He’s handsome. The thought came out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and she shook her head slightly as if to clear it. Don’t be absurd, she admonished herself fiercely, although nothing could stop the slow creep of colour she knew was stealing over her cheeks as she took in his defined jaw, in turn well matched by a straight nose and a mouth just teetering on the brink of a smile, and she felt another dart of the same unexplained feeling lance through her.
It was uncomfortably, unacceptably similar to the admiration she had felt once or twice before when confronted with an attractive man. On those occasions, however, she hadn’t felt her heart rate pick up speed, and neither had she felt such a disturbingly instinctive appreciation for the fine colour of his eyes. How this gentleman managed to affect her in such a powerfully unexpected way she had no clue, but she knew she didn’t like it.
He was hunting through the branches in earnest now, and Selina forced herself closer against the tree’s rough trunk. She screwed her eyes closed, trying to bully her brain into ordering her whirling thoughts while her pulse skipped ever faster.
Who is he? Why is he here?
It was exactly her luck to have such an unlikely encounter, she acknowledged helplessly, even as the strange feeling crackled beneath her skin and she felt the urge to look down pull at her once again. He wouldn’t remember her, that was for certain. She had been a skinny, dirt-streaked child, and he...
He now bore a scar, exactly where she had staunched the bleeding gash on his cheek—a pale crescent that somehow only served to enhance the otherwise unblemished perfection of his features...features that looked as though they had been designed to be traced by female fingertips.
Selina’s own face felt uncomfortably warm as she sat motionless, horrified by the spontaneous reaction of her body. Each nerve tingled with the desire to take another peep at the man below, to make doubly sure her disbelieving eyes had been correct and he truly was the same person she had encountered all those years before—as well as to take another glimpse of the face that made her heart beat a frenzied tattoo against her ribs.
If it was him, could there be a slim chance her predicament might not be as dire as she had feared?
As a boy he had accepted her help and seemed grateful for it, she was forced to recall. There had been no sign of any upper-class prejudice then, only two children, both too young to fully grasp the social gulf that would divide them so completely as adults. Perhaps he might be as gracious now he was fully grown, and allow her to leave without too much trouble?
It was the most Selina could hope for, and she clung to that hope as she prayed for his disconcerting effect on her to wane.
* * *
Edward Fulbrooke frowned lightly as he craned his neck upwards. Where exactly was she? He’d known she was there the whole time. Poor Harris and Milton...it was the most obvious hiding place imaginable.
He’d arrived on the scene just after the two gamekeepers had thundered off, his own horse blowing powerfully from their afternoon ride. Milton’s wife, Ada, had been attempting to drag a wailing Ophelia towards the Hall, and Edward had dismounted swiftly to aid her.
‘Oh, Mr Fulbrooke. I’m that glad you’re here!’ Ada’s voice had been barely audible above Ophelia’s sobs, and Edward scooped the child up immediately in one strong arm.
‘Ophie. That’s enough. What’s the matter?’
The little girl quieted at once, though her eyes—the same hazel as Edward’s own—had glittered with unshed tears. ‘Ned, the lady was only trying to help, and now they’re going to hurt her!’
Ophelia had told him the full story. She’d been ‘exploring’ again, having escaped from the watchful gaze of her governess, and had walked so far she’d been unable to find her way back home. She had been about to give up all hope of ever seeing her mama again when a lady had appeared through the trees, dressed in strange clothes and singing a song Ophelia hadn’t understood.
When she had seen the child she’d stopped and looked almost frightened, but after Ophelia burst into tears and explained that she was lost and alone the lady had wrapped her up snug in a shawl and taken her towards a waiting horse—a huge grey stallion, with great scars marring his flanks—and said she would take Ophelia safely home.
‘But then Harris and Milton came, and they were so angry. Harris pulled me away and Milton tried to take hold of the lady. But she ran—and nobody would listen to me!’
Edward had set Ophelia back on her feet and leapt back into the saddle without a word. He hadn’t doubted for a moment that the child was telling the truth; there wasn’t a moment to lose.
He peered upwards yet again. Was that a scrap of fabric? It was hard to tell against the leafy backdrop.
‘What is it that concerns you? Are you afraid I’ll come chasing after you again?’
There was only silence from above, and Edward forced back a grin.
The pert creature. Sitting pretty as a picture up her tree, deciding whether the Squire’s own son is worth coming down for.
The smile faded and a small crease formed between his eyebrows. The late Squire’s son, now. He was still getting used to that, having returned from London only two days prior to find the Hall quieter than he had ever known it before.
‘I can’t deny I have some slight misgivings.’
The smoky voice was edged with an undercurrent of something Edward could not identify, and his frown deepened.
‘Well, what if I gave you my word as a gentleman that I won’t? Would you allow me the honour of an introduction then?’
Another silence stretched out, this time less amusing, and Edward raised an eyebrow. This was getting a little out of hand. He was well within his rights to order her down, trespassing as she was on his own land—or what would be his land once he took formal possession of his inheritance.
‘Miss, I would have you know my word is my law. I would think myself beyond contempt if, once given, I were to break it.’
There was a moment’s quiet. Then, ‘I suppose there’s no chance you’d leave and let me go about my business without an audience?’
‘None whatsoever, I’m afraid.’
‘Not very gentlemanly of you.’
‘Alas,