Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress. Ann Lethbridge

it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.

      ‘You’ll see my bullet coming,’ Ben said.

      Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.

      ‘I’ll have those back, wench,’ Garrick called. She ignored him.

      Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.

      He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.

      Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.

      So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.

      ‘No need to be shy,’ the woman said. ‘Put them on when they are dry.’

      Ben looked scandalised. He muttered something under his breath, but gestured for Garrick to go ahead.

      The scent of bacon assaulted his nostrils. Whether because it was being cooked outside, or because he was ravenously hungry, his mouth watered. He kept his face impassive and returned to his place against the barn wall.

      ‘Sit by the fire,’ she ordered. ‘We don’t want yer catching a chill.’

      He curled his lip. ‘Not before you get my money, at least.’

      Ben jerked the rifle. ‘Sit near the fire.’

      Garrick cursed and sat as directed.

      The woman slapped the eggs and bacon on to a slab of bread and handed it to him. She did the same for Ben. It tasted as good as it smelled. It would do no good to starve himself. He’d need every ounce of strength to escape these two.

      She stood up. ‘We need fresh water.’ She walked away.

      Moments later, he heard her gasp behind him.

      Ben looked up from his food. ‘What is it?’

      Garrick knew what had caught her attention. It was the reason he never removed his shirt in public. He glowered, but said nothing as she placed a cup of water beside him, her gaze still fixed on his back.

      ‘Look at this,’ she said to Ben.

      Unfolding his brawny body with a grunt, Ben stood up and joined her at Garrick’s shoulder. He whistled softly through his teeth.

      ‘Who did this?’ she asked.

      Garrick heard the pity in her voice and cringed. He did not need her sympathy, damn her. ‘An accident, years ago.’ Uncle Duncan had lost his temper. He’d expressed his regret as Garrick lay on his stomach, bandaged and medicated. Le Clere had never lost control like that again but it always served to remind Garrick what lay beneath the surface.

      ‘An accident?’ She stared at Ben, her face full of incredulity. ‘Have you ever seen…?’

      ‘In the army, I have. An officer’s cane can do that kind of damage.’

      She reached out and pressed a finger on his back. Garrick jumped with a curse.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said, whipping her hand away.

      ‘Forget it,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.

      ‘Just give me my shirt if the sight troubles you.’

      But once again she touched him, gently now, tracing the three straight diagonal lines across his back. His skin jumped and flickered, although her touch was as gentle as a butterfly, as light as a whispering breeze, almost a caress. He felt his chest constrict. The women he had known in London were interested in only one thing and it did not involve tenderness. No woman had ever touched him so softly, not since his mother…

      Garrick squeezed his eyes tight, forcing down the memories. He pulled away from her questing fingers.

      Ben shook his head. ‘They’re old, but no accident.’

      She paced away. ‘If he’s to spend another night here, you will need to find a better way to make him secure.’

      He glared at the woman. How long did they expect to keep him here? ‘Le Clere won’t pay you. He is not such a fool.’ He hoped.

      ‘I’ll find something.’ Ben’s voice sounded kindly, less harsh. ‘Up you get, lad. Sit over by the fence.’

      Garrick rose to his feet. Silent and grim, Ben tied him to the fence with enough rope to shift his position. Tied up like a wild animal. Like one of his nightmares. He clenched and unclenched his hands, forcing himself to hold back the anger rising in his gullet. He took a deep breath. Then another. Control. Sooner or later they’d make a mistake.

      Ben left them on foot, meaning he was headed for somewhere nearby. Were they in league with one of the local farmers? One of his tenants? An interesting and disturbing thought.

      Forced into idleness, he watched the wench groom all three horses. The skin-tight breeches hugged the flair of her hips, and her slender thighs above riding boots were the stuff of pleasurable dreams. The full shirt and open waistcoat didn’t hide her narrow waist, but gave no impression of the size of her breasts. Those he’d felt, small and firm, when he’d kissed her.

      He shifted, furious and uncomfortable at his body’s arousal. No doubt she knew how incredibly sensual she looked in her boy’s garb. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d noticed. Instead, he closed his eyes to picture her face behind the mask, light eyes, certainly. But what colour hair lay beneath her ridiculous old-fashioned wig? Her eyebrows were fair. But her hair could be anything from red to gold. The sun warmed his skin. A bee bumbled by in a soft drone on air scented with grass and sweet clover.

      

      Having finished with the horses, Eleanor decided to feed her prisoner before Martin returned and they left for the night. A platter of bread, cheese and pickles seemed a somewhat meagre offering for a man who must be used to the finest dining. On the way, she gathered up his now-dry clothes. The Marquess needed to get dressed. The sight of him sprawled on the grass like some Adonis really was too much, especially since he had fallen asleep, leaving her free to peek all she wanted. The way he had watched her from beneath half-lowered lids, while she groomed the horses, had made her feel hot and awkward. She’d been glad when he’d drifted off to sleep.

      He looked so peaceful propped against the fence, his head lolling against a naked broad shoulder. Like an angel. A fallen one, with that sensual cast of his lips and the body of a heathen god. And there was just so much of him. Even stretched out on the grass, his male virility was overpowering.