“How in bloody blue blazes did you get yourself caught in an animal trap, woman? That thing could have taken your leg off. Good God, have you no common sense? Don’t you even know enough to watch where you’re putting your feet when walking in the woods?” Clearly Lord Bourne’s questions and general tone of mingled anger and disgust could lead his listener into supposing the man believed himself to be addressing a hard-of-hearing idiot who should even now be down on her knees giving thanks to the gods on high for her lucky escape.
Just as clearly, the recipient of his lordship’s recriminations believed she had somehow stepped out of the woods only to stumble headlong into Bedlam, where she was immediately accosted by one of the hospital’s more violently disposed resident lunatics.
“I,” she countered, once recovered from the shock of the man’s uncalled-for attack, “am attached to this heinous instrument of torture and murder because some twisted, demented monster bent on destroying poor defenseless rabbits and furry little squirrels and other such wild and dangerous beasties has seen fit to set inhumane traps in the Home Wood. That’s how I became caught in this contraption.
“As to my leg, as you have so crudely seen fit to bring that appendage into this discussion, it and its mate are cognizant of their narrow escape, which is most probably why they agreed to carry me to Bourne Manor in order that I might confront Lord Bourne with the consequences of his thoughtless act.”
“I am Lord Bourne, madam,” Kit interjected at this point, his bow a mere mockery as he relinquished neither his belligerent pose nor his menacing expression. “The traps were set in order to thin the vermin population in the Home Wood. A population that through lack of sensible containment threatens to outstrip its food supply, inflict extensive damage upon the wood itself, and cause the invasion of nearby cultivated fields where those same cute, furry innocents will proceed to steal seed and destroy growing crops. That the perimeters of the area were not posted is an oversight possibly explained by the fact that residents of Bourne Manor have been duly made aware of the traps, while trespassers can only be prepared to suffer the indignities of any uninvited guest.”
“Why, you—” the young woman began hotly, then changed her tactics. “I have been accustomed to making free of the standing invitation issued me by the last Lord Bourne to think of the Home Wood as my own, as it were, and was therefore not aware that my formerly peaceful retreat had overnight taken on the aspect of a forest teeming with snapping iron dragons. Indeed, all that is missing are the tongues of fire.”
“Your apology is duly noted and accepted,” Kit returned cordially, his initial anger abating at the sight of the blond, green-eyed vixen who dared debate him as an equal while mud dried into crusts on her cheeks and her gown was held captive by an “iron dragon.”
The young woman’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Apology? What apology? I issued no apology! I’m here to insist you remove your traps at once. They’re inhuman!”
“They’re not intended for humans,” Kit was forced to point out. “But I do believe Leon showed an excess of zeal in setting such formidable traps. I shall amend my order to eliminate metal traps and replace them with more humane devices that ensnare rather than chomp. The end result is the same, of course,” he reminded her with a satisfied smirk. “Rabbits in the larder and the vermin population reduced to manageable proportions. It is moderation that I strive for, after all, not total annihilation.”
“And my use of the Home Wood?” She hated to beg, but had to ask. “Am I to discontinue my visits?”
Kit looked down at the dirt-streaked face, appealing even through its grime as the green eyes rounded artlessly and the firm little chin, so proudly tilted while she attacked him, trembled involuntarily as she awaited his answer.
“I cannot find it in myself to deprive infants of their treats. But curtail your visits for a few days, please—just until Leon gathers up his little toys.”
With nothing else left to say, the young woman made to depart the scene, but the clinging trap made the simple art of turning about a test of balance and dexterity. The sprigged muslin, already laboring under considerable stress, proved unequal to this additional insult and yet another long tear split the fabric, this time exposing a wide, knee-high expanse of white petticoat.
Tears born of frustration combined with a belated but none the less extreme sense of embarrassment made liquid pools of the girl’s eyes as Lord Bourne stooped to tug at her gown in an effort to release it from the trap.
“I’ll have to rip your gown even further, I’m afraid,” he apologized, raising his head to smile at her consolingly. “Not,” he mumbled as the abused fabric parted in two, leaving a goodly yard or more still in the possession of the half circle of grinning iron teeth, “that it’s much of a loss anyway.”
It is truly amazing how quickly a woman’s tears can dry, leaving behind them a pair of eyes alight with a strange glitter more reminiscent of leaping flames than of sparkling water. “You owe me for this gown, Lord Bourne,” she pronounced in a determined voice. “It was my very most favorite gown in the whole world!” she vowed passionately, her quest for retribution investing the lie with the ring of truth.
A healthy desire for his lunch combined with a sincere wish to be shed of his unpleasant trespasser prompted Lord Bourne to count out his astonishingly accurate estimate of the gown’s cost into her outstretched palm.
And then the young woman smiled, a simple exercise of muscle that lifted the heretofore sullenly downturned corners of her mouth and reassembled the smudged contours of her face into a composition so wonderfully appealing to the eye that Kit had to blink twice before he could be assured the transformation was not due merely to a trick of the sun.
“What’s your name, infant?” he heard himself ask in a soft voice, his gaze never leaving her face.
The smile wavered, slightly, then rebounded. “Jennie, my lord,” she answered saucily, tilting her head and throwing him an impudent wink. “I live at the far end of the Home Wood with my father.”
“No last name, Jennie?” his lordship pursued, all thought of his lunch forgotten in light of this unexpected pleasant development. The girl, he decided, might clean up to advantage, and a liaison with a comely, conveniently local wench could only serve to enhance his already comfortable existence.
She was the only child of her widowed schoolteacher father, Jennie informed him conversationally, and thus the recipient of that father’s intensive tutoring—a little fillip she offered to explain her accent-free, educated speech. She had read extensively, although she had never traveled more than fifteen miles from her birthplace, and even though she led a solitary existence she was more than content with her lot in life.
As she let her voice ramble on, her words tumbling out rapidly, she ran her spread fingers through her disheveled blond curls and smoothed her damaged gown with unconsciously provocative strokes of her figure-sculpting hands.
Kit had been without a woman for nearly a month, a lengthy period of abstinence for one of his healthy appetites, and Jennie’s attractions multiplied in direct proportion to the estimated total number of pleasures denied. As a gentle buzzing in his ears turned Jennie’s droning voice to the sweet notes of a siren’s song, Lord Bourne’s better self offered no resistance when his baser self reached out and drew the girl’s slight form into his strong embrace.
“Let me taste your honey, sweetings,” he whispered, his eyes already shut tight as his mouth descended to claim Jennie’s shock-slacked lips. Kit Wilde was ever the sort to strive for excellence in his many pursuits, and he was justly proud of his carefully learned and studiously applied expertise in the art of making