He’d remained statue-still like some ancient Celtic warrior, bold and hard and simmering like a storm about to rage. A terrifyingly handsome man and thoroughly annoyed, though what he had to be annoyed about she couldn’t think.
How would he look if he smiled?
The thought surprised her utterly. ‘Wh-who are you, s-sir? W-what are you doing in these woods?’
‘Robert Deveril, milady. Assistant gamekeeper. I live in the cottage yonder.’ He hesitated, pressed his lips together as if holding back something on the tip of his tongue. She knew the feeling only too well. Except for her, it was because it was easier to say nothing.
And yet after a moment, he continued, ‘I thought your horse had bolted the way you tore past my house, but I see I was mistaken. Forgive me, milady.’
Suntanned fingers touched his forelock in a reluctant gesture of servility. If anything, he looked more arrogant than before. He pivoted and strode towards the path with long lithe strides.
‘Y-your h-house?’ A recollection of flying dirt striking something hollow filled her mind. No wonder he’d been surprised and come to see what was happening. Heat flashed upwards from her chest to the roots of her hair. ‘P-p-p—’ Oh, tongue, don’t fail me now. She forced in a breath. ‘Mr D-Deveril,’ she called out.
He halted, then turned to face her, looking less than happy. ‘Milady?’
‘I apologise.’
He frowned.
‘It w-w-will not h-happen again.’ Mortified at her inability to express even the simplest of sentences when off-kilter, she turned to her mount. It wasn’t until the cinches on Pippin’s saddle disappeared in a blur that she realised she was close to crying and wasn’t sure why, unless it was frustration and the realisation of just how inconsiderate she’d been.
‘Let me help you, milady.’
At the sound of his deep, rich, oh-so-easy words, she almost swallowed her tongue. ‘G-g-go away,’ she managed.
Clinging to Pippin’s saddle, she turned her head. A good two feet away, he waited, calmly watching her, the anger still there, but contained, like that of the panther she’d once seen in a cage. Beautiful. And dangerous.
Yet she wasn’t afraid. She just didn’t want to look like a fool in front of this man.
‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘I’m sorry I scared you. I thought you were in trouble when I saw you teetering on the brink. The rains have made the bank treacherous.’
‘I’m a g-good s-s-swimmer.’ She tried a smile.
‘It’s no jesting matter. No doubt you’d expect me to pull you out.’
Simon’s face swam before her eyes like a pudgy Ban-quo’s ghost. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t bother.’
His eyes gleamed. Amusement? ‘My, you are in high ropes.’
He was laughing at her. He saw her as a joke. A wordless fool. He was so perfect and she couldn’t string two words together. A spurt of resentment shot through her veins. ‘This was m-my p-place. You have s-spoiled it.’ She gulped in a supply of air. Her stutter was out of control. At any moment she’d been speechless. A dummy. For the second time today. ‘G-good d-day, sir.’
His face blanched beneath his tan as if somehow she’d stabbed him and the blood had drained away. His hands fell to his sides, large hands that bunched into fists, knuckles gleaming white. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’
An apology he scorned. She could see that in his expression.
She grabbed for Pippin’s reins. Tried to pull herself up. The horse sidled. No, Pippin. Don’t do this now. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered.
A strong calloused hand grabbed the bridle beside her cheek. Her heart leapt into her throat at the size of it. Afraid her heart might jump right out of her mouth, she drew back.
‘You’ll scare him,’ she warned.
He murmured something. Pippin, the traitor, stilled. Deveril lifted the saddle flap and adjusted the cinch. He cocked a superior brow. ‘You were saying?’
There it was, the arrogance of man. She breathed in slowly. ‘F-for an assistant gamekeeper you are very haughty.’
‘Once more I find the need to apologise.’ A rueful grin curved his finely moulded lips.
Breathtaking. Heartstopping. A smile so dangerous ought to be against the law. Her anger whisked away as if borne aloft by the breeze tossing the branches above their heads. All she could do was stare at his lovely mouth. She inhaled a shaky breath. ‘N-no. I was n-n…’ She swallowed, then closed her eyes, surprised when he didn’t finish the word. ‘I was not very polite. I am sorry.’
He bowed his head in gentlemanly acknowledgement. ‘Can I help you mount, my lady?’
Since when did assistant gamekeepers have elegant manners and glorious bodies? Every time he spoke, her knees felt strangely weak and she just wanted to stand and look at him. He made her want things young ladies were not supposed to think about. She wanted to touch him. Trace the curve of muscle and the cords of sinew. Feel their warmth.
And he wanted to help her onto her horse. ‘Thank you, Mr R-Robert Deveril.’
His eyes widened. ‘I must apologise for my earlier abruptness. I thought you an interloper.’
‘I had not heard the cottage was let.’ She frowned. She’d barely stumbled on her words. ‘We d-d-don’t have an assistant gamekeeper.’
‘I started on Monday.’
No one ever told her anything. ‘This is a lovely spot.’ She glanced around, drinking it in with a sense of sadness. She wouldn’t be able to come here any more.
‘Aye, it is. Even at this time of year.’ Slivers of amber danced in his dark eyes like unspent laughter. He really was outstandingly beautiful, despite the day’s growth of beard. Or maybe because of it.
‘You are not from this part of the country, are you?’ she asked.
An eyebrow flicked up. He smiled again, another swift curve of his mouth, instantly repressed, but still her skin went all hot and prickly. ‘I’m from the west. Dorset way.’
His accent had changed, broadened. He thought to trick her, but she always noticed every word, every inflection, in other people’s voices. How could she not? This man hailed from London, and had been educated well, of that she was certain. She mentally shrugged. It mattered little to her where he came from. She prepared to mount.
‘Allow me,’ he said.
He bent and linked his hands, then cast her a frowning look. ‘Don’t let me keep you from this place, milady. I shan’t disturb you again.’
A furnace seemed to engulf her face. ‘Th-thank you. And it is not my lady, just plain Miss Bracewell.’ She caught herself lifting her chin and tucked it back in.
His head tilted to one side as if considering her words, then his gaze slid away. ‘Yes, miss.’
She placed one booted foot in his cupped hands and he tossed her up without effort.
Tall and broad, straight and grand beside the horse, he planted his feet in the soft earth like a solid English oak. A man she would love to draw.
Naked.
The wicked thought trickled heaviness to the dark, secret place she tried never to notice. Little flutters made her shift in the saddle. Wanton urges. The kind that led a woman into trouble. Her gaze drank him in. Her heart sank. Was it any wonder she felt this way, when Slimy Simon loomed in