She bent to pack up her stuff.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stopping short of the shrubbery. His massive shoulders in a brown fustian jacket blocked her view of the sky as his chest rose and fell from exertion. Lovely, beautiful man. She had the sudden desire to snatch up her pencil and draw. Him.
A dangerous notion. ‘I would have been perfectly all right had you stayed away,’ she muttered, pushing through the scratchy branches.
He frowned. ‘You waved me over. I thought you must have had an accident. Fallen from your horse.’
‘I walked.’ As if it mattered how she got here.
‘All the way up here?’
‘An early morning stroll. For my health.’
His expression of disbelief said it all and his gaze dropped to the portfolio beneath her arm. ‘You came up here to draw the fox?’ He sounded disapproving, dismissive, just like everyone else.
‘Not possible since you decided to gallop over here like a runaway carthorse.’
A muscle in his jaw flickered. His lips twitched. Amber danced in his eyes. Was he laughing? It certainly looked like it. She found herself wanting to smile, despite her disappointment.
‘You looked as if you were trying to get my attention. I didn’t realise you were here on a drawing expedition.’
‘What else would I be doing up here? I had hoped to draw it, b-before you k-killed it.’ She marched past him and headed downhill.
‘Wait,’ he commanded, deep and resonant.
How dare he order her about? She forged on.
‘Miss Bracewell,’ he called out. ‘There is a better place from which to watch.’
She twisted to look back at him.
He stared at her silently, challenging her to return, looking like a dark angel with the grey sky behind and the dark pines above. A tempting dark angel. Her heart speeded up. She hunched deeper into her cloak. ‘W-Where?’ Now she sounded like a sulky child. What was it about this man that made her behave so badly? Apart from his physical beauty, that was, which would affect any warm-blooded woman.
‘You would have missed him from there.’
‘Oh?’
‘I can show you, if you wish?’
‘You said him? Is it a male?’
He smiled and her knees almost gave out as he transformed into a Greek god with a simple curve of his mouth. ‘The dog fox. Aye. This tunnel is his escape route. The front door is yonder.’ He nodded toward the blasted oak. ‘I’ve seen him go in three times this week.’
The country accent missing from his earlier speech returned. She hesitated, her mind clamouring a warning even as her eyes worshipped the fierce beauty of his carved features. She longed to draw the character and darkness in his face and the athletic grace of his body. Not a clumsy attempt from memory, but from the flesh. Heat crawled up her face.
His smile disappeared. ‘As you wish, miss,’ he said, clearly taking her silence as refusal.
‘I will.’
A brow winged up and he tilted his head. ‘You mean, yes?’
She nodded, her head bobbing as if her neck had turned into a spring.
‘This way, then, miss, if you please.’
She followed him to a knobby protrusion of rocks beside the blackened tree.
‘There,’ he murmured, pointing at the ground a few feet away.
Nothing. Then the darker black of a hole took shape among the shadows. ‘I see it.’ She tore off the portfolio’s ribbon.
‘Sit here,’ he said, a large, warm hand catching her elbow, steering her to another pile of rocks. Sparks seemed to shoot up her arm, as if he’d touched a lightning bolt and transmitted its energy to her through his fingers.
Her mouth dried. A man of his ilk shouldn’t be touching her at all.
Was this how her mother had felt with the lower orders? Entranced. Breathless. Hot all over. She could quite see why one might want to experience it again. And more.
Somehow she sank down in the place he suggested and saw with amazement that the rock on which she perched formed a comfortable backrest and screened her from the opening to the fox’s den, except for a narrow slit between two rocks.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘This is perfect.’
‘I aim to please,’ he replied with a flash of a grin.
The breath in her chest left her mouth in a besotted rush. The man should not smile. It was fatal. And, from the broadening smile, he knew it.
He sank to his haunches beside her, his back against the rock on which she sat, his shoulder touching her skirts. He sat and stretched out legs which seemed to go on for ever and terminated in sturdy brown boots covered in mud. The rough fabric of his trousers clung to his thighs in a most revealing manner, suggestive of hard muscle and power.
In the confined space between the boulders, his shoulders hemmed her in. Trapped her. His steady, even breathing filled her ears, warmth radiated from him and the smell of bay drifted on the still air, instilling a strong desire to inhale his manly scent. From the corner of her eye she admired the black curl of hair on the bronzed skin of his strong column of a neck and the way it skimmed the collar of his coarse linen shirt. Once more her pulse galloped out of control.
Oh, yes, he would make an excellent subject. She had never drawn a man from life, but this one had an air of natural nobility for all his lowly station. Intangible to the eye, it radiated off him like an aura. No other man of her acquaintance had such elegant male beauty. Particularly not Simon.
But would she have the skill to do him justice? It would mean spending hours in his company—his naked company—if she was to work in the classical style she longed to emulate. Any decent art school in Italy would want to see more than drawings of birds and wildlife to accept her as a serious artist. If her portfolio presented a study of him, and if it was any good…
Would he even be willing? Perhaps if she offered to pay him? She didn’t have much money, but she had some.
He glanced at her with a raised brow.
Heat suffused her face. What would he think of her, if she asked him to pose in the nude?
‘Tired of waiting?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Do you know why they call this Gallows Hill?’ she choked out over the pounding of her heart.
‘No.’
‘They hung the last highwayman in the district here. Mad Jack Kilgrew. Apparently, he took to the roads when he wasn’t allowed to marry the girl he loved.’ She knew she was gabbling, but she couldn’t stop. And since she didn’t have the nerve to broach what was on her mind, she just kept going. ‘They say all the local ladies were in love with him because he was so handsome and only ever stole kisses—the reason the menfolk hanged him out of hand.’
‘Romantic claptrap,’ he muttered.
She laughed. ‘No. It is true. He stopped Mrs D-Demp-ster, the baker’s wife, when she was a girl.’
‘A man can’t live on kisses,’ he said.
‘Well, he did. Along with the money he stole from their husbands.’ She shivered. ‘They say you can hear the rattle of the g-gibbet on the anniversary of his death.’
He grinned. ‘You’ve been reading too much Mrs Radcliffe.’
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