Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

He swooped, and she turned her face to one side. Francesca felt the scrape of his unshaven jaw against her cheek, the tickle of his unkempt hair. Shocked, she realized her hand was now resting on his shoulder. How did it get there? Had she done that? She must have, and yet she didn’t remember. She knew she couldn’t risk another second of his closeness.

“Please, let me up.”

The pause seemed to last forever, and it was only as he moved away, slowly, as if he was acting against his inclination, that Francesca knew she was safe. Not just from him, but also from the dangerous hunger he stirred within her.

He swayed as he stood up, before he found his footing.

Francesca’s gaze traveled over him—she couldn’t help it. He was still wearing his riding boots. Long, well-muscled legs in breeches caked with the muck of the mire, narrow hips, and a shirt that had once been white beneath a brown jacket. His chest and shoulders were wide and strong, his throat manly, his face wickedly handsome.

He’s a spinster’s dream, and I’m a spinster.

She felt dizzy, but she knew that must be from her exertions. It was no easy matter to pull such a big man from the mire—he must stand over six foot.

Wolf was whimpering. Francesca reached out and drew him against her, pressing her face against his warm, rough coat, murmuring praise. He licked her cheek.

“Damn and blast it, my legs feel boneless,” the stranger’s deep voice interrupted.

Francesca gave him a wary look.

“You didn’t see my horse about?” Although he spoke the words with his mouth, his eyes were saying, I want to kiss you and I know you want to kiss me.

“No.” Francesca stood up, shaking out her muddy skirts. “I didn’t.” The light was even gloomier than it had been a moment ago, and it was only a matter of time until the storm struck. She rested her hand on Wolf ’s head. “Take us out of here, boy. Show us the way.” A quick warning glance at the stranger. “Follow my footsteps exactly.”

With Wolf leading the way, they made the journey through the edge of the mire to safety. Wolf loped off excitedly, and Francesca took several long strides—putting a safe distance between them—before turning to face him. She needn’t have bothered. He’d found a good-sized rock to sit on.

“How far is it back to the village?” he said, with a hint of impatience.

“Three…nearly four miles.”

“Not so far.”

“You’d never get there in this weather. It’s far too dangerous, even for those who know their way.”

He didn’t argue, although she sensed he wanted to. “What do you suggest then?” He climbed stiffly to his feet.

“It depends if you’re able to walk,” she said cautiously. “It might be best if you wait here while I go and fetch help.”

But she already knew he was the sort of man who would refuse to wait for anything. “No, damn it, I won’t wait here!” He wrenched a handful of heather from a bush, using it to clean the mud off his clothing. He stamped his boots, wincing. “This manor house you mentioned, is it far? I need a horse. Can they supply one?”

“You are in no fit state to go riding!”

She sounded sharp, and when he turned to her, his dark brows were drawn down and his eyes were glittering. He was angry—no, he was furious—but not with her. “I have unfinished business in the village, and it can’t wait.”

The way he said it…For a moment Francesca felt as if she had been transported straight into a novel, and a thrill ran through her.

Dangerous.

She gave him the kind of look an adult gives an unruly child. “Isn’t the fact that you’re alive enough to be getting on with? You can finish whatever it is you have to finish tomorrow. Dastardly deeds can be committed in sunshine as well as rain, can they not?”

He laughed, and now his black eyes gleamed with admiration. “‘Dastardly deeds.’ I like that. I see you have my measure, my lady.”

Her skin prickled.

“I don’t find the situation funny.”

He looked contrite, but it was all an act. His eyes gave him away. They were speaking to her again, with words like seduction and temptation and indiscretion. He made her feel exposed, vulnerable and afraid.

Francesca put a hand to her hair, which she knew was wild and unkempt from the wind and rain. Her gown was old and unfashionable, with a darn in the skirt and a lighter inch of cloth at the hem, where it had been let down. She wasn’t wearing a corset, and her stockings were coarse, her boots muddy and, though comfortable, very worn.