A Reckless Encounter

Celia was where he’d left her, huddled behind a hump of rock. She’d taken off her bonnet and sunlight glinted on her hair and face. He noted a very faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Somehow, it gave her an ingenuous look. He knelt one leg beside her, his knee digging into the rocky ground.

“They’re gone. I’ll take you back to the house.”

She nodded. “Who—why were they shooting at us?”

“I think I interrupted something.” An ugly suspicion had begun to form in the back of his mind. It wouldn’t surprise him if those trunks held smuggled goods. This part of the coast was pocked with caves, and France was only across the Channel. It wouldn’t be the first time smugglers had operated in this area.

“What did you interrupt?” Celia rose and brushed at her skirts with one hand, fingering a small tear in the rose-colored material. “Poachers?”

“Of a sort. Here.” He shoved her bonnet into her hand and said curtly, “We’ll have to take my horse. The Barb is probably halfway to London by now.”

“The Barb?”

“Barbary mare—a special breed of Arabian.” He shot her a narrow glance. “The gray horse you rode.”

“I realize what you mean now. You needn’t speak to me as if I’m a child!” She brushed angrily at the bonnet; one of the pink strings hung by a thread.

“Needn’t I? Never mind. Can you walk?”

“Yes, of course I can walk. I’m bruised, but nothing is broken.”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but averted her eyes.

“What were you doing here, Celia? No, don’t tell me it’s none of my business. It is my business. Christ, you could have been killed.”

“I hardly expected to be taken as a target,” she shot back at him. “Your hospitality leaves much to be desired.”

“You should have kept to the road. Or taken the pony trap.”

“Mrs. Pemberton and Miss Freestone took the trap into the village—”

“You should have gone with them. I certainly didn’t mean for you to ride a mare that’s barely been ridden.”

She looked startled, then her eyes darkened. “Oh, I see what happened now. It was your lovely gypsy who saw to it that I rode that mare, I’m certain of it.”

“Marita?” He grinned. “It sounds like a trick she might play.”

“Yes.” She snapped her hat in the air, then crammed it on her head. It hung awry, the brim shading her face and the ribbons dangling. “Your gypsy has a rather strange sense of humor!”

“I don’t own Marita.”

“She seems to think she belongs to you. Or perhaps you belong to her.”

“Jealous, my sweet?”

“Of you?” She laughed, a harsh sound. “You flatter yourself, my lord.”

“I don’t think so. Christ, Celia, don’t look at me as if you don’t know me.”

“I…I don’t know you. Not really. Last night…what we did…what happened between us—”

“If you’re expecting an apology, you won’t get one from me. Maybe if I’d known you weren’t experienced I wouldn’t have taken it so far, but you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me.”

Even in the shadow of the hat brim, he saw bright color flag her cheeks. He knew how it sounded, but he’d sat up all night thinking about her, wondering why she’d yielded something so precious to him. There was no good reason that he could see, unless she had motives that wouldn’t bear close inspection.

“There’s no point in talking about this now,” he said as he took her arm. “It’s a long walk back to the house if my horse is gone the same way as yours.”

She didn’t say a word, even when he found his horse where he’d left it and lifted her up into the saddle. He mounted, holding her in front of him, his arms around her and her hat blocking his view.