What he must think of her, in her wrinkled frock and soggy slippers, her hair a mess of unkempt curls and her manners a mess of overfamiliarity. No wonder he wished to keep her at a distance.
She released a long breath, looking up from her toes to see the grove just ahead. Heaps upon heaps of apples lay on the ground, some still hanging on branches, red and green and thoroughly neglected and bursting to be picked. She plucked one off a low branch.
Firm, sweet, juicy. Heaven. She ate another, leaning back against a lichen-mottled old trunk and watching the clouds parting above.
Perhaps her stepfather would not banish her to Devon forever after all. Perhaps she would go to town as planned, and Serena would dress her up like a lady, and she would attend balls and use the dance steps she’d barely had occasion to practice in Devon. The only occasion she really remembered was when she had danced with a handsome Welshman on the terrace at Savege Park.
She wandered through the grove, searching out the choicest apples. When the bucket was three quarters full she hefted the handle over her elbow, picked an apple to eat during the walk, and started out of the grove. And she saw the man.
Her heartbeat stalled. With broad strides he approached from across the slope toward the road above.
Then her heart simply halted.
As before at the mill, Mr. Eads looked enormous. She was too far away to see his face, but she knew him well enough by his size and shape.
The pistol! She must get to Wyn—tell him—warn him. Flinging down the bucket, she ran. But the stile was distant. She lost a slipper and her foot sank into the soft earth. Her lungs pounded, damp skirts tangled about her calves. She threw back a glance. He was running too and had closed the distance between them by half.
She flew, pressing away terror, her footfalls silent on the moss. She threw herself upon the stile, scrabbled for a handhold, then a foothold, and another, dragging her damp garments up, up. Another step—
He grabbed her cloak. She yanked back, hands slippery on the rock, and flailed. She fell. He caught her, banding both arms about her and hauling her against his massive chest. It was hopeless, but she fought, grunting and pounding his arms with her fists until he trapped them too.
“Yer a mettle lass.” He sounded unperturbed. “But A’m no wishing ta harm ye, so ye can cease yer struggling nou.”
“I shall cease struggling when you unhand me!” She kicked back against his calf and he grunted. His arms were rock. But instead of releasing her, with one big shake he turned her to face him.
“Nou will ye cease struggling?” He looked down at her with a face entirely devoid of menace. His features were strong and good, remarkably attractive really if one liked bulky men that tossed one around like a doll, which Diantha did not. At least not the bulky part. She definitely preferred lean muscle. And Wyn had not precisely tossed her around, rather seized her with purpose. She dearly hoped Mr. Eads’s purpose was not similar to Wyn’s when he’d held her this close.
She made herself stiff in his arms. “I will cease struggling if you will unhand me.”
One dark brow tilted up. “A will if ye’ll no run off again.”
“I would be a perfect imbecile not to run off, wouldn’t I?”
For another moment he studied her like he had at the mill. “A’ve come for ma horse.”
“I suppose you have, but I’ve no doubt you’ve also come for Mr. Yale. But, as before, I shall not allow you to harm him. You will have to tie me up, bind my mouth with a gag and throw me into the shed with the chickens and bolt the door first.” She bit her tongue belatedly. Silly to give him ideas. But her head was muddled. It did not feel good to be hugged to his chest, and she thought she might be ill. It was, she supposed, useful to learn that the embraces of all men were not equally thrilling. “Now unhand me, if you please.”
Astoundingly, he did. She took an unsteady step back and glanced at the house in the distance. His eyes narrowed. Then he moved away from her, climbed over the stile and started toward the house.
She scrambled up the stile. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” She ran to meet his long strides. “You promised!”
“A promised nothing except ta unhand ye.”
“It’s true. But, please, I pray you. I beg you.” She grabbed his arm and tugged with all her strength. “Please! You mustn’t harm him.”
He halted. She slammed into him. He set her away and his brow came down over fixed blue eyes.
“A wonder, miss, why ye would imagine A could harm a man who’s bested me once in yer sight, another out of it, and half a dozen times afore that?”
Her jaw loosened. “I suppose I did not perfectly understand that.”
“What’s amiss with him then?”
“Amiss?” Oh, God. Her foolish tongue. “I don’t understand you. There is nothing amiss with Mr. Yale. It is only that I did not wish you to surprise him.”
“A reckon he’s never been surprised a day in his life.” He crossed his massive arms. “A’m nae a dull-witted man, lass. A’ll have the truth from ye nou, or A’ll be taking more than ma horse with me today.” He scanned her from brow to toe. There was no mistaking the threat. “All the way ta the duke, if A must.”
“The duke?” Could he be speaking of Wyn’s duke?
“His Grace’ll no take kindly ta ye standing in his way.”
Fear clogged her throat; a scream would not come. But even if she were to scream, Wyn could not come and save her. She must save him.
“Mr. Eads,” she said, drawing in steadying breaths. “I will tell you what you wish to know.”
Satisfaction settled upon his square jaw. “Ye will, nou?”
“I will.” She hated to manipulate a man in this manner, but God could not give her a mind that tended toward reckless calculation then fault her for using it for the good of another. “But first I would like to hear about your sister.”
“Rook to Queen four. Check.”
Sunlight streamed across the library onto the chessboard and Owen’s face wreathed in cheroot smoke.
Wyn studied the board. The scent of the smoke relieved the thirst that still dragged at him, though it did nothing to ease the hunger. Each time Diantha entered a room, as she’d entered the kitchen that morning, he could not wrest his attention from her. She moved with unselfconscious grace, erect and tempting and apparently unaware that she dazzled him. Dazzled. She made him hungry as the devil.
He knew it was the lack his body suffered now that made him want her with such intensity. But he also knew that he’d never before been dazzled by a woman.
“You have forgotten my other knight, young friend.” He glanced at the cigar in the dish, the last remaining that he must nurse, as once he’d been able to nurse a glass of brandy. But he had lost that ability. He saw this clearly now. “I urge you to reconsider.”
Owen whistled through his teeth. “It’s a tricky game, sir.”
“You will master it. You possess the natural intelligence.” He slid the black knight across the board. “You also possess a tendency toward defiance of authority that can prove useful for a man.”
The boy shook his head and reached for his rook. “The old girl didn’t mind coming home. But it’s true, sir, I didn’t know someone would need to be milking her.”
“Do you imagine cows drop their milk like one drops a hat?”
“Not now, I don’t. Should’ve learned to milk, I guess.” He studied the board. “Uncle always says a man can’t earn his keep with his head.”
“Mm. I have heard that before.” So many times as a boy he’d lost count. “Your uncle is wrong.”
“Sir?”
Wyn nodded.