Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,4

to hunt the bonny black hare”

The voice was closer now, the song sung lustily and without any self-consciousness. She obviously did not realize she was not alone. Nash tried to clear his throat as her voice came closer, but she was singing too loudly to hear.

“I laid this girl down with her face to the sky

I took out me ramrod, me bullets likewise

Saying, Wrap your legs round me, dig in with your heels

For the closer we get, O, the better it feels”

Nash was still now, wanting to hear the rest of the song. He’d heard the bawdy song many times in one tavern or another, but never sung with such abandon or enthusiasm. Indeed, on that last line, she had belted out, “For the closer we get, O, the better it feels.”

“The birds, they were singing in the bushes and trees

And the song that they sang was”

“Oh!”

Her singing had ended abruptly, and Nash realized she’d seen him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Nay, it was more of a demand. As though she owned this garden, and he were the one encroaching. Nash tried to stand up straight and turn his face toward the sound of her voice. She was on the other side of the brook, as near he could calculate, possibly on the other side of the footbridge.

“I think the better question, miss, is what you are doing on my land and how quickly you can leave. Unless you fancy a charge of trespassing, that is.”

Two

Prudence Howard stared at the man standing by the side of the brook, sunk to the ankles in thick mud. He had wild black hair that swept over his forehead and covered one eye. The visible eye was a lovely blue. If she had been feeling poetic—and she was almost always feeling poetic—she would have called it the blue of the sky before a storm. Or perhaps she thought of storms because his handsome face held a rather stormy expression at the moment.

“Good afternoon,” she called, hoping to see him smile. He was obviously a gentleman. His clothing was of fine quality, though somewhat ill-fitting, as if he had lost weight recently. Her eyes traveled over the rest of him, noting that he was pale as well as thin. Perhaps he had recently been ill.

“Good afternoon?” He scowled, obviously not appreciating her perusal of him. Admittedly, her behavior was rude. Mr. Higginbotham was always chastising her to be less forward and more demure.

Her eyes landed on his mud-covered ankles again and his ebony walking stick, also mired in mud. “Do you need some assistance?” she asked.

“Assistance?” he all but exploded. “I do not need assistance. What I need is for you to get off my land. I will have you charged with trespassing and fined accordingly.”

Oh, my. What a temper! Pru started across the footbridge, wondering how she could assist him and manage not to get stuck herself. “Don’t be silly,” she said as she walked.

He jolted as though something had bit him. Were there snakes in the mud? She dearly hoped not. She had an affinity for all of God’s creatures, but she did wish God had been less creative when it came to snakes and spiders.

“Silly?” he asked, sounding as though he were in pain now.

“Yes. How can anyone trespass here?” She laughed. “It’s nature and beauty, and no one can own nature or beauty.”

He was tracking her movements, though not really looking at her directly. She imagined she looked quite a fright. She was one to speak of beauty when she had always been as plain as the day was long.

“I have news for you, miss. Someone can and does own this part of nature and beauty. And that someone is me.”

She reached the other end of the footbridge and looked down at the slippery bank beneath. “Oh, you must be the Earl of...” She couldn’t remember which earl it was. “The earl who owns that lovely but dilapidated old house.”

“Wentmore.”

“Yes. It’s simply criminal how you have allowed it to languish in such a decrepit state. But also romantic.” She sighed. “On a moonlit night, the place looks almost haunted but also lonely and forlorn. Was that how you wanted it to appear? Are you a reader of gothic novels? Mr. Higginbotham disapproves mightily of gothic novels, but I confess I cannot read enough of them.”

He stared at her with that one stormy blue eye. “Who are you?” he demanded.

She gave a sweeping curtsy. “Miss Prudence Howard, at your service.