at him, speaking to her with his voice only a few inches from her ears, bending his head so that she could see him despite the darkness.
She did not know him.
His exhilaration and boldness grew as he dismissed the men and sent them on their way home. It had been a brief encounter. What if it were a longer encounter and at even closer quarters? He had been careful about detail. He had even made sure that he did not wear his usual cologne and that none of it lingered on any of the clothes he wore beneath Rebecca’s robes. But was there a detail he had neglected, one that would betray him?
It was something he did not need to put to the test. It was something it might be dangerous to put to the test. And even if he could deceive her, it would perhaps be unfair to do so. She hated him with very good reason.
But temptation was something he had never been able to resist as a boy, and the years of discretion that had intruded since that time had fallen away in the course of the night. The more daring an enterprise, the more likely he had been to try it as a child. It was a miracle he had never come to any grief more painful than that blistering spanking he had had at the hands of one of the gardeners at Tegfan.
He leaned down again and touched Marged on the shoulder.
And talked her into riding with him.
And watched the men disappear into the darkness on their way home, trying to calm his breathing as he did so. He had no excuse to be breathless. He had not participated in the exertions of the last half hour.
But he was beginning to realize that perhaps he had made a mistake. His arms, bracketing her body though not quite touching her, burned with her body heat. His thigh felt singed where it rested against her knee. He could smell ashes and sweat and woman—an unbearably erotic perfume.
Marged. Ah, Marged.
“Where do you live, my daughter?” he asked her.
It was incredibly difficult to turn her head sideways and look into his eyes when she was this close to him. They were light eyes, gray or blue—it was impossible to tell which. He looked even more solid from close to, even larger than life. And strangely masculine despite the grotesque woman’s garb and the mask.
“On a farm beyond Glynderi and Tegfan park,” she said. “Do you know the area?”
“I know it,” he said. “When we have passed the village you must direct me to the correct farm.”
“Oh,” she said, realizing his intent, “you must not take me all the way home. It is late and I would not take you out of your way.”
“Ah, but it would be my pleasure,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Marged Evans,” she said. Sitting sideways on a moving horse was not easy. She had never done a great deal of riding. He must have sensed the fact. His right arm came firmly about her waist, and she felt instantly safe.
“Well, Marged Evans,” he said, “perhaps as you said earlier, there were other women out tonight, but I did not see them. Why did you come? It was strenuous and dangerous business.”
“I do a man’s job at home,” she said. “I run a farm. My mother-in-law looks after the house and milks the cows and does some of the work in the dairy, but I do everything else. I do not shrink from hard work.”
“Where is your husband?” he asked.
“Dead.” The horse was moving upward into the hills and was throwing her balance sideways. She tried to stay upright, but her shoulder touched his chest and then pressed heavily against it. And his arm held her against him. She had not been mistaken. He was very solidly male.
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly, and she felt that he meant it. She felt warmed by his sympathy. “You came out, then, to prove that you are any man’s equal?”
She chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. I had to come. I have the same grievances as everyone else. I also have a personal grievance.”
“Ah,” he said, and his arm tightened as his horse scrambled over uneven ground. She lost the battle with her neck muscles and her head came to rest on his shoulder among the blond ringlets of his wig. “Is it also a private grievance?”