She popped a fat, sun-warmed berry into her mouth, then reached up to gather more fruit. A stinging sensation on her arm halted her. Looking down, she discovered blackberry briars clinging to the sleeve of her dress. She pursed her lips at her carelessness and twisted slightly so her other hand could free the delicate fabric and save it from harm. Her turning tugged and raised her skirts. She glanced down at the blue-and-red patterned muslin dress and bit back a cry of dismay. With chagrin, she realized what her impetuous foray into reaching the topmost berries had accomplished. She was caught in brambles,and every move she made caused thorns to sink deeper into the fine muslin fabric. Freeing herself would be a slow, laborious process; else the dress would be reduced to tatters.
Muttering and calling herself every kind of fool, she carefully set the basket of berries down and began to work free her captured sleeve.
“Madam. I am aware the philosopher Montaigne wrote that the path of true virtue demands a rough and thorny road; nonetheless, I do not believe one need take the man’s words quite so literally.”
Jane started and looked toward the owner of the deep, sardonic drawl. She found herself staring up at a gentleman dressed in the first style of fashion, seated casually astride a large bay horse. Her cheeks stained a deep pink. Several thoughts sailed through her beleaguered brain: first was amazement that she had not heard the animal approach; second, that she should be found in so embarrassing a plight; and all the rest centered on the unknown gentleman and the sudden riotous trembling in her limbs. The last so dismayed her that she abruptly drew cold dignity about her like a cloak and disciplined her wayward nerves. Only a faint tinge of high color remained in her cheeks when she finally met his amused gaze and raised one black brow in arrogant inquiry.
“Tall, graceful, black hair, blood-freezing glare. . ." the man murmured. "Ah! I have it now. You’re the Ice Witch!”
He swung easily out of the saddle, missing the brief spasm of pain that twisted Jane’s features. He led his horse over to a sapling, tying the reins to its sturdy trunk. By the time he turned to face Jane, she had marshaled her emotions, and her face once again held the cool, expressionless mask.
“I take it I have the dubious honor of addressing the Earl of Royce?”
“Miss Grantley, you disappoint me. I would have thought you would have returned like for like.”
Jane repressed a smile. "By that, I gather I should have addressed you as the Devil’s Disciple?"
“Since we have not been formally introduced, the use of informal names seems fitting, does it not?”
His gaze held hers, his eyes so dark they reminded her of night and the wild creatures that roamed in its sheltering darkness. She had never seen the man before, but she felt she would have known him even if she hadn’t been forewarned of his presence in the neighborhood.
He was not a handsome man. His face was tautly lean, with high cheekbones and a fierce blade of a nose. Lines of world-weariness bracketed those haunting midnight eyes as well as his firm, thin-lipped mouth. His marsh-brown hair was cut unfashionably short, with silver lights glinting at the temples and other touches threading its thick depths. No, he was not a handsome man, but there was that within him that would turn a woman’s head no matter her age or station in life. The Devil’s Disciple. He was well named. She shivered involuntarily. Her gaze slid away.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not agree with you,” she said, cool dismissal in her voice. She directed her attention back to the thorns holding her captive, though she was only too aware of the man's tall, lean presence.
His deep answering laugh made her want to gnash her teeth, though she did not sigh perturbation. It was a restraint perfected in her days of uncertainty that she found useful. Few people knew that the confidence she possessed was not carried from birth.
“Confess, Miss Grantley. You are not sorry at all.”
She looked up at him then, hauteur shimmering in the hint of a smile she bestowed on him. "You have such a ready understanding, my lord, that my words are superfluous.”
He gave a wry smile and bowed elegantly, in a manner that somehow belied the courtesy of the action. Instinctively he admired this tall, slender woman who stood at her ease as if in the middle of a ballroom rather than caught in a blackberry patch. Her piquant face was featured too sharply for beauty, with its thin, straight nose, defiant chin, and prominent cheekbones. Her most arresting feature was the pair of slanting silver-green eyes that held speculation, intelligence, and coolness in their depths. Meeting her, he now understood the sobriquet Ice Witch, the name bandied by gentlemen who felt her cool green gaze. It was, however, a false description. She was not all cold female arrogance. She was filled with a quiet, yet intractable, womanly self-confidence. She didn’t give a damn about him. Neither his title nor his reputation affected her. He’d met men with a similar self-assurance, but never a woman. He granted she was not his typical flirt; nonetheless, he felt a perverse desire to shake her out of her complacency and see passion melt her green-ice gaze.
“Seeing you standing there thus, Miss Grantley, I find I am consumed with a desire alien to my nature. I would play knight gallant to your damsel in distress.” He paused to stroke his chin with one tan-gloved hand."I am awed by the novelty.”
Jane bristled."I assure you, my lord, I would not have you do anything untoward. It might be too damaging to your sensibilities.”
“Oh, you may rest assured on that note, my dear, for I have none,” he returned languidly.
Jane compressed her lips to keep from laughing at his sallies. It would not do to encourage this man, and she was confident that any relaxation of her guard would do so.
“Now, let us see how badly Mother Nature wishes you rooted to this spot,” he said, striding to her side and bending down to reach the brambles entangling her skirt.
His large hands had a surprisingly light touch as they gently worked her skirt free from the grasping thorns without damage to the fabric. Jane scarcely dared breathe with him standing so close to her; his light touch was somehow too intimate. When he was done and stood up, a deep sigh escaped her. She smiled at him.
“Thank you. Oh!” she screeched, as he swept her off her feet and into his arms."What are you doing? Put me down! How dare you!” She kicked her feet, squirming frantically against his rock-hard form. Her struggles only served to tighten his grip.
He laughed at her quick anger. "Calm down, you little witch. I am only assuring myself that my handiwork is not for naught,” he said, smiling easily, his dark eyes glinting with devil’s fire. Privately he congratulated himself on piercing the wall of her icy reserve.
He set her down by the side of the road, his hands moving up slowly, decisively, to cup her slender shoulders.
The pulse in her neck began to jump, and she stared bemusedly up at him, caught between indignation and strange excitement.
“And now I claim my right to reward,” he murmured, his voice low and resonant.
“I beg your par?—”
Her haughty words were lost in a searing kiss, his fingers tightening about her shoulders as he claimed his prize. Jane, too stunned to resist, bobbed adrift in a wild sea of sensations. When at last he let her go, she staggered backward, her cheeks flaming. But she was the mistress of herself, and though her eyes glittered, her manner was cold, clothed in a mantle of aloof dignity.
