His men were beginning to ask questions.
He’d been called many things over the years.
Wicked. Arrogant. Ambitious.
Never obsessed.
He’d never stalked a woman’s movements.
Never dreamed of one in his bed.
All this talk of vengeance and murder had left himunhinged. Any man would feel unsettled after being named a suspect in a crime. His preoccupation with her likely amounted to nothing more than guilt.
But guilt didn’t usually make a man hard.
This was need, plain and punishing.
He wanted to strip her out of those dusty clothes, silence her clever mouth with his own, and bury himself between her soft thighs.
He’d punch his own face, but his men already thought him half mad. Gouging his eyes wouldn’t help. She lived in his head now, haunting its dark chambers at night, humming that sweet little song.
He had no defence against her, not even in his own mind.
And what in blazes was she doing now?
He pressed closer to the window.
Miss Harland was outside, dressed in old breeches and a gentleman’s shirt. He’d shoot Ramsey if they belonged to him, but the garments hadn’t been stylish since before the dawn of Waterloo.
She disappeared behind the cottage and returned with a wheelbarrow. He watched her slide her hands into leather gloves as if they were fine silk, then kneel and sift pebbles from the soil.
Was this what he’d driven her to?
Manual labour?
He’d pictured her naked on his bed, draped in diamonds.
Now she was elbow-deep in dirt.
She took up a spade and dug.
Where the hell was Ramsey?
Unable to watch, he marched out of the coach house—nearly broke into a sprint—then slowed to a languid stroll the moment she looked up.
“I didn’t realise you had a fondness for gardening, Miss Harland.”
She stood, brushing dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not surefondis the right word, Mr Hawke. But there is something immensely satisfying about tackling a project.”
He felt another flicker of admiration.
“I assumed Ramsey was helping you.”
She tugged off her gloves. Her knuckles were red. “He was beginning to fall behind with his own work. And I’d asked too much of him already.”
He hated Ramsey, he decided.
“Have you come to survey my work?” She met his gaze. “Mr Ramsey thought you’d be satisfied with everything I’ve done so far. That you’d have no complaints.”
