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“Are you ready?” she whispered. At Simon’s right, Sam nodded enthusiastically. At his left, Isla smiled. “Very well. On the count of three.”

Simon listened as she counted down, marveling at how far she’d come under Martha’s tutelage. He was quite sure that if they’d been playing this game a fortnight ago, Isla would have used the word okay rather than very well. Now, however, the vocabulary he was familiar with flowed naturally from her.

Her counting ended, and in unison, he, Isla, and Sam chanted, “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”

On the other end of the lawn, Will stood with his back to them.

“Six o’clock,” the little boy yelled without turning around.

Simon, Isla, and Sam took six steps toward him.

“Again,” Isla whispered.

“What time is it, Mr. Wolf?” they cried in chorus.

“Twelve o’clock!” Will yelled.

Simon grinned. Will was playing with fire. Simon’s stride was considerably longer than the others, and another twelve paces would have him within three arm lengths of the boy.

The trio took the obligatory twelve steps, then said again, “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”

Will must have sensed that Simon was nearby, and he was ready. “Dinnertime!” the little boy cried, swinging around and lunging for Simon.

With a squeal of laughter, Isla and Sam ran for safety. Simon pivoted, darted right, and then slowed his steps just enough to give Will a chance to catch him. His nephew made a wily wolf, but he deserved a turn on the other side of the game Isla had taught them.

“I caught you, Uncle Simon!” Will lunged for Simon’s left leg and wrapped his arms around it.

“Ah!” Simon feigned distress. “I am the wolf’s dinner!”

Will giggled, and from the safety of the other side of the lawn, Isla’s and Sam’s laughter reached him.

“You’re it, Uncle Simon!” Sam called. “You’re the wolf now!”

Conceding defeat at Will’s hands, Simon took his place at the far side of the lawn, with his back to the others.

Moments later, the chant began again. “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”

“Eight o’clock,” he replied, angling his head slightly so as to listen for the gentle swish of Isla’s skirts.

They repeated the chant three more times before Simon caught the rustle of fabric at his right. She was close, and when they asked the question again, he was ready.

“Dinnertime!” he called, swiveling around as the other three scattered.

Isla had lifted the front of her gown a couple of inches and was racing across the grass. She was unbelievably fast, but Simon was undeterred. Lengthening his stride, he tore after her, closing the gap between them in seconds. She spun on her heels, dashing right. Adjusting his direction, he followed after her. She turned her head to glance over her shoulder. The slight movement was enough to check her speed, and moments later, Simon’s arms were around her.

“Caught you!” he panted. “You, Miss Isla Crawford, are it!”

With winded laughter, she spun to face him. “Well raced, Lord Wolf.”

He laughed, his arms around her still. “If it weren’t for my longer stride, you would have beaten me across the lawn.”

Her blue eyes sparkled. “I was close.”

She was close. To the edge of the lawn, certainly, but more to the point, she was pressed against him and had yet to pull away. His gaze dropped from her captivating eyes to her upturned mouth. Heaven help him. She surely had no idea how much he wished to touch the lock of hair that had fallen from her pins or run his fingers across her soft skin, or kiss her enticing lips. He took a steadying breath.

“Simon?” She lifted her arms to place her hands on his chest.

“A carriage is coming!” One of the boys called out a warning, and the other took it up.