Page 4

Shrieking, Rayne spun around and clutched the basket to her chest, certain her hammering heart was about to break through her breastbone.

Searching the shadows cast by the abundant overgrown trees and unattended shrubberies, her frantic gaze landed on a tall—very tall—figure several feet away. Her pulse ran rampant, scrambling through her veins as surprise and shock momentarily rendered her mute.

Good Lord.

The brute had frightened the starch out of her, ambushing her reactions and her tongue. A tidal wave of unmitigated alarm engulfed her. Why, her knees actually trembled, so startled was she. Summoning her shaken composure, she attempted to look unaffected and not like a guilty trespasser caught completely off-guard.

Which, in point of fact, was precisely what she was.

“Yes, but I prefer yellow roses,” she managed, her voice quivering.

Why must songs always be about red roses?

Not everyone fancied that passionate shade.

And why in God’s holy name was her mind rambling on about such nonsensical claptrap when an enormous man with shoulder-length hair as black as a moonless midnight stood with one knee bent, his big hands splayed on lean buckskin-clad hips, and calmly regarded her.

“Och.”

A single syllable. Nothing more.

At her continued gaping, his lips slowly tipped up wolfishly. That was the only way to describe the upturned, confident, predatory sweep of his mouth. He was, she had to admit despite her discomfit, quite the most perfect display of masculinity she’d ever seen.

Most perfect indeed.

Her usual trepidation at seeing any man in a state of partial dishabille escaped her.

Black hair covered this man’s muscled forearms, exposed by shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a tantalizing peek of more crisp raven hair. Indeed, he looked every bit as beautiful and feral as the grounds surrounding them. These gardens provided a perfect backdrop for his rugged, untamed appearance.

Who was he?

Why was he here?

Perhaps he was a newly hired gardener. In which case, that meant someone was likely taking up residence, and her surreptitious forays to this secret hideaway must cease.

Her heart plunked to her shoes, where it wallowed in abject disappointment and self-pity.

Rayne scarcely had a moment to contemplate this most unsatisfactory turn of events before the man—Scots she presumed from his lyrical accent—prowled toward her. And even though her heart thumped as frantically as a caged bird behind her ribs and her mouth had gone as dry as the stale bread she’d tossed Theopolis, she couldn’t help but notice the stranger’s sleek, sinewy, male grace as he advanced.

This was no dandified lord who padded his garments.

Oh, God.

Mayhap he wasn’t a gardener after all but a vagrant.

Or a criminal.

Or…or worse.

She swallowed against another surge of dread. She despised being timid and fearful—a quaking, quivering little mouse.

Squinting, she tried to make out his features.

Unfortunately, she was looking into the sun, and a very annoying sunbeam seemed determined to shine directly in her eyes.

Had he noticed the house was vacant and taken it upon himself to dwell there?

She’d heard of the many homeless people inhabiting London, but to brazenly move into a house in this elite neighborhood was certain to garner attention.