Page 6

She loathed that her voice trembled, and her hands shook so badly that the basket’s contents rattled like brass buttons in a tin. Truth be told, bravery and courage were not characteristics she possessed in abundance. However, she didn’t typically stammer and trip over her tongue either.

Halting a mere ten feet away, the stranger chuckled and gave the quaking basket a pointed glance. The blasted capricious sun was doing its bloody utmost to blind her and made it impossible to see him clearly.

Yet again, recognition tapped the recesses of Rayne’s mind.

She had seen him before.

Who was he?

One hand clasped at the back of his neck, he dipped his head. The movement pulled his shirt taut across sculpted muscles and brought his face into sharp focus. The sun’s glow cast an iridescent aura around him. He smiled, almost boyishly, revealing a row of even, white teeth.

Of course, he had perfect teeth. The man was practically a Greek god in human form. He put the statues in Griffin’s gardens to shame.

Of its own volition, her attention sank to his groin.

Was he better endowed there than those marble deities as well? She’d always thought their appendages rather inadequate for immortals.

Fire heated her cheeks at her wanton musings, and her focus flew back to his face.

Had he noticed her intimate, highly improper perusal?

Lord.

Rayne almost groaned aloud. Caught ogling a man’s private bits, as brazen as a ladybird or light-skirt. What in God’s precious name had come over her?

A ghost of a smile twitched his mouth the tiniest bit at the corners. Fine lines bracketed those lips and pleated the edges of his eyes as if he smiled often.

He possessed quite a nice mouth.

Probably the pleasantest she’d ever seen on a man.

Nicely shaped, the lips evenly plump—not too thick or thin. The dark stubble covering his jaw reminded her of the swashbuckler she’d read about in one of the romance novels Nicolette Twistleton had secretly given her to read.

To be perfectly honest, dressed as he was, his longish hair shifting as the wind caught it, all he needed was a dashing crimson sash tied at his trim waist, a gold hoop earring, and a large sword to complete his buccaneer persona.

Rayne canted her head, considering him.

Mayhap a black hat with a vibrant purple ostrich feather or two as well.

Have you completely lost your mind, Rayne Evie Leona Wellbrook?

Once more, her stomach toppled over itself when he shook his head, tossing his hair back, and she realized he did indeed have a small gold band hanging from his left ear. As if reading her thoughts, he curved that strong mouth into a full, unfettered smile, transforming him from menacing to breathtakingly beautiful.

Rayne forgot to breathe, and her jaw nearly went slack at the unexpected change in his appearance.

She recognized his kind—confident, carefree scoundrels. Rakehells of the worst sort. Roués and rapscallions. Smoldering temptation fairly oozed off him, and she grudgingly accepted her frenetic heartbeat and hot face mightn’t be blamed entirely on fright.

That unwelcome knowledge shook Rayne to her core. Never before had she experienced this immediate attraction to a man.

In fact, the opposite was generally true. Men—strangers—usually frightened her.

“I dinna think yer wee basket is a verra effective means of protectin’ ye, lass.”

Definitely Scottish.

Humor dripped from each word, his melodic burr rolling over her like a vocal caress. That voice. It did all sorts of unexpected things to her joints, thoughts, and pulse.

He chuckled and, perversely irked, she came back to herself in a rush.

Why, the uncouth brute was laughing at her.

Rayne snatched the useless basket to her chest, and after fumbling beneath the cloth covering the food, her book, and the sketching materials, she found what she sought.

“No, but this is.”

She whipped out the small paring knife she’d intended to use to peel her apple.

Throwing his head back and exposing the thick column of his sun-browned throat, he laughed heartily. Shoulders shaking and hilarity shining in his eyes—striking blue-green eyes the likes of which she’d never seen before—he shook his head. His slightly wavy hair gleamed blue-black where the sun kissed it.

Marine-colored beams roved over her, steady and assessing.

Why was she noticing any of this?

Her virtue—her life—might very well be in peril.

“Lass, ye dinna mean to stab me with that wee thing?”