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He made a harsh sound in the back of his throat.

“The same pampered ladies who lift their noses and turn their backs in public are only too happy to sneak into my bed and spread their perfumed thighs. They moan their pleasure as I take them, begging for more. Never fear. Django knows how to please a woman.”

His voice had grown gruffer, and something hard nudged Ophelia’s bottom.

Dear God.

Was she about to be ravished?

All because her curiosity had led her astray?

Please, God. Help me, and I swear I’ll never be imprudent again. That is, I’ll try not to be, Ophelia quickly amended, not wanting to lie to the Almighty and knowing herself too well.

Renewing her struggles, she jerked her head back, trying to connect with her abductor’s chin. Stinging tears filled her eyes as he yanked her hair.

“Stop that. Why do you struggle so? I am only giving you what you wanted, sweetheart.”

All the while, the stupid bird squawked and screeched.

A movement beyond the trees sent Ophelia’s heart stampeding with hope.

Stanford.

“Ophelia,” Stanford roared, dropping the mugs he’d been carrying and sprinting toward her. His hat flew off his raven head as he raced in her direction. Fury slashed his brows together, and pure menace etched his face.

Django spotted Stanford too.

“Unhand my betrothed,” Stanford shouted. “I’ll kill you for touching her.”

“Khul,” Django spat with such ferocity that Ophelia had no doubt he’d said something vulgar. “Shit, see what you have done, witch?”

He released her, shoving her hard so that she stumbled and fell to her knees and hands.

Ophelia cried out as stones cut into her skin. Her hair fell in great tangles to her shoulders and flopped forward, the ends brushing the dirt. She had no doubt she looked like a woman thoroughly compromised.

Oh, God. In Society’s eyes, she was compromised.

“I pity you, English,” Django scoffed. “She’s a frigid wench. I’m fortunate my bollocks didn’t freeze off swiving her.”

Scorching chagrin heated Ophelia’s face at his crudity and the horrendous implication of his slur.

“Shut your filthy mouth, you unworthy cur,” Stanford snarled, baring his teeth.

Django might be a champion wrestler, but given the fury fairly radiating off Stanford, Ophelia wouldn’t wager the gypsy would win a fight between the two men.

Evidently, Django surmised the same. With a crude gesture and a mocking laugh, he took off. His heavy footfalls echoed through the now eerily silent woods.

The blasted annoying bird had finally shut up.

Struggling to rise, Ophelia winced as her stinging hands and knees objected. She glanced down, not surprised to see blood staining her white gloves. When she looked up again, her heart vaulted to her throat.

Stanford bore down upon her, his face ravaged with murderous fury.

She fell backward onto her bottom, throwing an arm up to shield herself from his wrath.

“No,” she cried.

Astonishment and then hurt skittered across his features when he realized she feared him. Behind him, several other people ran into the copse.