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the countryside, Captain.” Her lips curled in a devilish smile. “You are not what I expected. I mean, you have been so very nice. The Beau is an infamous rakehell, a wanton gambler, a knave who preys upon women, a—”
    “Perhaps we should finish this discussion elsewhere,”he interrupted before the wide-eyed twins could absorb any more of her picturesque description. “And allow the children their rest.”
    She glanced down at the avid listeners and nodded her assent.
    “Griggs, please keep watch until I return,” he said.
    “Sure enough, Captain,” the sergeant replied.
    Marcus blew out the lantern, leaving the stable in darkness, and followed Miss Sheringham outside into the moonlight. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and he took a deep breath of fresh air, suddenly aware of how stifling the barn had been.
    Miss Sheringham did not stop outside the stable, but kept walking down the rutted country lane that led away from the White Ball Inn. A swirl of wind rustled the lilac bushes that edged the meandering road, while the moonlight made long shadows of their figures as Marcus increased his pace to catch up to her.
    She had tucked her hair back up inside her hat before she left the barn, and as he watched her walk, he realized her strides were long enough, and determined enough, to fool an unobservant eye into believing she was a man.
    He was all too aware she was not.
    She reached a stone-edged well and began drawing a bucketful of water. Without speaking, he crossed to her side and helped. By the time he set the bucket of water on the edge of the well, she had a handkerchief in her hand, and he realized what she meant to do.
    “Let me,” he said.
    Her eyes searched his face, and he tried to look trustworthy, not an easy feat for an avowed rake.
    “Very well,” she said at last.
    He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. He reached for the precisely tied neck cloth, but paused when she stiffened.
    “May I?” he asked.
    She relaxed, then nodded.
    His eyes held her gaze as he slowly untied the neck cloth that held the stiffly starched collar points upright. Then he unbuttoned the first two buttons and peeled aside the fine lawn cloth to expose her slender throat. He felt her quiver as his fingertips brushed her flesh.
    “Steady,” he said, as much for his own benefit as for hers.
    He put his fingertips under her chin to turn her head to one side, so he could see the wound he had made with his knife. In the moonlight, he could see where blood had seeped from the small cut and was soaked up by her shirt.
    “The wound is not deep,” he said. “But it should be cleaned.”
    With a shaky hand, she offered him the handkerchief. “Would you mind?”
    He felt her moist breath on his hands, the soft brush of her fingertips as he accepted the cloth from her.
    “Please be gentle,” she whispered.
    Something about her voice, the low, gravelly sound of it, made his body tighten. His pulse quickened. His breathing harshened.
    Marcus struggled to leash his growing desire. Heknew his excitement rose partly from the fact these circumstances were unlike anything in his former experience with a woman. The only wounds he had tended were on soldiers during the heat of battle. And though he had disrobed more females than he cared to count, none of them had been standing in the moonlight wearing gentleman’s garb.
    He wondered if Miss Sheringham felt the same sensual hunger he did. He wondered if she would let him kiss her.
    He realized she was staring right back at him. There was no timidity, no coyness or shyness or any of the things he might have expected from a well-bred English lady. Her lambent eyes revealed her sharpened awareness of him. But there was no invitation in those shining golden orbs to carry the situation further.
    He realized he liked her better for her honesty, for letting him see exactly what she was feeling, even if she had no intention of acting upon those feelings.
    He dipped the