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chopped wood with the ease of a man used to accomplishing the task, his muscles moving smoothly through the motions. For a moment, Amelia allowed herself to enjoy the sight of his muscled body and the scent of warm man rising from his skin.
    “Marco?”
    He swung around so fast, the axe raised to strike that she instinctively threw up her hand to protect her face.
    “Mrs. Smith!” He dropped the axe on the ground between them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Are you all right?”
    She took in a much-needed breath, her hands clutched to her chest. “I wanted to make sure you came inside before it started raining more heavily.”
    He glanced up at the leaden skies and shivered. “I didn’t realize.”
    “I’d hate it if you caught a chill.”
    He nodded and retrieved the axe and saw. “I’ll just put these away and I’ll come in.”
    She gestured at his naked chest. “You might wish to put your shirt on before Dotty sees you.”
    “I took it off because I didn’t want to damage the fabric while I chopped the wood.” He rubbed one hand over his sternum. “I apologize if I offended you.”
    “You don’t need to apologize to me, I have been married.” Amelia turned away before she gave into the temptation to touch him. “I think we’re in for a stormy afternoon so please don’t linger out here.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Smith.”
    She practically ran back along the path, tripping over her skirts in her haste to distance herself from a perfectly healthy half-dressed man—who couldn’t even remember his own name.
    “I am a terrible woman,” she whispered to herself as she pushed open the back door and went into the kitchen where Cook and Dotty were preparing the midday meal.
    “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Dotty said cheerfully.
    “Nothing.” Amelia put down her basket. “Mrs. Shaw had some jars of lemon curd, so I got one and gave her a jar of honey in return.”
    “Then I can make some tarts.” Cook looked almost approving.
    The back door creaked, and Amelia fled into the hallway and up the stairs to her bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on her dressing table and considered her wild-eyed appearance.
    The problem of having once been married and having enjoyed all the privileges of a naked man in her bed made not having one hard to bear. She missed having a man’s skin to touch, his mouth to kiss, his… With a groan, she took off her bonnet and shawl and put them away.
    She had washed every inch of Marco, tended to his wounds, held a basin for him when he’d retched, and yet seeing him standing there in her garden without his shirt on had stirred feelings within her that she had assumed had died with Matthew. And now she felt grubby and disloyal.
    Had Marco guessed how she was feeling? She clapped her hands to her cheeks and realized they were hot. She prayed he hadn’t seen the blatant interest in her eyes. It would be mortifying if she’d made him feel ill at ease in her company. Amelia sank down on the side of her bed and took off her muddy boots.
    After Matthew’s death, some of his colleagues had offered to bed her, explaining that it was a well-known fact that a young widow would be grateful for any man’s attention when her own man was dead. She’d calmly and politely declined all such invitations, disguising her inner horror at the thought of ever touching another man again. And yet here she was, lovingly recreating in her mind the image of Marco swinging the axe down through the wood…
    “Enough of this, Amelia Smith!”
    She jumped to her feet, washed her face in cold water and put on her slippers. She would not prove all those men right and become one of those women who was willing to do anything simply to have a man inside her again. She would not.
    Anyway, she was far too managing and plain to attract another man. Holding her head high, she unlocked the door and sailed down the stairs into the kitchen