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wrong?”
    “Your hair. It is red and gold.”
    “My hair’s not red. It’s blond and when the sun—” She frowned. “Why am I even talking to you about this? I don’t even know your name.”
    “You haven’t told me yours, either,” he said in a reasonable tone.
    She hadn’t, and for some reason she was loath to do so. She reached for her hat, wincing as she moved.
    Instantly he pressed her back to the ground. “Do not move. I shall call for my men and—”
    “No, I don’t need any help.”
    “You should have had a groom with you,” he said, disapproval in his rich voice. “Beautiful women should not wander the woods alone.”
    Beautiful? Me? She flushed. It was odd, but the thought pleased her far more than it should have. Perhaps because she thought he was beautiful as well.
    “In my country you would not be riding about the woods without protection.”
    “A groom wouldn’t have kept my horse from becoming startled.”
    “No, but it would have kept you from being importuned by a stranger.”
    She had to smile at the irony of his words. “A stranger like you?”
    The stranger’s brows rose. “Ah. You think I am being—what is the word? Forward?”
    “Yes.”
    “But you are injured—”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “You were thrown from a horse and are upon the ground. I call that ‘injured.’ ” His brows locked together. “Am I using the word ‘injured’ correctly?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Then do not argue. You are injured and I will help you.”
    Do not argue? Goodness, he was high-handed. She sat upright, even though it brought her closer to this huge boulder of a man. “I don’t suppose you have a name?”
    “I am Piotr Romanovin of Oxenburg. It is a small country beside Prussia.”
    The country’s name seemed familiar. “There was a mention of Oxenburg in The Morning Post just a few days ago.”
    “My cousin Nikki, he is in London. Perhaps he is in the papers.” The stranger rubbed a hand over his bearded chin, the golden light filtering from the trees dancing over his black hair. “You can sit up, but not stand. Not until we know you are not broken.”
    “I’m not broken,” she said sharply. “I’m just embarrassed that I fell off my horse.”
    A glimmer of humor shone in the green eyes. “You fell asleep, eh?”
    She fought the urge to return the smile. “No, I did not fall asleep. A fox frightened my horse, which caused it to rear. And then it ran off.”
    His gaze flickered to her boots and he frowned. “No wonder you fell. Those are not good riding boots.”
    “These? They’re perfectly good boots.”
    “Not if a horse bolts. Then you need some like these.” He slapped the side of his own boots, which had a thicker and taller heel.
    “I’ve never seen boots like those.”
    “That is because you English do not really ride, you with your small boots. You just perch on top of the horse like a sack of grain and—”
    “I’m not English; I’m a Scot,” she said sharply. “Can’t you tell from my accent?”
    “English or Scot.” He shrugged. “Is there so much difference?”
    “Oh! Of course there’s a difference! I—”
    He threw up a hand. “I don’t know if it’s because you are a woman or because you are a Scot, but thus far, you’ve argued with everything I’ve said. This, I do not like.”
    She frowned. “As a Scot, I dislike being ordered about, and as a woman, I can’t imagine that you know more about my state of well-being than I do.”
    His eyes lit with humor. “Fair enough. You cannot be much injured, to argue with such vigor.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come. Let us see if you can stand.”
    She placed her hand in his. As her rescuer pulled her to her feet, one of her curls came free from her braid and fell to her shoulder.
    She started to tuck it away, but his hand closed over the curl first. Slowly, he threaded her hair through his fingers, his gaze locking with hers. “Your hair is like the sunrise.”
    And his eyes