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black hair into unkempt disarray.
    A strange and unsettling tension stirred inside Annabelle. Never in her life had she stood so close to any man, let alone one so hostile. He could overpower her if he chose, so she let her glare convey the message that she would not go down without a fight.
    He abruptly loosened his grip and withdrew his hand. “I will have your name. You’re trespassing on my land.”
    She blinked. His land? How could that be? The duke was only eight years old. “Doesn’t this property belong to His Grace of Kevern?”
    The stranger gave a curt nod. “He’s my nephew.”
    Realization flooded Annabelle with chagrin. This rude, scruffy man was none other than Lord Simon Westbury. He was the young duke’s guardian—and her employer. Although it galled her, she had to ignore his discourtesy or risk losing her position here before she’d even begun.
    “I’m Miss Annabelle Quinn,” she said, extending her gloved hand. “You must be Lord Simon. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    His harshly handsome features radiated suspicion. He frowned at her fingers until she drew them back. “So you know who I am,” he said on a note of irony. “Whatever it is you’re peddling, I’m not interested. Now, get along with you.”
    Turning on his heel, he strode away toward the castle.
    Peddling? Why would he think her a traveling peddler when she carried no goods?
    Baffled, Annabelle hastened after him. “Did you not receive a letter from Lady Milford? It should have arrived a few days ago.”
    He stopped, his scornful gaze raking her from head to toe. “Why would Clarissa send you here? If she’s matchmaking again, she ought to have had the good grace to choose a more likely prospect.”
    What an utter boor! He would benefit from a lesson in manners. Not, of course, that she dared to tell him so.
    Annabelle gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “It appears you don’t know, my lord. I’m to be the duke’s new governess.”
    Lord Simon’s scowl deepened. “The devil you say! The boy already has a tutor … Blast it all!”
    As if in reprimand for his cursing, the heavens opened and the storm unleashed its full fury. Cold sheets of water drenched them. Annabelle raised her arms in a futile attempt to shield herself. The hard driving rain instantly blurred her vision and chilled her to the bone.
    “Damned beast of a gust,” he muttered. His brawny arm clamped around her back as he propelled her toward the castle. Hampered by her sodden skirts and buffeted by the wind, Annabelle struggled to keep up. All of a sudden, Lord Simon grabbed her like a sack of flour and pinned her close to his side while plowing swiftly through the storm.
    The radiant heat of his body enveloped her. Of their own volition, her arms latched onto him. She instinctively turned her face to the protection of his shoulder in an effort to avoid the buckets pouring down from the sky.
    His strides long and effortless, Lord Simon carried her through the torrent. She let herself be borne along by the immutable force of his strength. A part of her was scandalized by the way she was plastered against his muscled body. But the need to reach shelter prevailed over maidenly modesty.
    He followed close to the castle perimeter, rounded the corner, and bypassed a massive iron gate. Blinking away the droplets, she noticed he was heading toward the cliff. The rush of waves on the rocks below penetrated the drumming of the rain. For one horrifying instant she feared he meant to toss her over the precipice and into the sea.
    She struggled against him. “No—”
    Water sluicing down his face, he grimaced at her. His lips moved, but whatever he said was lost to the banshee cry of the wind. He shouldered open a small wooden door in the gray stone wall and stepped inside out of the downpour. At once, he unceremoniously released her.
    Annabelle stood dripping in the tunnellike passageway. Rubbing her arms, she shivered from the loss of his