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gentleman grinned at the other man's flight. He dusted off his clothes as he turned to the carriage driver. "My thanks, sir." His voice was deep and well-modulated, only a slight slurring indicating his inebriation.
    He turned past the coachman to face Miranda and stopped, his expression one of comical surprise. "A lady!"
    Quickly recovering, he swept her an elegant bow. "My deepest gratitude, madam, for coming to my rescue. You saved my life."
    She had not seen his face clearly before, and now Miranda stared at him, stunned by the jolt of feeling that ran all through her. She was at once breathless, tingling all over, and so giddy she wanted to giggle. The man was undeniably handsome. His thick black hair, tousled from the fight, dangled down over his forehead; that, coupled with the twinkle in his eyes, gave him an undeniably rakish look. His face was strong, with a firm chin and square jaw, and cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut paper. The almost fierce lines of his face were softened, however, by a full, sensual mouth, curved now into a grin, and by the thick black lashes that framed his eyes. He was tall and leanly muscled, his shoulders inside the black evening suit impressively wide. A red mark blazed on his cheek where one of the men had hit him, and blood trickled down from a split lip, but even those marks could not detract from his appeal.
    However, it was not just the fact that he was handsome that made her feel as if she had been hit by a bolt of lightning. She had seen good-looking men before. But never before had she felt that sizzle of excitement, that elemental pull of lust—or the strange, deep connection, as if somehow she knew him. Crazily, the thought that had come into her mind was that this was the man she wanted to marry.
    That, of course, was absurd, she knew. It was just a strange quirk of thought. However, he was certainly intriguing. He was unlike any aristocrat she had met so far in Europe or England. He was as handy with his fists as any man she had met among the trappers in the backwoods, and there was an impish humor that gleamed in his eyes. He was dressed fashionably but with none of the extremes of a dandy, and the admirable set of his clothes on his body owed more to the firmness of his muscles than to the padding of shoulders and legs that she had seen on other gentlemen. Obviously surprised to find that he had been rescued by a woman, he had managed not to spoil his thanks with any remark about the impropriety of her doing so.
    "You seemed handy enough with your fists," she replied, glad to find that her voice came out more casually than she felt.
    "They caught me unaware, however, and, I confess, not at my best." Again the charming smile lit his face, encouraging her to smile back. "I am fortunate that you were gallant enough to stop."
    "I could scarcely drive by when there were three of them to your one,'' Miranda pointed out. “Hardly fair."
    "Indeed. I think that was the idea."
    "Did you know them, sir?" the coachman asked, going over to one of the unconscious men and peering down into his face. "A right vicious-lookin' one, this 'un."
    "No, I've never seen them before." The man shrugged. ' 'No doubt they were simply thieves hiding in wait for the first person to happen by."
    "Not usually an area for thieves," the coachman remarked, glancing around at the expensive houses on both sides of the street.
    "No," the man agreed without much interest. "They must be growing bolder."
    He dusted off his coat again, without much success. "I am afraid my valet will be quite perturbed to see what I have done to his careful work."
    "You are bleeding," Miranda observed, fishing her lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her pocket and stepping forward to wipe away the blood that trickled down from his mouth.
    It was unnerving to stand this close to him. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the liquor on his breath. Miranda looked up into his face. She could not see the color of his eyes in