Honoria's petticoat slithered down her bare legs. "Unfortunately not," she replied repressively. Stepping free, she swiped up her offering and stalked back across the lane.

He shrugged. "Ah, well-I can't say I'm a fan of them myself."

The vision his words conjured up was ridiculous. Then Honoria's wits clicked into place. The look she cast him as she dropped to her knees should have blistered him; it was wasted-his gaze was trained on the wounded man's face. Inwardly humphing, Honoria ascribed the salacious comment to ingrained habit.

Folding the petticoat, she combined it with the shirt; he removed his hand, and she applied the thick pad over her earlier insignificant one.

"Leave the sleeves hanging. I'll lift him-then you can reach under and tie them tight."

Honoria, wondered how even he would cope with the long, heavy weight of their unconscious charge. Amazingly well was the answer; he hefted the body and straightened in one fluid movement. She scrambled to her feet. He held the youth against his chest; with one sleeve in her hand she ducked and felt about for the other. Her searching fingertips brushed warm skin; muscles rippled in response. She pretended not to notice. Locating the wayward sleeve, she pulled it taut, tying the ends in a flat knot.

Her rescuer expelled a long breath through his teeth. For one instant, his strange eyes glittered. "Let's go. You'll have to lead Sulieman." With his head, he indicated the black monster cropping grass beside the lane.

Honoria stared at the stallion. "Sulieman was a treacherous Turk."

"Indeed."

She transferred her gaze back to the man. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"We can't leave him here. If he gets loose, panicked by the storm, he could damage something. Or someone."

Unconvinced, Honoria retrieved his jacket from the branch. She studied the stallion. "Are you sure he won't bite?" When no answer came, she turned to stare, open-mouthed, at her rescuer. "You expect me to-?"

"Just take the reins-he'll behave himself."

His tone held enough irritated masculine impatience to have her crossing the lane, albeit with no good grace. She glared at the stallion; he stared levelly back. Refusing to be intimidated-by a horse-Honoria crammed the jacket under the saddle, then tugged the reins free. Holding them firmly, she started along the lane. And came to an abrupt halt when the stallion didn't budge. "Sulieman-walk."

At the command, the huge horse started forward. Honoria scurried ahead, trying to keep beyond the range of the monster's teeth. Her rescuer, after one comprehensive glance, turned and strode on.

They were deep within the densest part of the wood, thickly leaved canopies interwoven overhead. As if flexing its muscles, the wind gusted, riffling the leaves and flinging a shower of raindrops upon them.

Honoria watched as her rescuer angled his awkward burden through a tight curve. As he straightened, the muscles in his back shifted, smoothly rippling under taut skin. A single raindrop fell to tremble, glistening, on one tanned shoulder, then slowly slid down his back. Honoria tracked it all the way; when it disappeared beneath his waistband, she swallowed.

Why the sight affected her so, she couldn't understand-men's bare torsos, viewed from childhood in the fields and forge, had never before made it difficult to breathe. Then again, she couldn't recall seeing a chest quite like her rescuer's before.

He glanced back. "How did you come to be in the lane alone?" He paused, shifted the youth in his arms, then strode on.

"I wasn't exactly alone," Honoria explained to his back. "I was returning from the village in the gig. I saw the storm coming and thought to take a shortcut."

"The gig?"

"When I saw the body I went to investigate. At the first thunderclap, the horse bolted."

"Ah."

Honoria narrowed her eyes. She hadn't seen him glance heavenward, but she knew he had. "It wasn't my knot that came undone. The branch I tied the reins to broke."

He glanced her way; while his face was expressionless, his lips were no longer perfectly straight. "I see."

The most noncommittal two words she had ever heard. Honoria scowled at his infuriating back, and trudged on in awful silence. Despite his burden, he was forging ahead; in her kid half boots, not designed for rough walking, she slipped and slid trying to keep up. Unfortunately, with the storm building by the second, she couldn't hold the pace he was setting against him.

The disgruntled thought brought her mentally up short. From the instant of encountering her rescuer, she'd been conscious of irritation, a ruffling of her sensibilities. He'd been abrupt, distinctly arrogant-quite impossible in some ill-defined way. Yet he was doing what needed to be done, quickly and efficiently. She ought to be grateful.

Negotiating a tangle of exposed tree roots, she decided it was his assumption of command that most irked-she had not before met anyone with his degree of authority, as if it was his unquestionable right to lead, to order, and to be obeyed. Naturally, being who she was, used to being obeyed herself, such an attitude did not sit well.

Finding her eyes once more glued to his back, entranced by the fluid flexing of his muscles, Honoria caught herself up. Irritation flared-she clung to its safety. He was impossible-in every way.

He glanced back and caught her black frown before she had a chance to wipe it from her face. His brows quirked; his eyes met hers, then he faced forward. "Nearly there."

Honoria released the breath that had stuck in her throat. And indulged in a furious scowl. Who the devil was he?

A gentleman certainly-horse, clothes, and manner attested to that. Beyond that, who could tell? She checked her impressions, then checked again, but could find no hint of underlying unease; she was perfectly certain she was safe with this man. Six years as a governess had honed her instincts well-she did not doubt them. Once they gained shelter, introductions would follow. As a well-bred lady, it wasn't her place to demand his name, it was his duty to make himself known to her. Ahead, the dimness beneath the trees lightened; ten more steps brought them into a large clearing. Directly in front, backing onto the wood, stood a timber cottage, its thatch in good repair. Honoria noted the opening of two bridle paths, one to the right, one to the left. His stride lengthening, her rescuer headed for the cottage door.

"There's a stable of sorts to the side. Tie Sulieman in there." He flicked a glance her way. "To something unbreakable."

The glare she sent him bounced off his broad back. She quickened her pace, egged on by the rising whine of the wind. Leaves whirled like dervishes, clutching at her skirts; the black monster trotted at her heels. The stable was little more than a rude shack, built against the cottage wall.

Honoria scanned the exposed timbers for a hitching post. "I don't suppose it's what you're accustomed to," she informed her charge, "but you'll have to make do." She spied an iron ring bolted to the cottage wall. "Ah-hah!"

Looping the reins through, she hung on the ends to tighten the knot. She grabbed the jacket and was about to turn away when the huge black head swung toward her, one large eye wide, its expression strangely vulnerable. Briskly, she patted the black nose. "Stay calm."

With that sage advice, she picked up her skirts and fled for the cottage door. The storm chose that precise moment to rend the sky-thunder rolled, lightning crackled, the wind shrieked-so did Honoria.

She flew through the open door, whirled, and slammed it shut, then slumped back against it, eyes closed, hands clutching the soft jacket to her breast. Rain drummed on the roof and pelted the panels at her back. The wind shook the shutters and set the rafters creaking. Honoria's heart pounded; on the inside of her eyelids she saw the white light she knew brought death.

Catching her breath on a hiccup, she forced her eyes open. And saw her rescuer, the youth in his arms, standing beside a pallet raised on a crude frame. The cottage was dark, lit only by dim remnants of light leaking through the slatted shutters.

"Light the candle, then come and set the covers."

The simple command prodded Honoria into action. She crossed to the table that dominated the single-roomed abode. A candle stood in a simple candlestick, tinder beside it. Laying the jacket aside, she struck a spark and coaxed the candle into flame. A soft glow spread through the room. Satisfied, she headed for the pallet. An odd assortment of furniture crowded the small cottage-an old wing chair sat beside the stone hearth, a huge carved chair with faded tapestry cushions facing it. Chairs, bed, and table took up much of the available space; a chest and two rough dressers hugged the walls. The bed stood out into the room, its head against one wall; Honoria reached for the neatly folded blankets left on its end. "Who lives here?"

"A woodsman. But it's August so he'll be in the woods by Earith. These are his winter quarters." He leaned forward, lowering his burden, as Honoria flipped the blanket out along the bed.

"Wait! He'll be more comfortable if we remove his coat."

Those unearthly eyes held hers, then he looked down at the body in his arms. "See if you can ease the sleeve off."

She'd been careful not to catch the coat when she'd secured their improvised bandage. Honoria gently tugged; the sleeve shifted inch by inch.

Her rescuer snorted. "Silly clunch probably took an hour to get into it."

Honoria looked up-this time she was sure. His voice had shaken on the "clunch." She stared at him, a dreadful premonition seeping through her. "Pull harder-he can't feel anything at the moment."