Bea drew back. His mouth was too full and sensual, his scent too strong. Everything about him made her want. And Bea knew the dangers of wanting and excess and lust. It did not matter if it was lust for drink, or pleasure, or dice, or silk.

Or making love.

Wulf would be a dangerous man to toy with. It would be too easy to fall under his spell and forget herself.

“Your wound still requires tending.” Perhaps her body would cease this heady need if she focused on the practical. “If would be so kind as to remove your shirt, it will be easier.”

Bea did not wait for him to consent. She strode to the shelves lining the north wall and retrieved one of the iron kettles stacked there. Without bothering to don her greatcoat or scarf, she threw open the cottage door and stepped into the storm.

Wind whipped up a crystalline tempest to pelt her face. Ignoring the fury, she scooped snow into the pot. Icy cold stung her skin and made her fingers burn as she filled the kettle nearly to the brim. Then she wrestled the door closed and turned once more into the warmth.

Into Wulf.

He’d come up behind her, tall and half-naked as she’d commanded—and just there. His lips were close, and the thought of pressing her mouth to his filled her with need. She wanted to brush her fingers over the broad expanse of his chest and the blond hair sprinkled there.

“I thought it might be heavy.” Wulf’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with desire as he carefully removed the kettle from her hands.

He felt it as well, then, this tug between them.

“Perhaps it is the hit to my head that makes me take leave of my senses, but I believe this evening will be very—” he paused, pinning her with those deep blue eyes. “Engaging.”

“Oh, do you?” Bea knew precisely what Wulf was thinking just then, and sent him a slow, knowing smile. “Clearly, you are not in your right mind.”

“Oh, yes. I am in my right mind,” he said softly.

His gaze was so hot, so dark, it set her body alight.

Dangerous, indeed.

“If you would bring the pot?” She moved around him, striding toward the fire and the chair. Giving herself to the Duke of Highrow would be foolish. She would risk too much, in too many ways.

Yet Wulf would make any woman cross the line.




CHAPTER 5




“I’VE no convenient petticoat to bind your arm with.” Bea stared into the melting water. Little remained of the snow now, just a few swirls of white. Testing the surface with a fingertip, she judged it warm, but not hot.

She had begun to breathe properly again as she tended the water. Still, her body was tight, her mood edgy. Bea did not want to be cautious, but pleasure must always be approached with attention.

“We might as well use my shirt as a bandage,” Wulf suggested. “’Tis a loss in any case.”

The sound of rending fabric rose into the air as she removed the iron pot. She swirled the kettle once to even the water temperature, then turned to see him tearing strips from the bottom edge of his lawn shirt. He ripped again, firelight burnishing the shifting muscles in his shoulders.

She was no stranger to the male body, but Wulf’s body was more. Masculine and virile and strong. And so very tempting.

Caution, she reminded herself.

Settling once more into the crude chair, he laid the strips of his ruined shirt over his thigh. White against the deep black. She strode forward, trying not to slosh the warmed water—but thinking of where that trail of blond hair led.

The one that disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.

HER CINNAMON SCENT filled the air around Wulf again as his highwayman drew close. She set the water on the floor, then quickly unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it. Clad in shirtsleeves and a plain waistcoat, she leaned forward to study his wound.

The pain had dulled now—shoulder, head—giving way to an intense craving for her. One that balanced on the keen edge of pleasure and torment.

Competent fingers brushed against his thigh as she retrieved one of the clothe strips he’d laid there. Wulf went hard, fought not to touch her. To accept the gentle ministrations as she dipped the fabric in the water and carefully sponged away the blood.

She narrowed her eyes as she worked, leaned closer. He carefully studied each feature of her face, memorizing its contours. A strong nose, eyes he could see now were hazel, and a narrow, pointed chin. A lush, full mouth.

The dandies in London might not call her a diamond of the first water, but there was something arresting about her face, her confident manner.

“You are very beautiful,” he murmured.

She stilled, frozen as she bent to reach for the pot of water again.

“No one has ever called me that before.” Moving slowly, she dunked the cloth, then looked directly at him as she straightened. That level, honest stare was almost difficult to meet. “Someone said I was a handsome woman once, but no one has ever used the word beautiful.”

“You are beautiful. It is true.” So true, just the look of her dried his throat. Her face was fiercely lovely, full of feminine strength. Everything about those features might have come from an ancient goddess.

“Well. You are the first to think so.” She breathed deep, let it out again, and continued her task. “If you intend to flatter me into becoming your lover, it will not work.”

“I see.” Amused at both of them, he studied her fingers as she worked. Long, quick, elegant. “Thank you for being straightforward about that.”

“I am a highwayman, and I take my pleasure where and how I want, but I am careful.” She slid him a mischievous glance, long lashes flashing over eyes not quite green, not quite brown, but a mixture of both. “And you are wounded.”

“Hardly,” he snorted.

“I must admit, I did a poor job shooting you.” She probed the area gently, pursed her lips. “It is not even worth stitching, truth be told. Salve over the next few days and clean wrappings should do it.”

“To be felled so low over so small a wound,” Wulf quipped, and had the pleasure of seeing her lips turn up with humor.

“But felled by the Honest Highwayman, so that must be some comfort,” she added.

“True.” Which made him curious about her. She was certainly no village housewife or servant. “Who are you? It is whispered you give away everything you take. Why do you do this at all?”

“I am tempted not to tell you, but it is no secret among the villagers—though they may not answer if a duke were to ask.” The rag plopped into the water as she dropped it, then reached for the remaining strip of his shirt. “There are many in need. The lords write their laws, the orators in London shout about poverty and politics and money, but that does not change what is here. Right here, in the village. Many are prosperous, and many others are not. Children die of hunger from time to time, or the aged cannot pay for a surgeon or buy a tincture from an apothecary, and we lose them too soon.”

“Few of my tenants are in such dire circumstances. I see that they are cared for during the lean times.” He disliked feeling the need to defend himself but found he could not let the statement remain unsaid.

“You are particularly kind, then.” She wound the torn cloth around his shoulder, binding it tightly. “Many are not, and those in the village are unsupported. There was a young widow who gave away her four children a few years ago—to work for others for free, rather than as paid servants—because she could not feed them. They are fed and clothed now, so I cannot blame her. Yet I would have helped if I could.

“There are many who sit in London, in their finery and with their fancy brandy, visiting Parliament each day where they have a chance to make a difference.” She breathed deep, then continued. “They think nothing of those who are less fortunate.”

“I see.” Perhaps Wulf might have been included among such company. He championed his own causes, but he had not often considered the circumstances of the poor. He doubted he would ever neglect the subject again. “Still, there are other, legitimate methods to see the poor are cared for. Pamphlets, treatises, even laws. Look to those who have made a difference before, making people think with their words. Skulking around at night and engaging in highway robbery is not necessarily the best method to support your cause.”

“My method is practical, at least, and immediate.” Annoyance flashed over her face. “Those I steal from possess more than enough money, and usually spend it on drink or gambling or women. Jewelry and fashionable gowns. New curtains for a drawing room, simply for the sake of new curtains.” She tied the ends of the fabric and stepped back, examined her work.