“You two have some interesting conversations.”

Leam shot a glare over his shoulder. He looked back at the beautiful noblewoman sitting in a pile of straw because of him.

“Maleddy—”

“You will tell me this moment what is going on here or—”

“Or whit?” His temper flared. “Ye’ll go haring aff after the shooter an ask him instead?”

“Some ladies have more hair than brains,” Yale murmured.

“A’ll thank ye tae keep out o this, ye boor. Miscaw the leddy again an A’ll belt ye.”

“Twice in one week? You flatter me with your attentions, old chap.”

“Whin A’m finished here.”

“Oh, I daresay you are finished already.” Her tone was curt, but strain played about her generous lips, and her glorious eyes were dull.

“Lass, A’m gang tae carry ye tae the inn. A’ll thank ye nae tae protest.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

She allowed him to lift her again, tucking her against his chest, and she curved her good arm about his neck. But she averted her face. Still he could smell her and feel her and want her, and he cursed himself for a whelp now. Bella came into sight and Yale went swiftly across the yard while the dogs scouted the surrounding buildings. Leam waited in the doorway until the Welshman knocked, hand in his pocket on his firearm. The door opened. Leam headed across.

The others hovered about the foyer.

“Glory be!”

“Kitty, good gracious! Is she all right?”

“Aye, miss. Juist a wee scratch.” Leam laid her on the sofa.

“Someone shot me, Marie,” Kitty said quietly. “Do take care when strolling in the yard today.”

“Shot! Mrs. Milch said it but I did not believe it. Oh, Kitty. Whyever would someone wish to shoot you? And who?”

“I do not know. But it is possible I was not the intended target.”

The innkeeper’s wife brought a blanket and Lady Emily tucked it about her.

“Milch,” Yale said, “His Lordship requires boiled water, sharp shears, bandages, and salve if you’ve any.”

“A’ve some in ma kit.” Leam gestured.

Yale headed toward the stairs.

“Lord Blackwood has wound salve in his traveling kit? Whatever for?”

“His nefarious life leads him into frequent scrapes, I daresay.” Kitty’s cheeks looked gray now.

Milch had presumably gone for supplies. Leam bent to the hearth and piled logs on the grate.

“Milord, the Quality’s better not doing such a thing,” Mrs. Milch said, but her voice sounded thin.

Not many gunshots in this tiny Shropshire village, apparently.

“Ma’am, a pot o tea an a biscuit woud be walcome nou for the leddy.”

“Of course, milord.”

“Kitty.” Lady Emily shook her head. “I don’t know anything at all about seeing to injuries, I’m afraid. But I don’t know that Mrs. Milch will prove very useful either. She swooned when she saw you in the snow. I was obliged to revive her with smelling salts.”

“Very nice sensibilities for the laboring class, hm?” Yale said with a grin, handing over the salve.

“But no need for concern. Blackwood is a dab hand at dressing wounds.”

“Sir,” Cox said stiffly. “I don’t believe that would be at all proper. Lady Katherine ought to be moved to her bedchamber and attended by the women.”

Yale’s grin widened.

“I’m sure I don’t know why, Mr. Cox,” Lady Emily said. “If Lord Blackwood is the best among us to do the job, petty niceties ought not to allow Lady Katherine to remain in any sort of danger.”

Leam crouched down beside Kitty. “She’s nae in ony danger, miss.” Not with him sitting beside her, she wouldn’t be.

“Merely excessive discomfort,” the beauty reclining before him said softly. “Will this hurt?”

“Nae mair than a wee pinch.”

“Now, why don’t I believe you?” Her gaze slipped across his shoulders and down his chest.

“I still say it’s not the thing at all,” Cox said more stridently now. “Neither for a gentleman to be playing nursemaid, nor for a gently bred female to be subjected to public prodding.”

“Sir, have a spot of tea, why don’t you?” Mr. Milch gestured toward the dining area.

“Yes, Cox,” Yale murmured. “Absent yourself and the prodding will be considerably less public.

Lady Marie Antoine, tea?”

“The big dog got into the biscuits and ate them all.”

“Then you shall have to turn your talents to baking sweets now, ma’am.”

“Sir, you cannot improve my opinion of you with false flattery.”

“I am crushed. Truly.”

“But it’s true, the bread was quite good.” They moved toward the table, Lady Emily glancing back with concern.

“A’ll hae tae cut aff the sleeve,” Leam said quietly.

Kitty’s eyes glimmered. “Will you keep the part, then, in lieu of the whole?”

He smiled and set the shears to fabric. “Shuirly.”

“You planned this, I daresay.” She watched as he cut. “You could not bear relinquishing this gown in the end. But now you will only have a piece. A torn one at that.”

Smiling, Leam lifted her arm gently and drew the ruined sleeve off. He tucked the blanket around her hand. She had beautiful skin, pale and soft like a Lothians winter dawn. He wanted to touch every inch of it, to kiss every silken dip and curve.

“Aye, but this scrap o fabric bears the treasure o a lady’s blue bluid.”

“If you recite poetry to me now, my lord, I shall scream again.”

“Ye inspire me tae it, Kitty Savege.” And she did. To his very marrow.

“That, I suppose, must be your ill fortune. It seems a rather shallow wound to be so painful.” Her lips were taut as she studied the scratch.

“Dinna watch.”

“I will not swoon. I am not a Shropshire innkeeper, you know.”

He glanced up, his dark eyes catching her, and as usual Kitty could not look away.

“Nae. Yer a lady.” With the gentlest touch he applied several drops of salve to the raw flesh. She should not be surprised. He astounded her at every turn.

“Where did you learn to dress wounds, Lord Blackwood?”

“In the East Indies, Lady Kath’rine.”

“Remarkable,” she said to cover her pleasure at such a small exchange, one that seemed now as natural as breathing. And as unwise as breathing fire. “Hadn’t you a valet to do such tasks at the time?”

“The year wis ’eleven, lass. A hadn’t onybody.”

His brother and wife had both perished in ’ten. But he’d had his son. Some men of course cared little for their children, like Kitty’s own father.

He wrapped a clean strip of linen about her arm, his hand brushing her breast as though it were nothing. As though he did not even notice it, while Kitty’s entire being awoke.

His hands stilled.

“Are you finished, then?”

“Aye. Ye’ll be all right nou.” He drew the blanket over her arm, stood, and moved away.

But she would not be all right. Amid the pleasure and frustration, he frightened her.

Kitty did not understand Leam Blackwood. A man had shot her, presumably intending to shoot him. The earl would not tell her the truth about the poetry, the shooter—any of it. On the surface he seemed the simplest of men, easy tempered and somewhat indolent, rather in the fashion of his big dogs. But she feared he hid a great deal behind those hooded dark eyes and rough speech.

She was angry and hurt, and infatuated, and confused. The man who caused it all seemed entirely unrepentant. The remainder of her sojourn in a remote Shropshire inn did not appear in the least bit promising.

Early the following morning, after a restless night during which her arm ached dreadfully and elsewhere inside her more so, the remainder of Kitty’s sojourn at the inn abruptly became much shorter.

Madame Roche appeared upon the inn’s threshold, snow clinging to her cloak, her full cheeks patches of bright rose, and as stunningly French as ever. Her raven hair streaked with silver was swept up beneath a neat little cap of violet taffeta and dyed ostrich feathers, and her gown was gloriously inappropriate for both traveling and the season, short puffy sleeves and a crinkling mass of tulle all sparkling with tiny purple and black sequins.

She lifted her lorgnette to study the parlor and dining area, and with a little sniff pronounced it

“Bon.”

“The mail coach came through at dawn this morning,” Mr. Yale explained, entering and removing her coat. “Blackwood posted to the farm Cox told us about and found them. And now we are beset by females.” He grinned and stepped out of the way to admit two other women.

Kitty went forward and clasped hands with Madame Roche, smiling at her maid and Emily’s. “We are so glad you are well.”

“Bon Dieu, you are peaked, Lady Katrine!” The Frenchwoman grasped Kitty’s hand and snapped with her other at the maids. “Vite, vite, you lazy filles! Brandy there must be for to prepare the water of rose tout de suite.” She dragged Kitty to the stairs. “And the gown. Hélas, the gowns! Ma petite, come!” She snapped again at Emily.

“Lady Marie Antoine,” Mr. Yale drawled, “you have the most unusual servants.”

“Yes. But they are very good to me.”

Kitty glanced back. The earl had entered, carrying in a bandbox and another parcel from the second carriage. She turned and hurried up the stair to be un-peaked. It seemed she could not wait another moment to don a fresh gown.

If mortal woman had been created to tempt mortal man, then Leam was the first in the queue to sin.

Appearing at luncheon newly gowned in elegant rose and ivory that caressed her curves, her shimmering hair loosely arranged with sparkling combs he had once removed, Kitty glided like a goddess across the parlor. That he preferred seeing her with nothing on at all and her hair tumbling about her shoulders—and had spent the endless night thinking along those lines and with great effort holding himself back from knocking on her door despite the certainty that she would repel him—did not help matters any.