The Illegitimate Montague. Sarah Mallory

bank.

      Breathing heavily, Adam looked around. His first victim was struggling to get to his feet, hands over his head to protect himself from the woman, who was raining blows upon him with the handle of her horsewhip.

      ‘Aye, go on, run away!’ she cried, cracking her whip with an expert flick of the wrist as the ruffian splashed across the river to safety. ‘And tell your master that I am not to be frightened away by the likes of you!’

      She stood, hands on hips, her chest rising and falling, watching the men until they disappeared from sight.

      Adam raked his wet hair back from his face.

      ‘I had not expected to refresh myself quite so thoroughly,’ he began, a laugh in his voice. ‘I trust you are not hurt?’

      ‘Not at all.’ She scooped his hat from the ground and held it out to him. ‘You are lucky this was knocked off before you took a ducking. My bonnet was not so fortunate—it is probably at Castonbury bridge by this time.’

      Her words were accompanied by a dazzling smile and Adam’s mind went blank as he took his first good look at the young woman he had just rescued. The sudden jolt of attraction threatened to tumble him back into the river. He forgot about his soaking clothes and bruised knuckles as he gazed at the vision before him. Her deep brown eyes positively gleamed with excitement.

      ‘I only wish I had been able to shoot more than one of the villains!’

      Adam scarcely heard her. Quite what it was about her that stirred him he did not know. There was nothing exceptional about her plain olive-green riding habit, although the tight-fitting jacket showed off her generous figure. His preference had always been for fair, blue-eyed beauties, but the woman before him had deeply golden skin and an abundance of thick, dark brown hair. It had come loose from its pins and hung in a dusky, rippling cloud around her shoulders.

      Her triumphant look softened into amusement as she said in her laughing, musical voice, ‘I am greatly indebted to you for your help, sir, and would be even more grateful if you could help me to recover my cloth?’

      He did not reply and with a tiny shrug and no less good humour she turned away. Completely unaware of the effect she was having upon him, she hitched her skirts high, revealing not only a pair of exceedingly pretty ankles, but also affording Adam a glimpse of the ribbon garters at her knees.

      Amber tucked up her skirts. She had seen the washerwomen do it dozens of times and never thought that she, too, would need to wade into the river. But this was an emergency. She had invested a great deal of money in those rolls of cloth and she was not prepared to lose them. She was a little disappointed that the man should not help her now, but perhaps pulling sodden bolts of material from the water was too mundane for so chivalrous a knight.

      And that was how she saw him, for he had ridden so gallantly to her rescue. She had not looked at him properly until her attackers had taken flight, but then, when she had turned to him, exultant at their success in driving them away, she had found herself looking at the embodiment of a dream. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome crusader gazing at her with blue, blue eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. The water had turned his hair to near black, but the glints of red-gold told her it would be a dark, golden blond when dry. He was everything she had ever envisaged a hero to be. Far too good to be true. So let him go on his way now, she thought, for she was afraid if he did not he would trouble her dreams for a long, long time. Swallowing a sigh she turned towards the ford.

      As she stepped into the water Adam came to his senses.

      ‘No, let me, I am already wet through.’

      He strode onto the ford and began to pull the bolts of cloth from the water. The exercise helped him to regain control of himself. He was shocked to realise that for a few moments he had been speechless, more like a callow schoolboy than a thirty-two-year-old man with more than a little experience of the fair sex. She was standing at the edge of the river, waiting to help him, and he kept his mind firmly fixed upon the rolls of cloth as they lifted them out of the water.

      ‘Damned villains,’ she muttered as they struggled with the last roll, a dripping bundle of blue linen. ‘Thank heaven they didn’t get the superfine though. That is worth five-and-twenty shillings a yard!’

      She shook out her skirts and dropped to the ground, putting her hand to her hair.

      ‘Good heavens, I must look like a virago, with my hair about my shoulders! What must you think of me?’

      Adam dared not tell her and merely shrugged, with what he hoped she would interpret as unconcern. It seemed to work, because she gave him another of her blinding smiles.

      ‘Again I have to thank you, sir. I could not have recovered my cloth without your help.’

      Adam stripped off his sodden coat and sat down beside her.

      ‘But the rolls are as wet as my jacket—will they be ruined?’

      She shrugged. ‘Once they are dried out I have no doubt there will be some value in them. The problem is, I can’t put them on top of the dry ones, and the oilcloth that I use for protection from the weather is already lost downstream. Besides, the wet cloth is so much heavier that I doubt my poor horse would be able to cope with the extra weight.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘And it is growing late. I should go now if I am to reach Castonbury before dark.’ Her buoyant mood dipped. ‘I suppose I will have to come back in the morning with an empty wagon and pray that no one comes along in the meantime.’

      ‘There is another solution.’ She turned to look at him, disconcerting him again. He gestured to the trees. ‘Where I come from in Lancashire the cloth is stretched and pegged out to dry in the tenterfields. We can’t do that here, but it is a warm night, we could hang the wet cloth over the branches.’

      She was silent for a few minutes, then the smile returned.

      ‘That might work. I can spend the night here and gather everything up in the morning. Only …’ She looked up at him under her lashes. ‘I might need a little help to reach the branches… .’

      Adam laughed.

      ‘I will put myself at your disposal, madam.’ He jumped to his feet and held out his hand.

      Her fingers wrapped themselves around his and as he pulled her to her feet he felt again that spark of attraction. Despite his wet clothes his body was on fire and they stood for a moment, hand-in-hand, regarding each other.

      She was a tall woman. Adam stood six-foot-two in his stockinged feet and it was rare for any woman to approach that, but the one now standing before him was tall and shapely, her eyes level with his mouth so that she only had to look up a little to meet his glance. She did so now, candid, unafraid, her brown eyes fringed with long black lashes. With her dark hair and tanned skin she looked faintly exotic, reminding him of the luscious foreign beauties he had seen during his years at sea.

      Even as he gazed at her, the candid look disappeared and she seemed a little troubled.

      ‘Perhaps, sir, I should know to whom I am so indebted?’ Her voice was low, husky, as if she, too, was having difficulty breathing.

      He cleared his throat and gave a little bow.

      ‘Adam Stratton, ma’am. At your service.’

      She inclined her head.

      ‘Amber Hall.’ He was still holding her hand, the left one. Instinctively his fingers shifted to the plain gold band on her finger. She said quietly, ‘I am a widow.’

      The devil she was! Adam was surprised at his feeling of relief. Why did she feel it necessary to explain? Was she warning him off, or appealing to his chivalrous nature to respect her predicament? The defensive look in her eyes suggested the latter.

      With an effort he released her. Dear heaven, it would be so easy to forget his manners. He hoped his nod was sufficiently sympathetic, then he turned his attention to their present situation.

      He said lightly, ‘Well, Mrs Hall, shall we