Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston

was a beauty. Full, high breasts, narrow waist and long, shapely legs. He swallowed at the sight, but allowed himself only a glance before grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her. He carried her to the cot and wrapped the second blanket around her.

      By this time his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room. He saw a stack of wood and kindling and a scuttle of coal. On top of the fireplace were tapers and a flint. He hurried to make a fire. When it burned well enough, he flung his greatcoat around him again and ran back out in the rain to tend to Apollo.

      The stable was well stocked with dry cloths and brushes. He dried off the poor horse as best he could, covering him with a blanket. There was hay, which Apollo ate eagerly, and a pump from which Marc drew fresh water to quench Apollo’s thirst.

      ‘There you are, old fellow.’ He stroked Apollo’s neck. ‘That is all I can do for you. Soon the rain must stop and, with luck, we will be on our way before night falls. For now, eat and rest and I will check on you later.’

      Marc ran back through the unrelenting rain to the cabin. He checked on his new charge. Her cheeks had some colour, thank God, and her skin seemed a bit warmer to the touch. Her features had relaxed and she slept.

      He blew out a relieved breath and, for the first time, realised he, too, was wet and cold and weary. He stripped down to his shirt and breeches and pulled a chair as near to the fire as he could. He really ought to hang up their wet clothes to dry, but the warmth of the fire was too enticing. Instead he stared at the woman.

      She was lovely, but who was she?

      Hers was a strong face, with full lips and an elegant nose. Her brows arched appealingly and her lashes were thick. He could not tell from her clothing what her station in life might be. What sort of woman would be walking in the rain? She mentioned Tinmore Hall. Lord Tinmore’s estate? Perhaps she was in service there.

      If he could look at her hands, he might learn more. Were they rough from work? They were tucked beneath the blanket. Her hair was pulled back in a simple knot such as any woman might wear on a walk to the village. It would never dry that way.

      He reached over and pulled the pins from her dark hair and unwound it from its knot. He spread it over the pillow as best he could. He leaned back.

      Good God, now she looked like some classical goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps. Goddess of love, beauty, pleasure.

      When she woke, would she wish for pleasure? His blood raced.

      It did more to warm him than the fire.

      * * *

      Tess woke to the crash of a thunderclap and the constant keen of rain. She remembered walking. She remembered the rain soaking into her clothing.

      Her clothing!

      She sat upright. She was covered by a blanket, nothing more.

      ‘You are awake,’ a man’s voice said.

      He sat on a nearby chair. That was right—a man on a horse. She’d really seen him, then.

      ‘Where am I?’ she rasped. Her throat was dry. ‘Where are my clothes?’

      ‘I fashioned a clothes line and hung them.’ He pointed behind her.

      She turned and saw her cloak, her dress, her corset and her shift hanging from a rope strung across the room. Next to her clothes were a man’s greatcoat, coat and waistcoat.

      He continued talking. ‘We are in a cabin somewhere in Lincolnshire, but blast if I know where. You fell victim to the cold. I had to get you dry and warm or...’ He ended with a shrug of a shoulder.

      ‘You brought me here?’ And removed her clothing? Her cheeks burned at the thought.

      ‘It was shelter. It was dry and stocked with firewood and coal.’

      Tess blinked and gazed about her. It was a small cabin with what looked like a scullery in one corner. It was furnished with a table and chairs, the chair he sat upon, and a bed pulled close to the fire.

      She was warm, she realised.

      The man shifted position and his face was lit by the firelight. His hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, with thick brows to match and the shadow of a beard. In contrast, his eyes were a piercing blue. She had never seen a man quite like him and he was dressed in only his shirt and breeches. Even his feet were bare.

      A breath caught in her throat. ‘Who are you?’ The blanket slipped off her shoulder and she pulled it about her again.

      He stood. He was taller than her half-brother and Edmund reached six feet. ‘I am Marc Glenville.’ He bowed. ‘At your service.’ His thick brows rose. ‘And you are?’

      Tess swallowed. ‘I am Miss Tess Summerfield.’ She frowned. She ought to have introduced herself as Miss Summerfield. Lorene was Lady Tinmore now, so Tess had become the eldest unmarried sister.

      She touched her hair. It was loose! What had happened to her hair?

      ‘I took out your hairpins.’ The man—Mr Glenville—sat again. ‘I did undress you, Miss Summerfield, but only because you were suffering from the cold. I give you my word as a gentleman, it was necessary. A person can die from the cold.’

      He was a gentleman. His accent, his bearing, were that of a gentleman.

      ‘I do not remember any of it.’ She shook her head.

      ‘A function of the cold. An indication that there was some urgency in getting you warm.’ His voice was deep and smooth and soothing.

      She ought to be more frightened, to be in a strange place, with a strange man. Naked. But it had been far more frightening to be wandering for hours in the chilling rain.

      ‘I must thank you, sir,’ she murmured. ‘It seems I owe you my life.’

      He glanced away as if fending off her words. ‘It was luck. I found this cabin by luck. A groundskeeper’s cabin, I suspect, used only when he works this part of the property.’

      She looked around the cabin once more.

      He stood again. ‘Are you hungry? I have a kettle ready to make tea.’

      She nodded. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

      He hung the kettle above the fire and reached over to pick up what looked like a saddlebag near his chair.

      ‘Your horse!’ She remembered a horse.

      He smiled again. ‘Apollo.’

      Was the animal out in the rain? ‘You must bring him in here.’

      He made a calming gesture with his hand. ‘Do not fear. Apollo is warm and dry in a stable, with plenty of water and hay. I’ve checked on him. He was quite content. I will check on him again in a few minutes.’ He carried the saddle-bags over to the table, searched inside them and pulled out a tin and an oilskin package.

      When he walked to the scullery and his back was turned, Tess rose from the bed and, careful to keep the blankets around her, went to check her clothing. Her dress was still very wet, but her shift was almost dry.

      ‘Mr Glenville?’ She pulled her shift from the line.

      He turned. ‘Yes?’

      She clutched her shift to her chest. ‘Will you please keep your back turned? I—I wish to don my shift.’

      Without saying a word, he turned his back again and faced the window.

      * * *

      Marc watched her reflection in the window. Not very well done of him, but he was unable to resist. Her figure was every bit as tantalising from the back as from the front.

      No harm in looking.

      Except he could feel his body stir in response. He resumed his search for teacups and a teapot. He found the pot, but had to settle for two Toby jugs.

      ‘You