Considering a moment, she said, “I’ve never imagined you for a dreamer, Mr. Campion.”
“All men are dreamers.”
“Not pragmatic men.”
“Touché,” he said softly—and all she could do was smile back, inordinately pleased with his approval.
They started walking again. In some corner of her mind, she cautioned herself that she was too aware of him for her own good, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “So what do you want?”
“Money,” he replied, shattering her romanticism.
“And nothing else?” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice.
“Plain and simple.”
“For your land,” she concluded.
“Exactly.”
“And what exactly will you do with this money?” she wondered, wanting him to have a higher motive.
“Buy a farm.”
Lyssa made an impatient sound. “That’s it? A farm?” Her father owned several. Everyone she knew owned several.
“Yes, a farm,” he said, mimicking her, and then elaborated, “A horse farm, like the one my grandfather owned.”
“What kind of horses did he raise?”
“Race horses. The finest in Ireland.”
“What happened to his farm?”
“It was taken for English taxes.”
Taxes, she understood. Her father complained about taxes. “I see,” she murmured.
“Do you?” he wondered aloud. “Do you really?” He stopped, turning to her, his gaze hard. “I doubt if you have the first inkling of what I’m talking about. You’ve lived a privileged existence, Miss Harrell, a life livedas it should be, with servants to bow and scrape for you. However, for the rest of us, life is damn hard. It’s like climbing a slope covered in ice. Some make it—some don’t. I’m trying to make sure I’m one of the ones who make it.”
“Don’t be so certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Campion. My father cut his teeth the same way—and Iammy father’s daughter. Why else would I have struck out on my own?”
“Foolishness,” he hazarded and before she could think, Lyssa slapped him across the face.
She didn’t know who was more surprised— herself or him. Her hand stung from the force of her blow, although she doubted if she’d hurt him.
For a second, she struggled with the urge to cry. Instead, her voice shaking slightly, she said, “Icantake care of myself. I was there when my parents lived modest lives. I’m not what everyone thinks of me.”
His gaze unreadable, he shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Was there ever a more annoying man? “Perhapswhat?” she demanded.
“Perhaps I deserved that.” He opened his arms, holding his palms out as if to show he had no tricks. “Satisfied?”
No, she wasn’t. If anything, she felt a little sick. “I wish you wouldn’t keep talking to me as if I were a child or have had no experience in the world. I’m trying, Mr. Campion. Iamtrying.”
He lowered his arms. “Well, there is something about the two of us that seems to bring out the worst in each other.”
“Do I make you angry?” she asked, surprised.
