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His beautiful brown eye met her own. “I’m not a sophisticated man, and I live in the country, so you’d have to make do with country flowers. Violets and poppies in the early spring. Michaelmas daisies in the fall. Dog roses and thistles in the summer. And in late spring I’d bring you the harebells that grow in the hills hereabouts. Blue, blue harebells the exact same blue as your eyes.”

And that was the moment she felt it: a loosening, a breaking free. Her heart slipped its traces and went racing away, beyond her grasp, beyond her control. Entirely free and racing toward this complex, vexing, and utterly fascinating man.

Dear God, no.

BY THE TIME Alistair rose that morning, it was later than usual, a result of a night spent making love to Helen—which, all things considered, was a wonderfully satisfactory turn of events. If he had the choice of starting his day early or laying abed with his housekeeper, he very much feared he’d choose the latter and happily damn the sunrise.

Right now, though, it was past his usual hour to rise. As it was, by the time he’d shaved and dressed and run down the stairs, he discovered that Mrs. Halifax was engrossed in airing one of the unused bedrooms. One hoped that one rated higher than mildewed linen in one’s lover’s estimation, but apparently this was not always so. Helen rather distractedly refused an offer of a ramble and then soothed his ruffled male feathers by blushing violently before returning her attention to ordering the servants about.

Alistair continued to the kitchens. He might’ve not pulled her away from her work, but a woman wasn’t entirely indifferent if she went red at a mere glance. He snatched a warm bun from a tray Mrs. McCleod had just taken out of the oven and strode out the back door, tossing the hot bread from hand to hand. The day was brilliantly sunny, perfect for a ramble. Whistling, Alistair went to the stables to get his old leather specimen satchel.

He greeted Griffin and the pony and then went to pick up his satchel, which was lying in a corner. The strong, acrid odor of urine assaulted his nostrils when he raised the satchel. Only then did he see the dark wet spot on the corner.

He stared for a second at the ruined satchel, and then he heard a whimper and swung around. The puppy sat behind him, tongue lolling, entire rear end wagging.

“Dammit.” Of all the places in the stable, the yard, the whole, wide world, why, why, did the animal pick his satchel to piss on?

“Puddles!” He heard Abigail’s high voice call to the puppy from outside.

Alistair followed the puppy from the stables, holding the stinking satchel away from his body.

Abigail was outside, picking up the puppy. She turned a startled face toward him as he came out of the stables.

He held up the satchel. “Did you know he did this?”

The look of confusion told him her answer even before she replied. “What did… oh.” She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the satchel.

He sighed. “This is ruined, Abigail.”

A mutinous expression creased her little face. “He’s only a puppy.”

Alistair tried to tamp down his exasperation. “That’s why you are supposed to be watching him.”

“But, I was—”

“Obviously not or my satchel wouldn’t be full of piss right now.” He placed his hands on his hips, watching her, not entirely sure what to do. “Get a scrub brush and some soap, and I want you to clean this for me.”

“But it’s smelly!”

“Because you weren’t doing your duty!” Anger finally overcame his good sense. “If you can’t mind him, I’ll find someone else who can. Or I’ll simply return him to the farmer I bought him from.”

Abigail jumped to her feet, the puppy held protectively in her arms, her face red. “You can’t!”

“I can.”

“He’s not yours!”

“Yes,” Alistair said through gritted teeth, “he damn well is.”

For a moment, Abigail only sputtered. Then she shouted, “I hate you!” and ran from the courtyard.

He stared for a moment at the stained satchel. He kicked it viciously and then tilted back his head, his eye closed. What sort of idiot lost his temper with a child? He hadn’t meant to yell at her, but dammit, he’d had that satchel for years. It’d survived all his tramping through the Colonies, even his capture by the Indians after Spinner’s Falls and the voyage home. She should’ve been watching the puppy.

Still. It was just a satchel. He shouldn’t have bellowed at Abigail and made threats to the puppy that he’d never had any intention of fulfilling. Alistair sighed. He’d have to remember to somehow apologize to Abigail later while still making clear that she had to watch the damned puppy more carefully. Just the thought started a throbbing in his temple. Instead of taking his morning ramble, he went to his tower to work, wondering as he mounted the stairs why females, whether young or old, were so hard to fathom.

HE’D YELLED at her.

Abigail ran, trying to hold back tears, with Puddles in her arms. She thought Sir Alistair liked her. She’d begun to think that she liked him back. But now he was angry with her. His face had been stern, his forehead wrinkled in an ugly frown as he’d yelled at her. And the very worst thing was she was to blame. He was right. She hadn’t been watching Puddles closely enough. She’d let him wander into the stables alone while she looked at a beetle she’d found on the ground. But knowing that she’d been wrong had only made everything so much harder. She loathed being wrong. She loathed admitting her fault and apologizing. It made her shrink inside, like a tiny worm. And because she hated that feeling, because she knew he was right and she was wrong, she’d screamed at him and run away.

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