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She was rambling. Evaine bent to pick up her axe. Just in case the man needed a warning that she was not to be trifled with.

“Ordinarily, you would be the only people around for miles,” he said, moving close enough to place the basket on the ground near her feet. “I won’t bother you as long as you stay away from Wolfhaven. And me.”

Wasn’t he a charmer.

“I have no interest in venturing into that haunted place,” she said.

“Good.”

“But I may visit the apple orchard to see what fruit can be salvaged.”

“Fine. You have my permission to pick fruit that would otherwise go to waste.” He pulled a tattered paperback from the inner pocket of his greatcoat and held it up. Heat rushed to Evaine’s face. “You may forage in the forest as well. But do not venture past the gates of Wolfhaven,” he continued. “The mansion is private property.”

He dropped the book into her basket. Which he had returned to her.

His permission? As if she needed the approval of a complete stranger to pick what Gran’s friend had already told her they could take, for the love of God. Who did this odious man think he was?

“We are here with the owner’s consent,” she informed him as loftily as one could while sweating profusely.

“Interesting. Because I only learned of your presence yesterday. I am, unfortunately, the owner of this wretched place.”

Evaine blinked. This was the infamous duke? The one rumored to have killed his own bride in a jealous fit of rage?

He extracted a warty green horse chestnut and tossed it into the air, catching it idly. “I would appreciate it if you avoided throwing chestnuts at strangers, going forward.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “It was an accident. I didn’t know you were there. The ground is soft, and I didn’t hear your horse’s hoofbeats coming.”

“Generally, apologies include the words, ‘I am sorry.’ This is sounding more like an excuse.” He set the chestnut down carefully on a listing wooden fence post. The split log fence ringed the rear yard of the hunting cottage like gray, snaggled teeth.

“I apologize for knocking you off your horse. I didn’t mean to, Your Grace.” Evaine said contritely. She propped her axe on the ground and sketched a curtsey. “Are you quite recovered from your fall?”

Again, he hesitated. A tense moment of mutual assessment stretched between them. She took in his broad shoulders, his dark hair hanging unfashionably long, almost to his shoulders. His ruined face. Without the scars, he would have been a severely handsome man. Sharp-featured, with piercing eyes. With them, he was arresting. She couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Once this headache subsides, I shall undoubtedly be right as rain. I am afraid you have the better of me, Miss…”

“Evaine Ballard,” she said, though she didn’t know why. She didn’t owe him her name.

Because you have nothing to hide, she told herself. You aren’t doing anything wrong. Perhaps you should have stayed longer to help him, but few would blame you for running away after the startling way he grabbed your wrist.

She wasn’t proud of her actions. She was exhausted from being on high alert at all times, trying to survive one catastrophe after another.

First, her parents’ death.

Then, her grandfather’s.

Even the one undeniable bright spot, that glorious year at Girton, was marred by the timing of her grandmother’s illness, along with that one poor decision Evaine had made. She felt like such a failure for dropping out, for her inability to provide a decent home for her Gran to recuperate in.

But they had this cottage, and she was not going to let hunger or this obnoxious intruder ruin it for her. Even if he were a duke. He could take his arrogant, aristocratic arse back to his tumbledown mansion and stay away from her. Forever.

Still, part of her did pity him. Those scars had to have been painful wounds at one point. Perhaps he was a villain, like the rumors claimed.

Or, perhaps, he was simply misunderstood.

Evaine shook the thought away.

He indicated the wood chopping. “May I ask why you’re doing that?”

“Need fuel for the winter,” she said through gritted teeth. “I suppose you have servants to supply you cords of wood. We peasants must provide for ourselves.”