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The sunlight was blinding. Hester squinted upward and frowned. The dark outline, although broad-shouldered, was wearing a European-style hat, not Suleiman’s customary turban.
Her stomach dropped. That outline seemed awfully familiar.
No! It couldn’t be. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. She hadn’t seenhimfor two years. It was a mirage, brought on by too much sun.
She blinked, but the shadow remained.
It was so bright she couldn’t see the man’s face clearly, but somehow she justknewhe was laughing at her.
Hester closed her eyes and muttered a fervent prayer to whichever gods might be listening. “Please, no.Anyonebut him.”
If she had to choose the one man in the whole northern hemisphere she never wanted to see again, Harry Tremayne would be that man.
“What are you doing down there?” the shadow called cheerfully, and the sound of that deep, amused voice confirmed her very worst suspicions.
“Harry Tremayne!” she croaked. “What in hell’s name areyoudoing here?”
“A delight to see you too, Lady Morden,” came the irritatingly upbeat reply.
Hester ground her teeth.
The shadow gave a sarcastic flourish of his hat. “I’ve come to rescue you.”
“You? Rescueme? Ha! That’s rich.”
“I’m not the one stuck at the bottom of a well,” he pointed out with irrefutable logic. “You shouldn’t be so quick to refuse my assistance. Wait there. I’ll get you a ladder.”
Within moments the rickety ladder descended into the shaft, and with a sigh of resignation, Hester climbed back out. She ignored the outstretched hand Harry offered her and climbed over the low wall herself, then made a great show of dusting down her skirts to give herself some time before she straightened up to greet her nemesis.
It was just as bad as she’d expected. Harry Tremayne was as heart-stoppingly good looking as ever. His dark, tousled hair screamed for her fingers to touch it. Those taunting blue eyes both mocked and invited at the same time. And he had a pair of lips she’d dreamed about kissing for far too many nights.
He was wearing a thin white shirt tied carelessly at the throat, a pair of buff breeches, leather riding boots, and a leather satchel slung across his chest, bandolier-style. He looked like a pirate, like the charming rogue he was.
Hester narrowed her eyes. She, no doubt, was a dusty, sweaty mess. Healwaysmanaged to catch her at a disadvantage.
“Do you know how many miles there are between here and London, Mr. Tremayne?” she said stiffly.
“Not precisely,” he admitted. “A lot.”
“If you take the overland route, it’s approximately five-and-a-half thousand. As the crow flies, it’s a little over two thousand.”
He raised one irritatingly perfect eyebrow. “What’s your point?”
“That’s two thousand marvelous miles I’d put between you, Harry Tremayne, and myself.”
He cocked his head and sent her an amused, chiding glance. “You’re not still angry about that kiss, are you? Good Lord. I offered to marry you, didn’t I? You refused.”
“You only offered because you’d ruined my reputation!”
“So? It was the honorable thing to do.”
Hester poked him in the chest with her index finger. “So,I’m not marrying someone who was forced into it because of some stupid scandal. I want someone whowantsto marry me.”
He shook his head, as if this was mystifying female logic at its worst. “And here I was, thinking you’d be happy to see a familiar face.” He clapped his hands over his heart in a theatrical gesture. “I’m wounded, Lady Morden. To the core. One could almost infer you aren’t glad to see me at all.”
She sent him a stony glare.
He looked around with a sudden frown. “Where’s your Uncle Jasper?”
