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But instead of traveling to London and making her demands, Evie had been waylaid and kidnapped within minutes of leaving Lincoln Grange.
She had initially feared for her innocence, but quickly discovered that, although Paul might appear rough around the edges, it transpired he was also a father to two daughters. As a result, he wouldn’t allow any of his men to so much as touch her in an inappropriate way.
For that alone, Evie was only too happy to prepare and cook the food they scavenged and poached, both from the Lincoln estate and the countryside round about them. She had become adept at preparing stews of all kinds these past days, mostly made from rabbits and hares and the huge stag the men had managed to corner and bring down a few days ago. With wild onions, garlic, and mushrooms for flavor, the stews were a tasty and nourishing meal for all.
But it was not a task Evie had envisaged, nor wished to continue doing, for the rest of her life. Any more than becoming an old maid for many years before dying had appealed to her.
“I think not, gentlemen.” An educated male voice dryly echoed her thoughts.
Evie sharply raised her head to stare in the direction of that voice. She drew in a sharp breath as she instantly recognized Hunter St. John, the Duke of Lincoln, as he stood on the edge of their camp, the raised pistol in his hand pointed at Paul Harker.
Considering the gravity of her situation, it was not the time for Evie to be in the least concerned with her appearance, and yet it was her first thought after recognizing the duke.
The men preferred to keep the clean water, carried here from the river, for drinking and cooking rather than allowing her to use any to wash with. This meant her face and arms were streaked with dirt from the forest floor. The lace gloves she had been wearing when taken had long ago been consigned to the fire, nor had she seen any point in donning another pair when most of her time was spent in preparing food for her captors. Strands of her dark and unwashed hair had escaped the bun at her crown and fell limply about her shoulders. Her gown, once a beautiful white-and-green sprigged muslin, was just as filthy, her satin slippers suffering the same fate.
She must look like something feral.
* * *
Hunter had never seen a young woman as beautiful as the one seated beside the fire with the raggedly clothed men.
A woman he must assume to be his ward, Miss Evelyn Gardener. The conversation he had overheard, and because he had seen no other females present during the ten minutes he had taken to observe the camp before making his presence known, indicated as much.
Just the huskiness of the woman’s voice had sent a quiver of…something down Hunter’s spine. A something which did not please him in the slightest.
The last time he had set eyes upon Evelyn, she had been flat-chested and thin as a stick. Her long dark hair had been loose and slightly curling almost to her waist, as was the custom in one so young. The two bows of ribbon secured above her ears had added to that impression of her being a child still. He seemed to recall her complexion had been red and mottled at the time, from both youth and temper.
The young woman who now rose to her feet was far from being a child.
Her long dark hair was haphazardly secured at her crown, with several long tendrils having escaped the pins. Dark brows were defined over eyes of crystalline blue, her skin pale and unblemished except for several smears of dirt upon her cheeks and brow. Her lips—dear Lord, the things Hunter could imagine doing between those pouting lips!—were plump and a natural deep rose color. The short-sleeved gown she wore might once have been primarily white, but it was now a dirty gray, with similar dirt stains to that upon her face, arms, and her bare hands. Her breasts—
Dear God, her breasts were so magnificent, Hunter could easily imagine poets and bards writing sonnets and singing songs about them.
They were creamy, and so full, they spilled slightly over the low neckline of her gown,beggingto have a man’s hands and lips upon them.
Hishands and lips?
The imagery alone caused Hunter’s cock to harden. A painful reminder it had been a long time since he had felt this attracted to any woman, let alone taken his pleasure with one.
It was unacceptable that he should now feel that desire toward the daughter of the woman who had been his father’s mistress.
Although, if Evie looked anything like her mother, it perhaps explained in part why his father had—
No! His father’s behavior had been beyond explanation when it had resulted in his neglecting his legal wife and son.
Hunter’s own physical response to Evelyn Gardener was just as inexcusable.
“Ye’re tha Duke of Lincoln.” A gravelly voice interrupted his disturbing thoughts.
Hunter felt somewhat relieved to have reason to level his gaze upon the eldest of the men dressed in ragged clothing. Anything to prevent him from continuing to stare at the alluring woman, a woman whom he should dislike, but had instead reacted to so viscerally.
The other man’s dark hair was liberally streaked with gray and secured with a leather tie at his nape. His face was thin and lined, as if he had seen and still suffered too much depravation, physically as well as emotionally.
“I am,” Hunter confirmed. “And you are Mr. Harker, I presume?” The first thing Hunter had done upon his arrival in Yorkshire yesterday had been to make inquiries from several of the people he knew in the area regarding the men living in the forests close to his estate.
One name, Paul Harker, had been mentioned again and again. The men reputed to be with him were Davie Armitage, Fred Barlow, Willie Moore, Tommy Dinsdale, and John Clegg. All of them ex-soldiers with nowhere else to go other than to remain beside the man who had been their sergeant for so many years.
Hunter had no doubt that the men seated about the open fire were those same men.
