The Gamekeeper's Lady

‘Sit here,’ he said, a large, warm hand catching her elbow, steering her to another pile of rocks. Sparks seemed to shoot up her arm, as if he’d touched a lightning bolt and transmitted its energy to her through his fingers.

Her mouth dried. A man of his ilk shouldn’t be touching her at all.

Was this how her mother had felt with the lower orders? Entranced. Breathless. Hot all over. She could quite see why one might want to experience it again. And more.

Somehow she sank down in the place he suggested and saw with amazement that the rock on which she perched formed a comfortable backrest and screened her from the opening to the fox’s den, except for a narrow slit between two rocks.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘This is perfect.’

‘I aim to please,’ he replied with a flash of a grin.

The breath in her chest left her mouth in a besotted rush. The man should not smile. It was fatal. And, from the broadening smile, he knew it.

He sank to his haunches beside her, his back against the rock on which she sat, his shoulder touching her skirts. He sat and stretched out legs which seemed to go on for ever and terminated in sturdy brown boots covered in mud. The rough fabric of his trousers clung to his thighs in a most revealing manner, suggestive of hard muscle and power.

In the confined space between the boulders, his shoulders hemmed her in. Trapped her. His steady, even breathing filled her ears, warmth radiated from him and the smell of bay drifted on the still air, instilling a strong desire to inhale his manly scent. From the corner of her eye she admired the black curl of hair on the bronzed skin of his strong column of a neck and the way it skimmed the collar of his coarse linen shirt. Once more her pulse galloped out of control.

Oh, yes, he would make an excellent subject. She had never drawn a man from life, but this one had an air of natural nobility for all his lowly station. Intangible to the eye, it radiated off him like an aura. No other man of her acquaintance had such elegant male beauty. Particularly not Simon.

But would she have the skill to do him justice? It would mean spending hours in his company—his naked company—if she was to work in the classical style she longed to emulate. Any decent art school in Italy would want to see more than drawings of birds and wildlife to accept her as a serious artist. If her portfolio presented a study of him, and if it was any good…

Would he even be willing? Perhaps if she offered to pay him? She didn’t have much money, but she had some.

He glanced at her with a raised brow.

Heat suffused her face. What would he think of her, if she asked him to pose in the nude?

‘Tired of waiting?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Do you know why they call this Gallows Hill?’ she choked out over the pounding of her heart.

‘No.’

‘They hung the last highwayman in the district here. Mad Jack Kilgrew. Apparently, he took to the roads when he wasn’t allowed to marry the girl he loved.’ She knew she was gabbling, but she couldn’t stop. And since she didn’t have the nerve to broach what was on her mind, she just kept going. ‘They say all the local ladies were in love with him because he was so handsome and only ever stole kisses—the reason the menfolk hanged him out of hand.’