crack of sound, like a rotten branch makes when it breaks under an accumulation of snow, and he fell back as if he’d been pole-axed.
Not sure what had happened, Ian lifted his head and found his ward standing like an avenging angel over the fallen man. She held a piece of deadfall, and it was obvious by her posture that she had swung it like a club against the villain’s head.
“I’m sorry that took so long,” she said apologetically, “but you were too close to allow me to strike before. I was afraid I would hit you instead of him.”
She was apologizing, Ian realized. Apologizing that she hadn’t defeated his opponent more quickly. He laughed, unsure whether that laughter was born of relief, admiration or sheer giddiness. The sharp sting that it caused in his cut lip, however, cleared his head, and he began to understand the debt he owed Anne Darlington. He couldn’t imagine another woman of his acquaintance having the courage to do what she had just done.
Anne’s eyes had fallen once more to the man on the ground, who appeared to be still unconscious. Apparently reassured, she looked up again at Ian, as she lowered the broken limb.
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
Despite the darkness, Ian could see how pale she was, her fair skin drained of color. Tendrils of damp red hair hung about her face or were plastered to it by the snow. Her clothing was undoubtedly as wet as his own, Ian realized, feeling for the first time the cold moisture seeping through his sodden greatcoat and soaking the garments beneath it.
Unable to find breath with which to answer the question he should have been asking her, he nodded. He was beginning to believe he really was all right, despite the exertions of the fight. And then, with an unexpectedness that was shocking, his knees gave way. He fell on them to the ground, reaching out just in time to catch himself with his hand. Ian watched his glove sink into the slush and then begin to slide forward, leaving a shallow trough to mark its passage.
He was almost disinterested in the process, although on some level he knew that he was about to end up face-down in the snow. He wondered idly if he were dying. Suddenly a pair of strong young arms slipped around his midsection. Steadying him. Virtually holding him up. Still on his hands and knees, he turned his head and looked into Anne Darlington’s eyes.
“I’m all right,” he said, lying through his teeth.
He looked back down at the ground, watching blood drip onto the snow, staining its white with pink. He closed his eyes, not because the sight bothered him, but in order to will strength back into his body. Every inch of it ached, which was probably why he had no idea where that slow drip of blood was coming from.
“Let me help you up,” Anne offered.
He opened his eyes, turning his head again to face her. Obediently, he pushed against the ground, and with her aid managed to get to his knees. And knew with stunning clarity that he wasn’t going any farther. Not for a while.
“If I could rest a moment…” he suggested, still breathing through his mouth, trying to assess the severity of his injuries, all of which were making themselves heard in a disharmonious clamor of pain.
“Of course,” she said.
He swayed slightly, and felt her arms tighten comfortingly around him. She was very close, her body pressed against his. There was no false modesty in the way she held him. And no more embarrassment than Dare or his valet might have felt in offering him their help.
Ian closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean against her strength. He was infinitely grateful for it, as improper as what they were doing might seem to anyone else. They had been through a terrifying experience, and she was, after all, his ward.
She is also a woman. A very desirable woman.
The thought was shocking, given that until he had seen her brandishing that branch, he had been thinking of Anne only as George Darlington’s daughter. As a school-girl. She might be the former, but despite the circumstances in which he had discovered her, she was definitely not the latter. Unbelievably, his battered body was forcibly reminding him of that.
It had been a long time since Ian Sinclair had held, or been held, by a woman. And a very long time, therefore, since he had felt this rush of pure physical reaction. It unnerved him, not only because it was so unexpected, but because of its intensity.
And because, of course, that of all the women to whom he might legitimately have felt such an attraction, Anne Darlington was the most forbidden. She was his ward, given into his care by her father. Even if it had been without Ian’s consent.
And other than that consideration, Ian was the last man on earth who might make any claim on Anne Darlington. The least suitable man she would ever meet to offer her his heart or his hand.
Since he could not in honor ever do either of those things, he had no right to touch her, even in a situation that had begun as innocently as this one. And so, despite the lingering weakness, Ian put his arm over Anne’s slender shoulders, and again relying her strength, struggled to his feet.
As soon as he had, he stepped away from her embrace, creating the necessary distance between them. A distance he had never anticipated crossing.
“Thank you,” he said.
Nothing of what he had felt during those brief moments they had knelt together was revealed in his eyes or in his voice. And again, he had reason to be grateful for the control he had learned on the Peninsula, as well as for the lessons of duty and honor.
What had just happened would be forgotten, the memory of it destroyed by his determination to destroy it. And by his determination to carry out the responsibility he had been given.
The responsibility of finding Anne Darlington a husband. And that man could never, of course, be Ian Sinclair.
Chapter Three
“Amazing how quickly it can strike, even in the best of families,” a deep voice ventured lazily.
Ian had opened his eyes, and became aware of his surroundings for almost the first time in six fever-ridden days. Hearing that sarcastic comment from the man sitting beside his bed, he fought the urge to shut them again and pretend delirium.
“Insanity, I mean,” the Earl of Dare added, closing the leather-bound volume he had obviously been reading from as Ian slept.
Despite the way he felt, Ian’s mouth lifted into a reluctant smile, which was quickly answered by his brother’s.
“How do you feel?” Dare asked.
“Foolish,” Ian said, surprised to find how much effort was required to form that one-word answer.
“As you bloody well should. Whatever made you think you could go tearing off across the country—”
Ian raised his hand, its palm toward the earl, putting an end to that pointless castigation. After a moment, he let it fall to the counterpane, but his eyes held on Dare’s, which, below the outrage, were filled with concern.
“No lectures, I beg you,” Ian said.
“I’m to let you kill yourself at your leisure, I suppose.”
“Hardy
