chapter 4

“Obviously Daisy is the runt of the litter,” Thomas Bowman said later that night, pacing back and forth across the small private receiving area attached to his room. He and Matthew had agreed to meet after supper while the other guests congregated downstairs. “She is undersized and frivolous. ‘Give her a solid, practical name,’ I told my wife when the child was born. Jane or Constance or something of the sort. Instead she chose Marguerite…French, mind you!…after a cousin on her maternal side. And then it degenerated further when Lillian, who was only four at the time, learned that Marguerite was the French word for a damned insignificant flower. But from then on Lillian called her Daisy, and it stuck…”

As Bowman continued to ramble, Matthew thought of how perfect the name was, the small white-petaled flower that appeared so delicate and yet was remarkably hardy. It said something that in a family of overpowering personalities that Daisy had always remained stubbornly true to her own nature.

“…obviously I would have to sugarcoat the deal,” Thomas Bowman was saying. “I know you well enough to be certain that you would choose a very different sort of woman for yourself, one with more practical uses than a flighty slip of a girl like Daisy. Therefore—”

“No sugarcoating would be necessary,” Matthew interrupted calmly. “Daisy…that is, Miss Bowman, is entirely—” Beautiful. Desirable. Bewitching. “—acceptable. Marrying a woman like Miss Bowman would be a reward in itself.”

“Good,” Bowman grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Very gentlemanly of you to say so. Still, I will offer you fair recompense in the form of a generous dowry, more shares in the company and so forth. You will be quite satisfied, I assure you. Now as to the wedding arrangements—”

“I didn’t say yes,” Matthew interrupted.

Bowman stopped pacing and sent him a questioning stare.

“To start with,” Matthew continued carefully, “it is possible Miss Bowman will find a suitor within the next two months.”

“She will find no suitors of your caliber,” Bowman said smugly.

Matthew replied gravely despite his amusement. “Thank you. But I don’t believe Miss Bowman shares your high opinion.”

The older man made a dismissive gesture. “Bah. Women’s minds are as changeable as English weather. You can persuade her to like you. Give her a posy of flowers, throw a few compliments in her direction…better yet, quote something from one of those blasted poetry books she reads. Seducing a woman is easily accomplished, Swift. All you have to do is—”

“Mr. Bowman,” Matthew interrupted with a sudden touch of alarm. God in heaven, all he needed was an explanation of courtship techniques from his employer. “I believe I could manage that without any advice. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what…ah.” Bowman gave him a man-of-the-world smile. “I understand.”

“You understand what?” Matthew asked apprehensively.

“Obviously you fear my reaction if you should decide later on that my daughter is not adequate to your needs. But as long as you behave with discretion, I won’t say a word.”

Matthew sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling weary. This was a bit much to face so soon after his ship had landed in Bristol. “You’re saying you’ll look the other way if I stray from my wife,” he said rather than asked.

“We men face temptations. Sometimes we stray. It is the way of the world.”

“It’s not my way,” Matthew said flatly. “I stand by my word, both in business and in my personal life. If or when I promise to be faithful to a woman, I would be. No matter what.”

Bowman’s heavy mustache twitched with amusement. “You’re still young enough to afford scruples.”

“The old can’t afford them?” Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery.

“Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You’ll discover that someday.”

“God, I hope not.” Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

After a long moment Bowman ventured, “Would it really be so terrible having Daisy for a wife? You’ll have to marry sometime. And she comes with benefits. The company, for example. You will be given controlling interest in it upon my death.”

“You’ll outlive us all,” Matthew muttered.

Bowman let out a pleased laugh. “I want you to have the company,” he insisted. It was the first time he had ever spoken this frankly on the subject. “You’re more like me than any of my sons. The company will be far better off in your hands than anyone else’s. You have a gift…an ability to enter a room and take it over…you fear no one, and they all know it, and they esteem you for it. Marry my daughter, Swift, and build my factory. By the time you come home, I’ll give you New York.”

“Could you throw in Rhode Island? It’s not very large.”

Bowman ignored the sardonic question. “I have ambitions for you beyond the company. I am connected with powerful men, and you have not escaped their notice. I will help you achieve anything your mind can conceive…and the price is a small one. Take Daisy and sire my grandchildren. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all,” Matthew repeated dazedly.

When Matthew had begun to work for Bowman ten years ago, he had never expected the man would come to be a surrogate father to him. Bowman was like a barrel of explosives, short, round and so quick-tempered you could predict one of his infamous tirades by watching the top of his bald head turn fiery red. But Bowman was clever with numbers, and when it came to managing people he was incredibly shrewd and calculating. He was also generous to those who pleased him, and he was a man who kept his promises and fulfilled his obligations.

Matthew had learned a great deal from Thomas Bowman, how to sniff out an opponent’s weakness and turn it to his advantage, when to push and when to hold back…and he had learned, too, that it was all right to unleash his aggressiveness in business as long as he never crossed the line into outright rudeness. New York businessmen—the real ones, not the upper-class dilettantes—did not respect you unless you displayed a certain amount of contentiousness.

At the same time Matthew had learned to temper his vigor with diplomacy after learning that winning an argument didn’t necessarily mean he would get his way. Charm had not come easily to him, with his guarded nature. But he had painstakingly acquired it as a necessary instrument to do his job well.

Thomas Bowman had backed Matthew every step of the way and had steered him through a couple of precarious deals. Matthew had been grateful for his guidance. And he couldn’t help but like his prickly employer despite his faults—because there was some truth in Bowman’s claim that they were alike.

How a man like Bowman had produced a daughter like Daisy was one of life’s great mysteries.

“I need some time to consider this,” Matthew said.

“What is there to consider?” Bowman protested. “I’ve already said—” He stopped as he saw Matthew’s expression. “All right. All right. I suppose there is no need for an immediate answer. We’ll discuss it later.”

“Did you speak to Mr. Swift?” Lillian demanded as Marcus entered their bedroom. She had dozed off while trying to wait up for him, and was struggling to a sitting position in the bed.

“Oh, I spoke to him,” Marcus replied ruefully, shrugging out of his coat. He laid the well-tailored garment across the arms of a Louis XIV chair.

“I was right, wasn’t I? He’s abominable. Detestable. Tell me what he said.”

Marcus stared at his pregnant wife, who was so beautiful with her long hair unbound and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep that it made his heart skip a beat. “Not yet,” he murmured, half-sitting on the bed. “First I want to stare at you for a while.”

Lillian smiled and scrubbed her hands through her wild dark mane. “I look a fright.”

“No.” He moved closer, his voice lowering. “Every part of you is lovely.” His hands slid gently over the abundant curves of her body, soothing rather than arousing. “What can I do for you?” he whispered.

She continued to smile. “One glance at me will reveal that you’ve done quite enough already, my lord.” Encircling him with her slender arms, she let him rest his head against her br**sts. “Westcliff,” she said against his hair, “I could never have anyone’s child but yours.”

“That is reassuring.”

“I feel so overtaken…and bloody uncomfortable. Is it wrong to say I don’t like being pregnant?”

“Of course not,” Marcus returned, his voice muffled in her cle**age. “I wouldn’t like it either.”

That drew a grin from her. Releasing him, she settled back against the pillows. “I want to hear about Mr. Swift. Tell me what was said between you and that odious walking scarecrow.”

“I wouldn’t describe him as a scarecrow, precisely. It appears he has changed since you saw him last.”

“Hmm.” Lillian was obviously displeased by the revelation. “He is ill-favored, nonetheless.”

“Since I rarely dwell on thoughts of male attractiveness,” Marcus said dryly, “I do not qualify as a competent judge. But I think hardly anyone would describe Mr. Swift as being ill-favored.”

“Are you saying he’s attractive?”

“I believe many would claim so, yes.”

Lillian ****** a hand in front of his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Marcus said, amused. “My love, what are you doing?”

“Checking your eyesight. I think your vision is failing. Here, follow the movement of my finger—”

“Why don’t you follow the movement of mine?” he suggested, reaching for her bodice.

She grabbed his hand and stared into his sparkling eyes. “Marcus, do be serious. Daisy’s future is at stake!”

Marcus settled back obligingly. “Very well.”

“Tell me what was said,” she prompted.

“I informed Mr. Swift quite sternly that I will not allow anyone to make Daisy unhappy. And I demanded that he give me his word not to marry her.”

“Oh, thank God,” Lillian said with a sigh of relief.

“He refused.”

“He what?” Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “But no one refuses you.”

“Apparently Mr. Swift wasn’t told about that,” he said.

“Marcus, you’re going to do something, aren’t you? You won’t let Daisy be browbeaten and harassed into marrying Swift—”

“Hush, love. I promise, Daisy will not be forced to marry anyone against her will. However…” Marcus hesitated, wondering exactly how much of the truth he should admit. “My opinion of Matthew Swift is somewhat different than yours.”

Her brows lowered. “My opinion is more accurate. I’ve known him longer.”

“You knew him years ago,” Marcus said evenly. “People change, Lillian. And I think much of what your father has claimed about Swift is true.”

“Et tu, Marcus?”

He grinned at Lillian’s theatrical grimace and reached beneath the covers. Fishing out one of her bare feet, he pulled it into his lap and began to knead her aching arch with deep strokes of his thumbs. She sighed and relaxed against the pillows.

Marcus considered what he had learned about Swift so far. He was an intelligent young man, deft and well-mannered. The kind who thought before he spoke. Marcus had always felt comfortable around such men.

On the surface, the pairing of Matthew Swift with Daisy Bowman was wildly incongruous. But Marcus did not entirely agree with Lillian’s belief that Daisy should marry a man who possessed the same romantic and sensitive nature. There would be no equilibrium in such a union. After all, every swift-sailing ship needed an anchor.

“We must send Daisy to London as soon as possible,” Lillian fretted. “It’s the height of the season, and she’s buried in Hampshire away from all the balls and soirees—”

“It was her choice to come here,” Marcus reminded her, reaching for her other foot. “She would never forgive herself if she missed the baby’s birth.”

“Oh, bother that. I would rather Daisy miss the birth and meet eligible men instead of having to wait here with me until her time runs out and she has to marry Matthew Swift and move with him to New York and then I’ll never see her again—”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Marcus said. “Which is why I undertook to invite a number of eligible men to StonyCrossPark for the stag-and-hind hunt.”

“You did?” Her head lifted from the pillow.

“St. Vincent and I came up with a list and debated the merits of each candidate at length. We settled on an even dozen. Any one of them would do for your sister.”

“Oh, Marcus, you are the most clever, most wonderful—”

He waved away the praise and shook his head with a grin, remembering the lively arguments. “St. Vincent is damned finicky, let me tell you. If he were a woman, no man would be good enough for him.”

“They never are,” Lillian told him impudently. “Which is why we women have a saying…‘Aim high, then settle.’”

He snorted. “Is that what you did?”

A smile curved her lips. “No, my lord. I aimed high and got far more than I’d bargained for.” And she giggled as he crawled over her prone body and kissed her soundly.

The sun had not yet risen by the time a group of guests bent on trout fishing had partaken of a hasty breakfast on the back terrace and had gone out dressed in tweed and rough twill and waxed linen. Sleepy-eyed servants followed the gentlemen to the trout stream, carrying rods, creels, and wooden cases containing flies and tools. The men would be gone for a good part of the morning while the ladies slept.

All the ladies except Daisy. She loved fishing, but she knew without asking that she would not be welcome in the all-male group. And while she and Lillian had often gone by themselves in the past, her older sister was certainly in no condition to do so now.

Daisy had done her best to persuade Evie or Annabelle to come with her to the artificial lake that Westcliff kept generously stocked with trout, but neither of them had seemed enthusiastic about the prospect.

“You’ll have a smashing time,” Daisy had wheedled. “I’ll teach you how to cast—it’s quite easy, really. Don’t say you’re going to stay inside on a beautiful spring morning!”

As it turned out, Annabelle thought that sleeping late was a fine idea. And since Evie’s husband St. Vincent had decided not to go fishing, Evie said she would rather remain in bed with him.

“You would have much more fun fishing with me,” Daisy had told her.

“No,” Evie had said decisively, “I wouldn’t.”

Feeling cross and just a little bit lonely, Daisy breakfasted by herself and set out to the lake, carrying her favorite lancewood rod with the whalebone top and the clamp-foot reel.

It was a glorious morning, the air soft and alive. Overwintering salvia sprang in bright blue and purple spikes alongside the blackthorn hedgerows. Daisy crossed a mown green field toward ground that was blanketed with buttercups, yarrow, and the bright pink petals of ragged robin.

As she rounded a mulberry tree Daisy saw a disturbance at the water’s edge…two young boys, with something between them, some kind of animal or bird…a goose? The creature was protesting with angry honks, flapping its wings violently at the giggling lads.

“Here, now,” Daisy called out. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Seeing the intruder, the boys yelped and broke into a full bore run, their legs a blur as they headed away from the lake.

Daisy quickened her pace and approached the indignant goose. It was a huge domestic Greylag, a breed known for its gray plumage, muscular neck and sharp orange beak.

“Poor fellow,” Daisy said as she saw that its leg was tied with something. As she drew closer, the hostile goose darted forward as if to attack her. It was abruptly caught up on whatever it was that tethered his leg. Pausing, Daisy set down her fishing gear. “I’m going to try to help you,” she informed the aggressive bird. “But an attitude like that is rather off-putting. If you could manage to control your temper…” Inching toward the goose, Daisy investigated the source of the problem. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Those little scamps…they were making you fish for them, weren’t they?”

The goose screeched in agreement.

A length of fishing line had been knotted around the goose’s leg, leading to a tin spoon with a hole punched through the bowl. A fishhook had been attached to the hole. Were it not for her sympathy for the ill-used goose, Daisy would have laughed.

It was ingenious. As the goose was tossed out into the water and had to swim its way back, the tin spoon would flash like a minnow. If a trout was attracted by the lure it would be caught on the hook, and the goose would tow it in. But the hook had caught on some bramble, effectively imprisoning the goose.

Daisy kept her voice soft and her movements slow as she crept toward the bramble. The bird froze and peered at her with one bright black eye.

“There’s a nice fellow,” Daisy soothed, carefully reaching for the line. “My goodness, you’re large. If you’ll just be patient a moment longer, I’ll—ouch!” Suddenly the goose had rushed forward and struck her forearm with a hammer-blow of its beak.

Scampering back, Daisy glanced down at the little dent on her skin, which was beginning to bruise. She scowled at the belligerent goose. “You ungrateful creature! Just for that I ought to leave you here like this.”

Rubbing the sore spot on her arm, Daisy wondered if she might be able to use her fishing rod to unhook the line from the bramble…but that still didn’t solve the problem of removing the spoon from the goose’s leg. She would have to walk back to the manor and find someone to help.

As she bent to pick up her fishing gear, she heard an unexpected noise. Someone whistling an oddly familiar tune. Daisy listened intently, remembering the melody. It was a song that had been popular in New York just before she had left, called “The End Of A Perfect Day.”

Someone was walking toward her from the direction of the river. A man dressed in sodden clothes, carrying a fishing creel and wearing an ancient low-brimmed hat. He was wearing a sportsman’s tweed coat and rough trousers, and it was impossible not to notice the way the layers of his clothing clung wetly to the lean contours of his body. Her senses leaped with recognition, galvanizing her pulse to a new pace.

The man stopped in mid-whistle as he saw her. His eyes were bluer than the water or the sky, startling in his tanned face. As he removed his hat in deference, the sun brought out rich mahogany glints in the heavy dark locks of his hair.

“Blast,” Daisy said to herself. Not just because he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, but also because she had to admit that Matthew Swift was extraordinarily good-looking. She didn’t want to find him so physically appealing. Nor did she want to feel such curiosity about him, the desire to steal inside his privacy and discover his secrets and pleasures and fears. Why had she never taken an interest in him before? Perhaps she had been too immature. Perhaps it wasn’t he who had changed, but she.

Swift approached her cautiously. “Miss Bowman.”

“Good morning, Mr. Swift. Why aren’t you fishing with the others?”

“My creel is full. And I was outfishing them to the extent that it was going to embarrass them all if I continued.”

“How modest you are,” Daisy said wryly. “Where’s your rod?”

“Westcliff took it.”

“Why?”

Setting down his creel, Swift replaced his hat. “I brought it with me from America. It’s a jointed hickory rod with a flexible ash tip and a Kentucky multiplying reel with a balanced crank handle.”

“Multiplying reels don’t work,” Daisy said.

“British multipliers don’t,” Swift corrected. “But in the states we’ve made a few improvements. As soon as Westcliff realized I was able to cast directly from the spool, he practically ripped the thing from my hands. He’s fishing with it as we speak.”

Knowing her brother-in-law’s love of technological devices, Daisy smiled ruefully. She felt Swift’s gaze on her, and she didn’t want to look back at him, but she found herself staring anyway.

It was jarring to reconcile her memories of the odious young man she had known with this robust specimen of manhood. He was like a new-minted copper penny, bright and shiny and perfect. The morning light slid over his skin and caught in the glittering length of his lashes and the tiny fans of lines radiating from the outward corners of his eyes. She wanted to touch his face, to make him smile and feel the curve of his lips beneath her fingers.

The silence lengthened, becoming strained and awkward until it was broken by the goose’s imperious honk.

Swift glanced at the massive bird. “You have a companion, I see.” When Daisy explained what the two boys had been doing with the goose, Swift grinned. “Clever lads.”

The remark did not strike Daisy as being especially compassionate. “I want to help him,” she said. “But when I tried to get near, he pecked me. I expected a domestic breed would have been a bit more receptive to my approach.”

“Greylags are not known for their mild temperaments,” Swift informed her. “Particularly males. He was probably trying to show you who was boss.”

“He proved his point,” Daisy said, rubbing her arm.

Swift frowned as he saw the growing bruise on her arm. “Is that where he pecked you? Let me see.”

“No, it’s all right—” she began, but he had already come forward. His long fingers encircled her wrist, the thumb of his other hand passing gently near the dark purple mark.

“You bruise easily,” he murmured, his dark head bent over her arm.

Daisy’s heart dispensed a series of hard thumps before settling into a fast rhythm. He smelled like the outdoors—sun, water, grassy-sweet. And deeper in the fragrance lingered the tantalizing incense of warm, sweaty male. She fought the instinct to move into his arms, against his body…to pull his hand to her ******. The mute craving shocked her.

Glancing up at his downturned face, Daisy found his blue eyes staring right into hers. “I…” Nervously she pulled away from him. “What are we to do?”

“About the goose?” His broad shoulders hitched in a shrug. “We could wring his neck and take him home for dinner.”

The suggestion caused Daisy and the Greylag to stare at him in shared outrage.

“That was a very poor joke, Mr. Swift.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Daisy placed herself squarely between Swift and the goose. “I will deal with the situation on my own. You may leave now.”

“I wouldn’t advise making a pet of him. You’ll eventually find him on your plate if you stay at StonyCrossPark long enough.”

“I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite,” she said. “I would rather not eat a goose I’m acquainted with.”

Though Swift did not crack a smile, Daisy sensed he was amused by her remark.

“Philosophical questions aside,” he said, “there’s the practical matter of how you intend to free his leg. You’ll get beaten black and blue for your pains.”

“If you would hold him still, I could reach for the spoon and—”

“Not,” Swift said firmly, “for all the tea in China.”

“That expression has never made sense to me,” she told him. “In terms of total world production, India grows far more tea than China.”

Swift’s lips twitched as he considered the point. “Since China is the leading international producer of hemp,” he said, “I suppose one could say ‘Not for all the hemp in China’…but it doesn’t have the same ring. However you care to phrase it, I’m not going to help the goose.” He bent to pick up his creel.

“Please,” Daisy said.

Swift gave her a long-suffering look.

“Please,” she repeated.

No gentleman could refuse a lady who had used the word twice.

Muttering something indecipherable beneath his breath, Swift set the creel back down.

A self-satisfied smile curved Daisy’s lips. “Thank you.”

Her smile faded, however, when he warned, “You’ll owe me for this.”

“Naturally,” Daisy replied. “I would never expect you to do something for nothing.”

“And when I call in the favor, you’re not even going to think of refusing, no matter what it is.”

“Within reason. I’m not going to agree to marry you just because you rescued a poor trapped goose.”

“Believe me,” Swift said darkly, “marriage won’t be any part of it.” He began to remove his coat, having difficulty stripping the damp olive-colored tweed from his broad shoulders.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Daisy’s eyes widened.

His mouth held an exasperated slant. “I’m not going to let that blasted bird ruin my coat.”

“There’s no need to make a fuss over getting a few feathers on your coat.”

“It’s not feathers I’m worried about,” he said curtly.

“Oh.” Daisy fought to hold back a sudden smile.

She watched him take off his coat and his vest. His creased white shirt adhered to his broad chest, becoming wetter and almost transparent as it stuck to the muscle-banded surface of his abdomen and disappeared beneath the sodden band of his trousers. A pair of white braces stretched over his shoulders and crossed the powerful surface of his back. He laid his discarded garments carefully over his creel to keep them from becoming muddy. A breeze played with the clipped layers of his hair, briefly lifting a lock on his forehead.

The strangeness of the situation…the baleful goose, Matthew Swift waterlogged and dressed in his shirtsleeves…caused an irrepressible giggle to rise to Daisy’s lips. Hastily she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it came out anyway.

He shook his head, while an answering smile broke out on his face. Daisy noticed that his smiles never lasted for long, they vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was like catching sight of some rare natural phenomenon, like a shooting star, brief and striking.

“If you tell anyone about this, you little imp…you’ll pay.” The words were threatening, but something in his tone…an erotic softness…sent a hot-and-cold chill down her spine.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Daisy said breathlessly. “The situation would reflect as badly on me as it would on you.”

Swift reached into his discarded coat, extracted a small penknife and handed it to her. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered an extra second on the surface of her palm?

“What’s this for?” she asked uneasily.

“To cut the string from the bird’s leg. Be careful—it’s very sharp. I’d hate for you to accidentally slice open an artery.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.”

“I was referring to myself, not the goose.” He slid an assessing glance over the impatient fowl. “If you make this difficult,” he said to the goose, “you’ll be pate by suppertime.”

The bird raised its wings threateningly to make itself appear as large as possible.

Moving forward in a deliberate step, Swift placed one foot on the line, shortening the goose’s range of movement. The creature flapped and hissed, pausing for a moment before making the decision to hurl itself forward. Swift seized the goose, cursing as he tried to avoid the driving beak. A flurry of feathers rose around the pair.

“Don’t choke him,” Daisy cried, seeing that Swift had gotten hold of the goose’s neck.

It was perhaps fortunate that Swift’s reply was lost in the explosion of movement and honking and goose-battling. Somehow Swift managed to restrain the bird until it was a writhing, spitting mass in his arms. Disheveled and blanketed with feathers and down, he glared at Daisy, “Get over here and cut the line,” he snapped.

Hastily she obeyed, dropping to her knees beside the grappling pair. Gingerly she reached for the goose’s muddy webbed foot, and it squawked and jerked its leg away.

“For God’s sake, don’t be timid,” she heard Swift say impatiently. “Just grab hold of the thing and get to work.”

Had there not been thirty pounds of furious goose caught between them, Daisy would have glared at Matthew Swift. Instead she seized the goose’s tethered foot in a firm grip and carefully slid the tip of the knife beneath the line. Swift had been right—the blade was wickedly sharp. With one nick it cut the line cleanly in two.

“It’s done,” she said triumphantly, closing the knife. “You may release our feathered friend, Mr. Swift.”

“Thank you,” came his sardonic reply.

But as Swift opened his arms and freed the bird, it reacted unexpectedly. Bent on vengeance, blaming its captor for all its woes, the creature twisted to aim a jab at his face.

“Ow!” Swift fell back to a half-sitting position, clutching a hand to his eye while the goose sped away with a triumphant honk.

“Mr. Swift!” Daisy crawled over him in concern, straddling his lap. She tugged at his hand. “Let me see.”

“I’m all right,” he said, rubbing his eye.

“Let me see,” she repeated, grasping his head in her hands.

“I’m going to demand goose hash for dinner,” he muttered, letting her turn his face to the side.

“You will do no such thing.” Daisy gently inspected the tiny wound at the edge of his dark eyebrow and used her sleeve to blot a drop of blood. “It’s bad form to eat someone after you’ve saved them.” A tremor of laughter ran through her voice. “Fortunately the goose had bad aim. I don’t think your eye will turn black.”

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” he muttered. “You’re covered with feathers, you know.”

“So are you.” Tiny bits of fluff and spars of gray and white were caught in his shiny brown hair. More laughter escaped her, like bubbles rising to the surface of a pond. She began to pick feathers and down from his hair, the thick locks tickling-soft against her fingers.

Levering himself upward, Swift reached for her hair, which had begun to fall from its pins. His fingers were gentle as he pulled feathers from the glinting black strands.

For a silent minute or two they worked on each other. Daisy was so intent on the task that the impropriety of her position didn’t occur to her at first. For the first time she was close enough to notice the variegated blue of his eyes, ringed with cobalt at the outer edge of the irises. And the texture of his skin, satiny and sun-hued, with the shadow of close-shaven stubble on his jaw.

She realized that Swift was deliberately avoiding her gaze, concentrating on finding every tiny piece of down in her hair. Suddenly she became aware of a simmering communication between their bodies, the solid strength of him beneath her, the incendiary drift of his breath against her cheek. His clothes were damp, the heat of his skin burning through wherever it pressed against hers.

They both went still at the same moment, caught together in a half-embrace while every cell of Daisy’s skin seemed to fill with liquid fire. Fascinated, disoriented, she let herself relax into it, feeling the throb of her pulse in every extremity. There were no more feathers, but Daisy found herself gently lacing her fingers through the dark waves of his hair.

It would be so easy for him to roll her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the damp earth. The hardness of their knees pressed together through layers of fabric, triggering a primitive instinct for her to open to him, to let him move her limbs as he would.

She heard Swift’s breath catch. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and unceremoniously removed her from his lap.

Landing on the grass beside him with a decisive thump, Daisy tried to gather her wits. Silently she found the pen-knife on the ground and handed it back to him.

After slipping the knife back into his pocket, he made a project of brushing feathers and dirt from his calves.

Wondering why he was sitting in such an oddly cramped posture, Daisy struggled to her feet. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I’ll have to sneak back into the manor through the servants’ entrance. If Mother sees me, she’ll have conniptions.”

“I’m going back to the river,” Swift said, his voice hoarse. “To find out how Westcliff is faring with the reel. And maybe I’ll fish some more.”

Daisy frowned as she realized he was deliberately avoiding her.

“I should think you’d had enough of standing up to your waist in cold water today,” she said.

“Apparently not,” Swift muttered, keeping his back to her as he reached for his vest and coat.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***