come loose, pulled free of a strategically anchored pin. The lock fanned over her face, obscuring her vision. Before she could reach up to push it away, he did it for her, and the brush of his fingertips sent ripples of liquid fire along intimate pathways of her body.
“You,” he said softly.
Cam Rohan.
It can’t be, she thought dazedly. Here, in Hampshire? But there were the unmistakable eyes, gold and hazel and heavy lashed, the midnight hair, the wicked mouth. And the pagan glitter of a diamond at his ear.
His expression was perturbed, as if he’d been reminded of something he had wanted to forget. But as his gaze slid over her bewildered face, his mouth curved a little, and he settled into the cradle of her body with an insolent familiarity that temporarily robbed her of breath.
“Mr. Rohan … how … why … what are you doing here?”
He replied without moving, as if he were planning to lie there and converse all day. His infinitely polite tone was an unsettling contrast to the intimacy of their position. “Miss Hathaway. What a pleasant surprise. As it happens, I’m visiting friends. And you?”
“I live here.”
“I don’t think so. This is Lord Westcliff’s estate.”
Her heart thundered in her breast as her body absorbed the details of him. “I didn’t mean precisely here, I meant over there, on the other side of the woods. The Ramsay estate. We’ve just taken up residence.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from chattering in the aftermath of nerves and fright. “What was that noise? What were you doing? Why do you have that tattoo on your arm? It’s a pooka—an Irish creature—isn’t it?”
That last question earned her an arrested stare. Before Rohan could reply, the other two men approached. From her prone position, Amelia had an upside-down view of them. Like Rohan, they were in their shirtsleeves, with waistcoats left unbuttoned.
One of them was a portly old gentleman with a shock of silver hair. He held a small wood-and-metal sextant, which had been strung around his neck on a lanyard. The other, black-haired man looked to be in his late thirties. He wasn’t as tall as Rohan, but he had an air of authority tempered with aristocratic arrogance.
Amelia made a helpless movement, and Rohan lifted away from her with fluid ease. He helped her stand, his arm steadying her. “How far did it go?” he asked the men.
“Devil take the rocket,” came a gravelly reply. “What is the woman’s condition?”
“Unharmed.”
The silver-haired gentleman remarked, “Impressive, Rohan. You covered a distance of fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds.”
“I would hardly miss a chance to leap on a beautiful woman,” Rohan said, causing the older man to chuckle.
Rohan’s hand remained at the small of Amelia’s back, the light pressure causing her blood to simmer.
Easing away from his distracting touch, Amelia raised her hands to the dangling front locks of her hair, tucking them behind her ears. “Why are you shooting rockets? And more to the point, why are you shooting them at my property?”
The stranger nearby gave her a sharp, assessing glance. “ Your property?”
Rohan interceded. “Lord Westcliff, this is Miss Amelia Hathaway. Lord Ramsay’s sister.”
Frowning, Westcliff executed a precise bow. “Miss Hathaway. I was not informed about your arrival. Had I been aware of your presence, I would have notified you about our rocketry experiments, as I have everyone else in the vicinity.”
It was clear that Westcliff was a man who expected to be informed about everything. He looked annoyed that the new neighbors had dared to move into their own residence without telling him first.
“We arrived only yesterday, my lord,” Amelia replied. “I had intended to call on you after we settled in.” Under ordinary circumstances, she would have left it at that. But she was still off balance, and there was no stopping the flow of comments from her own mouth.
“You,” he said softly.
Cam Rohan.
It can’t be, she thought dazedly. Here, in Hampshire? But there were the unmistakable eyes, gold and hazel and heavy lashed, the midnight hair, the wicked mouth. And the pagan glitter of a diamond at his ear.
His expression was perturbed, as if he’d been reminded of something he had wanted to forget. But as his gaze slid over her bewildered face, his mouth curved a little, and he settled into the cradle of her body with an insolent familiarity that temporarily robbed her of breath.
“Mr. Rohan … how … why … what are you doing here?”
He replied without moving, as if he were planning to lie there and converse all day. His infinitely polite tone was an unsettling contrast to the intimacy of their position. “Miss Hathaway. What a pleasant surprise. As it happens, I’m visiting friends. And you?”
“I live here.”
“I don’t think so. This is Lord Westcliff’s estate.”
Her heart thundered in her breast as her body absorbed the details of him. “I didn’t mean precisely here, I meant over there, on the other side of the woods. The Ramsay estate. We’ve just taken up residence.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from chattering in the aftermath of nerves and fright. “What was that noise? What were you doing? Why do you have that tattoo on your arm? It’s a pooka—an Irish creature—isn’t it?”
That last question earned her an arrested stare. Before Rohan could reply, the other two men approached. From her prone position, Amelia had an upside-down view of them. Like Rohan, they were in their shirtsleeves, with waistcoats left unbuttoned.
One of them was a portly old gentleman with a shock of silver hair. He held a small wood-and-metal sextant, which had been strung around his neck on a lanyard. The other, black-haired man looked to be in his late thirties. He wasn’t as tall as Rohan, but he had an air of authority tempered with aristocratic arrogance.
Amelia made a helpless movement, and Rohan lifted away from her with fluid ease. He helped her stand, his arm steadying her. “How far did it go?” he asked the men.
“Devil take the rocket,” came a gravelly reply. “What is the woman’s condition?”
“Unharmed.”
The silver-haired gentleman remarked, “Impressive, Rohan. You covered a distance of fifty yards in no more than five or six seconds.”
“I would hardly miss a chance to leap on a beautiful woman,” Rohan said, causing the older man to chuckle.
Rohan’s hand remained at the small of Amelia’s back, the light pressure causing her blood to simmer.
Easing away from his distracting touch, Amelia raised her hands to the dangling front locks of her hair, tucking them behind her ears. “Why are you shooting rockets? And more to the point, why are you shooting them at my property?”
The stranger nearby gave her a sharp, assessing glance. “ Your property?”
Rohan interceded. “Lord Westcliff, this is Miss Amelia Hathaway. Lord Ramsay’s sister.”
Frowning, Westcliff executed a precise bow. “Miss Hathaway. I was not informed about your arrival. Had I been aware of your presence, I would have notified you about our rocketry experiments, as I have everyone else in the vicinity.”
It was clear that Westcliff was a man who expected to be informed about everything. He looked annoyed that the new neighbors had dared to move into their own residence without telling him first.
“We arrived only yesterday, my lord,” Amelia replied. “I had intended to call on you after we settled in.” Under ordinary circumstances, she would have left it at that. But she was still off balance, and there was no stopping the flow of comments from her own mouth.
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