Thunder rolled; the echoes were still reverberating when lightning lit up the world.

Honoria flinched, struggling to control her breathing. She refocused on her rescuer; his gaze hadn't left her. Raindrops pattered on the leaves and spattered the dust of the lane. He looked up. "We'll have to get him-and ourselves-under cover. The storm's nearly here."

He rose, smoothly straightening his long legs. Still kneeling, Honoria was forced to let her eyes travel upward, over top boots and long, powerfully muscled thighs, past lean hips and a narrow waist, all the way over the wide acreage of his chest to find his face. He was tall, large, lean, loose-limbed yet well muscled-a supremely powerful figure.

Finding her mouth suddenly dry, she felt her temper stir. "To where, precisely? We're miles from anywhere." Her rescuer looked down, his disturbing gaze fixing on her face. Honoria's confidence faltered. "Aren't we?"

He looked into the trees. "There's a woodsman's cottage nearby. A track leads off a little way along the lane."

So he was a local; Honoria was relieved. "How will we move him?"

"I'll carry him." He didn't add the "of course," but she heard it. Then he grimaced. "But we should pack the wound better before shifting him."

With that, he shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over a nearby branch, and proceeded to strip off his shirt. Abruptly, Honoria transferred her gaze to the wounded man. Seconds later, a fine linen shirt dangled before her face, suspended from long, tanned fingers.

"Fold the body of the shirt and use the arms to tie it about him."

Honoria frowned at the shirt. Lifting one hand, she took it, then looked up, directly into his face, studiously ignoring the tanned expanse of his bare chest and the crisply curling black hair that adorned it. "If you can take over here and keep your eyes on the wound, I'll donate my petticoat. We'll need more fabric to bind against the hole."