The rider, busy tying the stallion's reins about a tree, glanced her way. "Lean over him-use all your weight."

Honoria frowned but shuffled closer and did as he said. There was a note in the deep voice that suggested he expected to be obeyed. Given that she was counting on him to help her deal with the wounded man, now, she decided, was not the time to take umbrage. She heard him approach, footsteps firm on the packed earth. Then the footfalls slowed, became hesitant, then stopped altogether. She was about to glance up when he started forward again.

He came to the other side of the wounded man, avoiding the large pool of blood. Hunkering down, he gazed at the youth.

From beneath her lashes, Honoria gazed at him. At closer range, the effect of his face diminished not one whit-if anything, the impact of strong, angular planes, decidedly patrician nose, and lips that were long, thin, and provocatively mobile was even more pronounced. His hair was indeed midnight black, thick and wavy enough to form large locks; his eyes, fixed on their common charge, were hooded. As for the rest of him, Honoria decided it was wiser not to notice-she needed all her wits for helping the wounded man.

"Let me see the wound."

Was that a quaver she heard running through that dark voice, so deep it half resonated through her? Honoria glanced swiftly at her rescuer. His expression was impassive, showing no hint of any emotion-no, she'd imagined the quaver. She lifted the sodden wad; he bent closer, angling his shoulders to let light reach the wound. He grunted, then nodded, rocking back on his heels as she replaced the pad.

Looking up, Honoria saw him frown. Then his heavy lids lifted and he met her gaze. Again she was struck by his curious eyes, transfixed by their omniscient quality.