She had seriously misjudged the threat. Despite perfectly clear instructions, her body refused to comply. Horrified, she felt a sudden warmth rush through her, followed by an almost overwhelming urge to lean into that embrace, clearly poised to become even more passionate if she succumbed. No country admirer had dared kiss her like this! The desire to respond to the demanding lips crushing her own grew second by second, beyond her control. Thoroughly unnerved, she tried to break free. Long fingers slid into her hair, holding her head still, and the arm around her waist tightened ruthlessly. The strength of the body she was now crushed against confirmed her helplessness. From a disjointed jumble of thoughts, rapidly becoming less coherent, emerged the conclusion that her captor was neither gypsy nor vagabond. He was certainly no local! That first fleeting glimpse had left an impression of negligent elegance. As she was drawn inexorably beyond thought, senses reeling, a strange turbulence threatened to engulf her. Then, abruptly, as if a door were slammed shut, the kiss was skilfully brought to an end.

Her mind awhirl, senses scorched, she looked up into a dark-browed face. Hazel eyes, distinctly amused, gazed into her own green orbs. Sheer fury erupted within her. She aimed a stinging slap at the laughing face. It never landed. Although the action was not betrayed by a flicker of an eyelid, her hand was caught in mid-air in a firm grip and gently drawn down to her side.

Her assailant smiled provokingly, thoroughly appreciative of her beautifully outraged countenance. ‘No, I don’t think I will let you hit me. How was I to know you weren’t the blacksmith’s daughter?’

The voice was light and gentle, definitely that of an educated man. Recollecting how she must look in her old green dimity with her hair about her shoulders, she bit her lip, feeling ridiculously young as the betraying flush rose to her cheeks.