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André’s covert scrutiny of Stormy did not escape Trevor. It bothered him, but he couldn’t put a finger to why it would. He scrutinized the man across from him with the same intensity the man studied his daughter. French Comte or not, Trevor thought him a roué. What with that slight accent that seemed to curl the words around his tongue and the virility this man exuded, they were just a touch too much for Trevor to swallow. Somehow he had to test his mettle.

“So, Comte Villeneuve, what is it you do? Emmaline mentioned you are a neighbor, but somehow I cannot picture you as a gentleman farmer. You … you seem more inclined to fit in with the ton and London society.”

André felt hard pressed not to laugh out loud. So, Stormy’s Papa didn’t like him to ogle his darling little girl? Instead of giving vent to his mirth and the fact that Trevor was so easy to read, André affected a serious expression. He inclined his dark head just a fraction.

“Monsieur, I would greatly appreciate it, if you called me simply André. Titles don’t mean all that much to me. As to my occupation, I studied law at Eton, after I utterly failed to conform to the studies at the Sorbonne. Theology just didn’t seem to suit me.” He favored Trevor with a particularly wicked grin, knowing it would set the man’s teeth further on edge. It was not André’s usual style to borrow trouble, nor did he normally allude to his time in Paris. It had been a time of soul searching for him, and he had only attended to please his mother. The countess had passed on since and André was grateful that he never had to explain to her why the priesthood had not appealed to him.

“Actually, I am currently involved in some legal wrangling over property rights. Thomas and Emmaline are so kind as to have me as their guest so I can get away from my problems at times.”

It was the truth, though not all of it. And as it was neither Thomas nor Emmaline were quite in the know about André’s legal affairs. All they knew was that the local sheriff, a new man to the area, who went by the name of Timothy Snowden, had taken over André’s home and property in his absence.

Thomas and Emmaline had graciously offered the sanctuary of their home when André asked that they’d indulge him until such a time, when he would be free to divulge the details of his ongoing problem. Though their friendship had been formed over the course of several years, Thomas’ staid English upbringing did not allow him to ask for a broader explanation. All that mattered was the fact that André had stood up for Thomas, when he had run into trouble with some neighbors over water rights. So the trust they had for each other had turned into a deep bond. Thomas felt that when André was ready, he would tell him.

Stormy watched her father’s exchange with André in mute fascination. Somehow she had managed to swallow that bite of scone she’d had in her mouth, but the rest of the pastry was forgotten in her hand. She felt out of her depth. How could she, in the span of two days, feel STORMY HEIDE KATROS

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irresistibly drawn to two men? At home, she never even glanced twice at the beaux that arrived at Dreamscape carrying flowers and other trinkets. And here, this man, this guest of Uncle Thomas had the ability to turn her world upside down by simply taking her hand in his and brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

A sudden flash of heat threatened to overwhelm her. The air in the parlor closed in around her. She had to escape for a breath of fresh air to clear her head.

With a small nod to her mother and a whispered excuse to Aunt Emmaline, she hastened from the room. André had barely time to stand up before she was out the door.

Stormy ran aimlessly toward a copse of trees, never thinking about the highwayman from the previous night and the danger the English countryside could pose. What in heaven’s name was the matter with her?

Breathless, she sank to a mossy patch beneath a tree. It took her several moments to slow her heart rate and allow the peace and quiet of the small glen to soothe her shattered nerves.

Shattered nerves? She was not some skittish miss. This was ridiculous. She had to go back to the house and confront her problem. There was no problem, just her imagination. Gad, so what if this André looked something like an Adonis? There were men in the colonies who were just as broad shouldered and handsome.

She picked a daisy and shredded it to bits. Leaning against the trunk of a tree, she blew out an exasperated breath, while her mind conjured an image of André ambling into the parlor.

His eyes had been inscrutable behind a thick fringe of dark lashes and effectively hid their true color. The man had an inherent arrogance about him as well as the intrinsic grace of a born athlete.

The thought ratcheted her heart rate up several notches. Good heavens, he was just a man, and he certainly displayed some shortcomings. There had been something indolent about his manner like nothing much would ever faze him. He was in all probability a ruthless liar, too.

After all, he had sidestepped her father’s questions by talking in near riddles. Her chin notched up an inch with a feeling of self-righteousness. She felt better now that she had sorted that bit of knowledge out in her mind. It would help her to face him without being affected by all his artificial charm. Snorting, she picked up her skirts and started to walk back to the house.

By the time she entered the foyer, she realized that she apparently had been gone longer than she had thought. The parlor was empty; the tea service had been removed. Her first inclination was to look for her parents, but then she decided that since no one was around, she would explore the house a bit.

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Since Emerald Hills Manor had been constructed in a U-shape, she knew it wouldn’t be too difficult to find her way around. The bedroom suites were all on the second floor, so that left the living quarters down below.

Resolutely, she turned left from the main hall. The first room seemed to be the morning room, since it held a long table that could easily seat twenty, though only a dozen chairs were grouped around it at present. A rosewood sideboard held silver trays and a now cold tea urn.

She silently congratulated herself that she would not have to search for it in the morning, but could simply show up for breakfast without having to be shown where to go.

Still grinning, she sauntered down the long hall, but stopped short, when she heard the muted sounds of clashing sabers and the shouts of ‘En garde’ coming from behind one of the doors. Curious, she opened the door just enough to peek inside.

Cavernous compared to the rooms at Dreamscape, it was sparsely furnished with an assortment of weapons and face guards lining one wall. Floor to ceiling windows afforded ample light even during gloomy days. She figured that the room would probably double as a ballroom during special events.

Her cousin Thomas, who told her he preferred to be called Tommy, was engaged in a lesson of swordsmanship. A lithe, middle-aged man in skintight trousers and a full sleeved shirt that hung open partway to his waist, moved gracefully across the smooth wooden floor, the slap-slap of his soft soled boots sounding loud in the high-ceilinged room. Brent stood at the sidelines, watching avidly as the fencing master instructed Tommy on stance and posture.

A wicked grin spread across Stormy’s face. Mischief bloomed in her fertile mind.

Grinning, she pivoted on her heel and picked up her skirts. Her heart beating, she hurried upstairs. In minutes she kneeled before one of her travel trunks and hastily threw aside underclothing and accessories that had never caught her fancy in the first place.

With a sigh of satisfaction, she withdrew a pair of dark breeches, a black silk shirt and soft flat soled slippers. She donned them in record time, twisted her hair into a tight bun on top of her head and raced back down the stairs. Earlier, she’d noticed a second door at the far end of the room; not much ever escaped her keen eyes. It turned out to be a coat room, confirming her previous assumption that the long room used for fencing would also serve as a ballroom at times.

Hugging the wall, she sneaked inside.

Without thinking it through, she snatched one of the face guards that hung on the wall and slipped it on. She felt secure in the knowledge that it masked not only her face, but also covered the back of her head. She knew she should not be here. It was audacious of her to intrude without being invited. Wetting her lips, her heart hammering as the daring of her decision hit home, she decided that retreat would be the better choice. She had almost reached the door and made good her escape, when the fencing master’s voice reached her ears.

“Ah, whom have we here?” he asked in heavily accented English. “Another cousin?”

Well, what did the English say? Hanged for a lamb or hanged for a sheep? Steeling herself and before either Tommy or Brent could say anything, she reached for one of the sabers STORMY HEIDE KATROS

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hanging on the wall. Stepping closer into the room, she raised the weapon up and against her face, bowed formally to the fencing master and hissed a low voiced “En Garde!”

The fencing master smiled tightly and raised an inquiring eyebrow. With an en garde of his own, he lowered his weapon and started to lunge. Stormy parried with expertise, sidestepped the master’s second lunge and came after him with a vicious attack that set him on his heels.

Tommy elbowed Brent, emitting a nasty little chuckle. “I wonder how long it will take Monsieur Chevalier to realize that he is fencing against a female.” Then, gazing down at his younger brother, he shrugged a shoulder. “I think that might take a while. I get the feeling that they won’t miss us. Besides, the lesson was almost over anyway.” Giving Brett a small shove, he muttered, “Remember I told you that I saw that six-point buck from my window this morning.

Let’s get our guns and track him.” That did it. Both boys moved out of the hall with the speed of greased lightning

Neither Stormy nor Monsieur Chevalier noticed that the boys had left. Both were completely absorbed. Nothing was said. The only sounds were those of heavy breathing, the slapping of soft soled boots against the parquet flooring and the clash of sabers.

Stormy enjoyed herself, she felt invigorated, alive. After weeks of forced idleness aboard ship, she welcomed matching wits and the exertion of fencing.

On the fringes of awareness Stormy heard the door to the hallway open and close softly.

Too intent on besting the master her attention never wavered.

André watched several long moments, mesmerized by the agility and the intensity of the unknown fencer. He knew that it could neither be Tommy nor Brent. He’d seen the boys’

attempts at fencing and neither was half as adept to parry the fencing master’s lunges. Intrigued, he donned a chest guard and helmet. Then, with a flick of his saber, André motioned the fencing master out of the way. The man knew he’d been dismissed and discreetly withdrew.

Stormy didn’t miss a beat. She had no idea who her opponent was, since the protective helmet obscured his face, but she knew right away that she had met her match.

Grinning impudently behind her face guard, she pressed her opponent hard and her grin widened when he backed off several steps.

Too late she realized that she had misjudged her adversary. He was not only competent, but ruthless. He also had the advantage of wearing a chest guard, while she only wore her silk shirt.

André still tried to fathom who his opponent might be. He was too short to be the American, but who in hell had this kind of ability and bravado? Confident that he was the more competent fencer, he decided to toy with his opponent and see what kind of response would ensue. His generous mouth quirked upward, when his blade sliced with calculated precision across the shoulder of the black silk shirt and exposed a small patch of smooth, pale skin.

The smoothness and delicate hue of that small bit of skin momentarily threw André’s concentration off. Stormy immediately noticed his momentary loss of focus, and with an air of superiority, she again pressed her advantage. Her saber found its mark, though she had not intended to draw blood.

An angry hiss of pain from her challenger was her only warning, before he attacked her in earnest. Fury took over, when he saw the blood seep through the whiteness of his sleeve. So, his adversary wanted to play rough? Instead of retaliating in kind, he lunged with unprecedented speed and slipped his blade beneath the row of buttons on his opponent’s shirt. With a flick of his wrist he slashed upward. He could have easily sliced deeper and drew blood, but the move STORMY HEIDE KATROS

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was designed to warn his challenger off or let him decide if he wanted to continue fencing with the intent to take to the next level.

André had fought duels to the death. He was an expert, had hoped for a bit of sport, but this unexpected turn had taken him off guard. His eyes flashed with penned-up anger. Gritting his teeth, he was about to challenge his adversary to either drop his weapon or prepare for a serious duel. Instead both fighters stopped, their sabers poised in mid-air, while the world seemed to come to a standstill.

Stormy gasped when she saw buttons fly every which way. They pinged loudly against the hardwood floor, while an ominous silence ensued. Startled, she followed her adversary’s gaze and her eyes widened in dismay, when she noticed that her shirt had parted ignominiously, leaving her in nothing but the cover of her thin chemise. But her shock hardly rivaled the one on André’s face.

He dropped his weapon to his side and stared, mesmerized into immobility by sheer shock. It took several seconds before reality took root. Barely able to contain himself, he closed the space between them and tore the helmet from her head. “You?” he literally spat the word, his eyes blazing a haze of blue so dark they seemed black.