He tilted his head to look at her. "Not one to run off at the mouth, are you?"

She shrugged.

Harry's mouth quirked. And people called him a stump. He caught a faint whiff of her scent, then sniffed again, trying to place it. Lye soap? Not what a young woman usually smelled of. She'd used it for the birth, he supposed.

They stood side by side at the stall door and watched the mare washing her colt, freeing him of the remains of the amniotic sac and the fluid, learning him with long sweeps of her tongue. It was a sight Harry never tired of.

He glanced at the woman's profile and saw another tear slide down her cheek as she watched the first precious bonding of mother and babe. Her soft, vulnerable mouth trembled. She bit it and dashed the tear aside almost angrily.

I never weep. There's no point.

"Do you live around here?" he asked quietly.

She was silent a moment, then said, "In the olden days they thought animals really did lick their young into shape."

Harry noted her evasion. Fair enough. She knew nothing about him, but that could be rectified.

"I'm Harry Morant, by the way." He held out his hand.

She hesitated, then shook it. "Nell, I'm-just Nell."

"How do you do, Just Nell," he said. Her handshake was firm. Her skin was soft enough but there were old calluses there; at one time she had been used to hard physical work.

She wore no ring. Her clothes were ill-fitting and out-of-date, but the cloth was good quality and the garments well made.

She'd spoken very little, but from what he could make out, her accent was unmarred by any regional burr.

So who was she?

She hesitated, then said, "I suppose you've come for your hat and gloves."

"No, I-"

The stable door creaked open a little wider. "Mr. Morant," Pedlington called. His voice echoed. "Is that anim-oh, there it is. I shall wait for you out here."

Harry grinned. "He's scared of your dog," he told Nell.

"She wouldn't hurt anyone."

"I know. Come on, let us put Pedlington out of his misery."

"Oh, but-"

"Toffee doesn't need you now. She needs to be alone with her colt." Harry took her arm and after a brief hesitation, Nell allowed him to escort her down the length of the stables, toward the door.

After a dozen steps she gave him a sidelong glance. "Does your leg hurt?"

It was as good a way as any of asking about his limp. Everyone did, sooner or later.

Harry surprised himself with his answer. "No, it's been that way as long as I can remember." He usually implied it was a war wound. People were so much more comfortable with the idea of a gallantly wounded soldier than the truth: that he was a lifelong cripple.

As they reached the entrance, her dog bounded forward. "Good girl, Freckles." Nell picked up the scarf and gloves and dusted them off, saying, "She follows me unless I give her something to guard, and I didn't want her near Toffee while she was foaling." She took down the coat and hat from the peg and handed him the hat and the gloves. "Thank you for the loan of these. They warmed me more than you'll know."

Harry took them awkwardly. He didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to tell her to keep them, and that was stupid. She had no need of them now, and they were too big, anyway.

She took a thin strip of leather and looped it around the dog's neck, then stepped through the stable door into the bright light.

"Everything is securely lock-" Pedlington stopped dead, staring at the woman.

"This is-" Harry began.

"Lady Helen Freymore, I know," the agent said, sounding none too pleased about it.

Lady Helen Freymore? Harry blinked. Freymore was the family name of the earls of Denton. He'd seen it on all the estate documents. He stared at her.

"Just Nell" was Lady Helen Freymore?

The woman who'd traveled in the rain with her muddy feet dangling off the edge of a rough cart, the woman who'd expertly assisted a mare through a difficult birth was an earl's daughter? There must be some mistake.

"Lady Helen, you know you're not supposed to be here," Pedlington said in a voice that expressed both pity and exasperation. "I explained it all to you before." He darted an embarrassed glance at Harry, then continued in a low tone, "You cannot stay here. The house has sat empty for months, and my instructions are to sell it vacant possession." He stressed the word "vacant."

"I do understand, Mr. Pedlington," she said calmly. "And I have made other arrangements, but the mare was in distress."

"Mare?"

"Yes, she's rather old to be foaling again, and as it happened the foal presented in the wrong position. Both dam and colt would have died had I not been here to turn the foal in the womb."

"Lady Helen, please!" the agent expostulated, turning puce with embarrassment. "You should not even know of such things."

She gave him a thoughtful look. "Yes, but I do. I've never understood why females should be kept ignorant of a process that, after all, is their-"

"Lady Helen!" The agent cast Harry a mortified glance.

She sighed, but spared the man's lacerated sensibilities further. "The mare used to be mine, so her welfare matters to me."

"Well, she's not yours anymore," the agent said in exasperation, adding, "I was assured you had somewhere to go, Lady Helen."

"I have, of course," she said with dignity. "I was to leave this morning, in fact, but-"

"Then please do so. The animals are none of your business. They will be sold to whoever wants them."

Her pale skin suddenly flushed with color. "You mustn't move her! She's just given birth, and the weather is becoming more bitter by the day. The foal should be-"

"They're not your concer-"

"I'll buy them both," Harry interrupted.

They both turned to stare. "You?" she said.

He nodded. "And I'll take good care of them. My word on it." He held out his hand.

She took it. Her handshake was firm for a lady. He could smell her, the scent of soap, and horse, and fresh hay, and warm, sweet woman. One tug and he could pull her into his arms, taste those soft lips . . .

What was he doing? Harry tamped down on his eager body. He didn't even know her.

But he surely wanted to, lady or not.

"Thank you." She smiled at him, that piercing, radiant smile that had dazzled him in the forest.

And his body thickened.

And his brains scrambled.

And not a single word remained in his head.

"Mr. Morant, I cannot be responsible for any animal left here," Pedlington's voice broke through his reverie. "It must be removed from these premises. Mr. Morant? Lady Helen? I really must insist."

The man sounded distinctly peeved. Harry wanted to swat him like a Portuguese mosquito.

"And Lady Helen, I must also insist that you leave Firmin Court. I did inform you more than a week ago that it no longer belonged to your family, and you have wantonly disregarded my instructions. Indeed, I will go so far to say that technically you are trespass-"

She ripped her hand from Harry's grip and turned on the agent. "How dare you say so! My mother's family have owned Firmin Court for hundreds of years and I have a duty to the estate that"-she made a scornful gesture-"lawyer's papers do not account for. But my bag is packed and my travel arrangements made, and now that my mare is safely taken care of, I'll be gone before the day is out."

"You said that before," the agent said sulkily. "And yet-"

"And you're worried that I'll hang around like a tinker's dog to embarrass the new owners," she flashed angrily. "You need not-"

"What rubbish," Harry interrupted savagely. He turned on the agent. "Address one more disrespectful word to Lady Helen and I'll shove your words so far down your throat you won't speak for a year."

Pedlington's eyes popped, but he clamped his mouth shut.

Harry turned back to Nell, who regarded him with wide, surprised eyes. "I apologize on Pedlington's behalf, Lady Helen. I'm the new owner and you're welcome to stay here as long as you like." Forever, if you like, he caught himself adding silently. And where the hell had that come from?

She stared at him and moistened her lips. Harry swallowed.

The agent made a strangled sound in his throat and said with cautious hope. "The new own-you mean-?"

Harry said severely, "I mean I'm prepared to make you an offer, though I doubt it will delight your masters. However, with the state this place is in . . ." He shrugged.

"Oh, but-"

"Gentlemen, I shall leave you to your business," Lady Helen interrupted. "Mr. Morant, Mr. Pedlington, good day to you both."

Harry caught her by her arm. "You're not leaving." He was filled with an urgent need not to let her disappear.

She glanced at his hand holding her tight and gave him a puzzled look. "No," she said after a moment. "I'll be back to make sure the afterbirth comes away cleanly and the foal is able to walk and drink from his mother first."

Pedlington blushed.

Harry forced his fingers to unwrap from around her arm. "Don't leave," he instructed her.

She gave him a cool look, and he realized he'd barked an order at her in the same tone as used on men in the army. And he'd hauled Pedlington over the coals for disrespect.

He said awkwardly, "We have the matter of a hat and gloves to discuss." It was all he could think of.

Her face softened and a faint smile lightened her eyes. "Yes, of course. Weighty matters."

His body ached as she left. She moved gracefully, unhurriedly. Her figure was not at all fashionable, but his body was hard and aching and he wanted her with a fierce longing he'd never experienced before.

In the forest he'd imagined her as a lost Madonna-madonna of the forest. Ma donna-Italian for my lady. Nell Freymore. Lady Helen Freymore. His lost lady of the forest.

And this time he wasn't going to let her go.

Even if she was a lady born.

Harry had been courted and flattered by some of the most beautiful ladies in the ton. He'd learned full well and to his cost what elegant ladies wanted from Harry Morant: a lusty tumble and that was it.

The young Harry Morant hadn't understood . . . hadn't realized that he was welcome between the thighs of a highborn lady, but that her hand could never be his . . .

He'd learned his lesson at the tender age of three-and-twenty, young, naive, and head over heels in love for the first and only time in his life.

Harry hadn't been naive for years now. And he knew exactly what to expect from highborn ladies.

At the kitchen door she paused and turned to glance back.

He felt a sharp stab of longing. She was neither beautiful, nor voluptuously built, and she certainly employed no arts to attract. But he couldn't take his eyes off her. And his body hardened possessively whenever she was close. A milkmaid or a farmer's daughter, he hadn't cared.

But an earl's daughter. Now that was an unexpected irony.

Three.

Nell filled a large pitcher with water and carried it carefully upstairs. She set it on a side table and pulled a key from her pocket. Even in her own house with all the exterior doors securely locked, she still needed her own door to be locked. She turned the key and entered her room for what was probably the last time.

The last time.

She plumped down on her bed at the realization. There was no reason to stay a moment longer. She had to leave Firmin Court. The only home she'd ever known.

She'd dreamed of bringing Torie back here . . .

Torie . . . She couldn't think about her yet.

She looked around her bedchamber, the place in which she'd dreamed her girlish dreams; the room where her girlhood and her dreams had come to an abrupt end.