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“Are you mad, woman?” he barked. “You nearly got yourself killed!”

What else could she do but blink up at the man? If she were a lesser woman, she would have wilted beneath his scowl.

The man slid down from his horse in one swift motion, his boots hitting the ground. His dark coat whipped around him as he stalked toward her, his dark hair tousled by the ride. Some of the anger in his gaze receded, replaced by concern.

“What were you thinking, standing in the middle of the road like that?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Reckless. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Move, Rosilee.

At the very least, speak!

“Our carriage wheel broke,” she blurted, a sentence finally spilling from her mouth, “and we were on our way to seek help.”

“What does that have to do with you standing in the middle of the road?” He reached down to offer a helping hand up. “You could have waved me down from the side. I am not blind. You could be dead right now.”

She stole a glance at the hand wrapped in black leather before lifting her gaze to meet his again. She saw it, then—what he didn’t say.Then your death would be on my hands.Rosilee swallowed a dry retort and placed her hand in his, allowing him to help her stand. Ben scrambled to his feet after her.

“My apologies, good sir. My wits must have left me for a moment,” Rosilee responded, dusting off the dirt on her hands.

He studied her intently for a moment before he looked away, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, glancing at their carriage. “Your wheel broke?”

“I’m afraid so.” She followed his gaze to her disabled carriage. “My carriage has decided it prefers to stay here, and I do not.”

“Do you have an extra wheel?” he asked.

“We do not.” Rosilee paused. “Is that right, Ben?”

Ben nodded his head. “Yes, my lady.”

The man’s gaze swept over her, assessing, as if trying to decide whether she was serious or simply daft. Honestly! “I have never had to worry about such things before!”

“I see.”

Rosilee eyed the man back. Well,shesaw,too. And wasn’t he going to offer them aid? Well then, she’d just have to simply and directly ask. “Now that you’re here sir, can you help us?”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “After all, I’m here for you.”

He was?

“You’re . .. here . . . for . . .”—she pointed a finger at herself—“me?”

Something twisted inside Blake at her blank expression. He nodded, suddenly unsure whether announcing his purpose so directly had been wise. No flicker of recognition touched her gaze. She didn’t remember him. She certainly didn’t recall his face. Not as he remembered hers, drawn by his hand countless times. He should have considered this.

Eighteen years was a long time.

Indeed, but he hadn’t changed that much, had he? Well, he wasn’t a short, scrawny boy anymore. It had also been dark that night. He understood all that, yet a small, infuriatingly irrational part of him had hoped for at least a flicker ofsomething.

“You’re not poking fun at me, are you?” she pressed. “You’re here for me? Me, Lady Rosilee Fairchild?”

Blake pushed away the surge of disappointment. Where the devil was Bishop when he needed him? “I am.”

Her brows knit as she scrutinized him. “Do I know you, sir?”

Damnation. How should he answerthis? “I am an acquaintance . . . of,”of. . . “your brother.” Christ.

“Leopold? Just who are you exactly, sir?”

He didn’t think twice, announcing, “Blake Faithorne, Duke of Crane.”