Courting the Countess by Barbara Pierce Page A

be your beast of burden.”
    The journey had shaken out many of the pins securing her hair. The loose knot bounced against the side of her head. “What do you hope to accomplish with this nonsense?”
    He did not answer her straightaway. When he spoke, he said, “I was looking for someone to share the sun with and I thought of you.”
    Brook did not have an acerbic rejoinder for what on the surface seemed like a reasonable, if not sweet, explanation. She winced, instinctively ducking when a low branch snagged some of her hair. Her hands clutched fistfuls of his coat. “Another minute like this and I shall lose my breakfast, Mr. Claeg. I demand—”
    Her world twirled again as he set her on her feet. The remaining pins could not support the weight of her hair. It tumbled free down her back. He had to hold her upright until the dizziness subsided. Brook glanced around, noticing that the woods concealed them.
    “Feeling steady?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “I have you until some of the blood leaves your face and pumps back into your limbs.”

    She shook off his hands and staggered back a step. “You most certainly do not have me.” Brook gave her spencer a furious jerk. There was nothing she could do about her hair. It was hopeless to try to fix it without her pins.
    “Well, not in the manner that first comes to mind,” he conceded, grinning at her useless attempts to rectify her disheveled appearance. “Then again, my hand was on your rump. You cannot imagine my delight, Countess, to discover that you were hiding a bit of flesh under all that fabric and whalebone. At first glance, you have the build of a boy.”
    A boy! Oh, the nerve of the man. She had always been slender and, in truth, had lost too much weight after she had lost the baby. However, she had slowly recovered and likely weighed slightly more than she had before her husband’s death. Pure feminine ire radiated throughout her body. “I refuse to remain another minute and discuss my inadequacies with you, Mr. Claeg.” Expecting resistance, she charged him.
    “Hold, you little fury,” he commanded, picking her up off her feet. The indulgence in his expression faded when she kicked him. Dropping Brook onto her feet, he backed her up against the nearest tree. He blatantly used his body to keep her from escaping. “I used to believe you were a sweet little thing. All fancy lace and meringue … .” He let his words trail off. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have the devil’s own temper?”
    She could see his pulse beating in his throat. During their struggle, his hair had come free from its queue. The luxuriant mass with rich hues of browns threaded with honey curled slightly as it rested on his shoulders. She was amazed by how much she wanted to reach up and touch his uncivilized mane.
    “I have been complimented countless times for my agreeable nature.” Mr. Claeg snorted in disbelief. “I speak the truth. If you find me disagreeable, you can blame your uncanny ability for provocation. You could goad a saint into committing violence.”

    He was looking at her with that brooding intensity that seemed to penetrate her skin. Inside her half boots her toes curled. “Ah, that explains it,” he said, pulling away from her.
    It was immediately apparent that their proximity had inflamed him. The impressive length of his manhood swelled notably despite his snug breeches. Brook remained against the tree as if he still held her in place. She could barely breathe, wondering what he was planning to do to her. They were alone in the woods. Encumbered by her skirts, she could not hope to elude him. Would he throw her down onto the leafy loam and slake his lust?
    Lyon had explained to her that a male could not control his reaction to a willing female. On the eve of their wedding, dressed in a white nightgown, she had expected a night of gentle touches, whispered assurances, and passionate declarations of love. Instead her new