Wicked Wyckerly by Patricia Rice Page B

over to peer under the sturdy oak cabinet. “This kitten belongs in the stable with the others, Miss Penny.”
    “I know! I’m trying to catch him. Papa thought I’d like to play with him.”
    Rolling her eyes, Abigail scooped up the mewling runaway. Apparently the wayfaring stranger had found his way home sometime during the night—just long enough to disrupt the household, since there was no sign of him now.
    A bowl of fresh strawberries and a pitcher of cream waited on the table. The aroma of cooking ham made her stomach rumble in anticipation. But she couldn’t eat until she’d straightened out Mr. Wyckerly. She’d tossed and turned all night, seething with fury at his neglect of his daughter, at his complete disregard for her fears—or for her shilling, for all that mattered. She refused to be treated as an insignificant female whose thoughts and concerns were of no relevance.
    Carrying the squirming kitten, Abigail marched out the kitchen door. She had to assume her guest was up and about if he’d left a kitten for Penelope. The stable was empty since she’d sold the horses, but it was the first building in her path that might hide a man.
    She entered to discover unfamiliar horses finishing off the last of the winter hay. Was that Billy’s pony trying to chew his way out of his stall?
    Confusion didn’t eliminate her righteous anger. She let the kitten free and set out for the fields, primed for a showdown. Men who abandoned their children ought to be shot.
    She found Wretched Wyckerly not hoeing her field but in the orchard, idling away his time by staring into an apple tree. Too angry to untie her tongue, she picked up a handful of small green apples and flung one at his broad back, clad only in a shirt. She didn’t want to know what he’d done with her father’s tweed coat or waistcoat. Probably sold them. The view of his muscled shoulders was practically indecent. She flung another apple as he turned to see who was pelting him.
    He caught the second apple and juggled it from hand to hand while studying her with that infernally condescending look of puzzled amusement.
    “Target practice?” he guessed. “Is there a prize for apple throwing at some rural festivity?”
    She flung her third apple directly at his flat abdomen. If he would dress properly, she shouldn’t be able to see that he did not have a soft, paunchy stomach hanging over his belt like most gentlemen she knew.
    He was fortunate that the fallen apple hadn’t rotted yet. It merely bounced off his taut muscles. His smile brightened.
    “Good shot! May I suggest a smaller target next time—say that tailless rodent on the branch up there? I wager you can’t hit him.”
    “That squirrel is my friend .” She launched the last of her ammunition at his fat head, but he easily dodged the blow. “You, on the other hand, are a rotten, no-good scoundrel who deserves whipping.”
    He continued tossing his apple back and forth, pretending to ponder her accusations. His hair looked as rumpled as hers, but it fell in a handsome wave across his brow that gave him more appeal than a Roman god. She itched to run her fingers through the thick locks and push them from his eyes. Which made her even angrier.
    “I don’t doubt that I’m a scoundrel,” he said with an appearance of thoughtfulness, “but I cannot see how I deserve whipping for missing my supper.”
    “Your daughter thought she’d been abandoned! Again. ” She threw up her hands in disgust and wished for a dozen more apples. “You could have been killed , and we had no way of knowing it. You cannot promise to return, then disappear instead!”
    He grimaced. “I didn’t mean to cause concern. I was trying to be helpful.”
    “Helpful?” She would be shrieking like a hawk if she didn’t recover her temper. Taking a deep breath as her stepmother had taught her, she squeezed her fingers into her palms and refrained from hunting down a hoe with which to bash some sense into his