He accosted her just as she shot her horse.

Abigail clenched the pistol she had ruthlessly taken from the drunken dandy who now sat in the country lane, staring at the wreck of his flashy high-perch phaeton, oblivious to the pained squeals of his equally flashy, injured horses.

Abigail's dogcart lay in splinters nearby. Her horse lay in bloody shreds at her feet, eyes wild with fear and agony. If the idiot nobleman hadn't been drunk, if he hadn't taken the blind corner so fast, if, if, if.

She clenched her teeth until they scraped painfully. Her heart slammed against her chest. She wanted to close her eyes but couldn't; she had to aim properly, she had to end the horse's suffering, she had to find the strength somehow...

She didn't hear a horse and rider come up behind her until just before she pulled the trigger.

Her arm jerked as the pistol recoiled. Her horse lay still. After a shocked moment, Abigail collapsed into tears.

Biting fingers gripped her arms, held her upright. She struggled, flailing, knocking her bonnet askew. She spun around to slap his face...and stopped in shock.

Andrew Wickham. No, Lord Talvert now. But not the man who rode off to war two years ago.

Tanned. Hair sun-bleached to ash-blonde. A vicious cut that burned from right temple to cheek, still raw. Part of his right eyebrow and his gloriously long eyelashes singed away. A face flawed, but still striking.

No, something was wrong. His square jaw clenched until the muscle spasmed in his cheek. His dark eyes bore into hers, wild and haunted. As if he had never shot-

Abigail felt the pain of his clawed fingers as she twisted out of his grip. They had never been friends as children, but he had never hurt her before.

"My lord," she murmured, her eyes captured by his strange stare.

He came to himself with an audible catch of breath. Slowly his intense gaze dimmed, like a candle flame guttering to darkness. The wild man was replaced by an aloof stranger.

"Miss Chatham," he acknowledged slowly. "You are unharmed?"

"A few bruises." She tried to unobtrusively smooth her wrinkled gown, brush away mud and grass, straighten her crushed bonnet. Her cheeks burned. He always made her feel so gauche...!

"I must leave you here to ride to Squire Lawford for help," he said. No concern for her in his tone. He was colder than he'd been before he left.

"I'll be waiting." She noted the sensible calmness of her voice, when her knees were quivering beneath her gown.

Without another glance in her direction--or the drunken dandy--he swung into his saddle. A different horse than any he'd owned, huge and ugly. The Andrew Wickham she remembered would never have been caught dead on such a disgraceful thing.

Abigail watched as he rode down the lane, angry at herself for staring. Cursing herself for still being in love with him.

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