Lady Lissa's Liaison (4 page)

"I hardly think that the color of my gown—" she began, but he wasn't listening.

With quick jerks of his powerful hands he reeled his line in, yanked his pole back over one shoulder, picked up his wicker basket and net, and then nimbly jumped atop the rotten log spanning the narrow length of water, easily picking his way to the opposite bank.

Lissa, feeling assaulted and wondering how she had piqued the man's ire by something so simple as the color of her gown, lifted her skirts with one hand and boldly proceeded after him.

"My lord?" she called, her feet, in her half boots, dangerously slipping once, twice and a third time atop the mossy log as she hastened after him.

He paused, now standing on the opposite riverbank, his gaze narrowing as he watched her weave her way precariously over the log. "Is there a reason you are following me?"

Lissa, her arms spread like the wings of a falcon in flight, tilted dangerously to the right, the weight of her satchel tugging her to one side. "Yes... I—I mean no... er, well... possibly," she answered, trying desperately to stay upright.

Gabriel folded his arms about his chest, his angling rod resting easily in the crook of one arm, his fishing net now dangling from a loop at his side. "Which is it, Lady Lovington?" he asked, impatience evident in his tone.

Oh dear,
Lissa thought. She was making a muddle of things. Problem was, she hadn't intended to actually chase after him; but when he'd headed across the river, she'd thought she'd lose sight of him, and so like a perfect ninny she'd jumped atop the log and thought to follow suit.

Now, however, she was feeling an age-old sensation of nauseating vertigo. She'd first felt this sense of imbalance when she'd climbed atop a pony for the first—and last—time of her life many years ago. Since then, she'd learned to stay away from horses, not to mention high places.

She suddenly felt a roaring in her ears, as though a huge gust of wind had appeared, surrounding her. Felt, in fact, as though she might faint.

"Oh my,"
Lissa gasped. Very carefully, she moved her gaze to the Heartless Lord Wylde, who seemed utterly impervious to her plight. She debated whether or not to ask for his assistance as this wasn't at all turning out to be the encounter she'd planned with him. What must he think of her? What must he....

Lissa felt a wave of nausea overcome her. "Lord Wylde," she gulped, "if you would be so kind, I, uh—"

"Bother it all," she heard him mutter.

Lissa cringed and closed her eyes, thinking she'd thoroughly undone their "chance" meeting, and just as quickly worried about whether or not she would fall into the water or just become violently ill.

Either way, she was doomed to a most embarrassing fate.

To her surprise, Lord Wylde dropped the wicker basket from his shoulder, set down his net, and was, in a matter of a few agile strides, standing alongside her atop the downed log, his precious angling pole still held tight in one fist.

"Why the deuce did you climb atop this tree?"

Lissa, eyes still closed, shook her head. "Foolishness perhaps?"

"No doubt," he answered.

It was then Lissa felt strong, warm and very large hands take hold of her shoulders. She felt Lord Wylde's fingers splay open and curl slightly over her. She was suddenly anchored safely atop the log, held securely in his very able grip.

Only then did Lissa feel safe enough to open her eyes. The first thing she viewed was his lordship's mouth, perfectly perfect in form, a very sensuous mouth indeed—one that had perhaps not smiled often enough... and was not smiling now.

Lissa's lashes quickly fluttered upward.

Not only was his mouth perfect, but his cheekbones as well; they were broad and flat and slightly tanned. And his eyes. Gracious, but his eyes were the most intriguing eyes she'd ever beheld. Dark. Fathomless. Heart-stoppingly deep and engaging.

Lissa felt herself beginning to swoon again, though this particular sensation had nothing to do with her vertigo.

"You're not going to be ill, are you?" he demanded, his fingers tightening about her, his angling rod now tucked into the crook of one arm.

"No. I—I am quite all right."

"The devil you are. You are pale and quivering."

"I shall be fine. Truly."

"Those half boots you are wearing are hardly the thing for traversing rotting logs. And that dress—"

"Is far too bright," she finished. "You've already mentioned that fact, Lord Wylde."

His splendid mouth formed a frown. "And have I mentioned that you are interfering in my angling?"

Lissa tried to smile. "No, but I gathered as much. Truly, sir, that was not my intent."

"What was your intent, pray tell, Lady Lovington?"

It was Lissa's turn to frown. She averted her gaze from his, focusing instead on his fishing pole and the man-made fly tethered to the end of his line.

"I, uh, wished to talk about your angling for trout. Yes. That is it. That is the whole of it," she said, pleased with her quick thinking and rather relieved at the sight of the pathetically lacking nymph he had trussed to the end of his line.

"Oh?" Obviously, he did not believe her.

"Yes, of course. What else?" Lissa said, finding herself calm enough to paint yet another too-bright smile upon her lips. Insects were her specialty—and the insect Lord Wylde had chosen for his line was the most inappropriate, not to mention poorly tied, thing she had ever viewed. Assured of the fact that she knew of what she spoke, she said, "You see, sir, I have grown up alongside the Dove, and my father was an angler much like yourself. He taught me everything there is to know about the insects of this area."

"And?"

"And, well, you appear to be going about this all wrong, Lord Wylde."

"Going about
what
all wrong," he demanded. "Saving you from a dunk in the water? From what I see, you are not yet wet. Given another few moments to your own devices, you would have been thoroughly soaked."

Lissa felt duly chastised, but ignored her own embarrassment. "Not that, my lord, but your angling tactics."

"What
about
them?" he bristled.

Lissa knew better than to correct a man about his angling. She knew that fishing was a very male type of endeavor, one that was wrapped up in all sorts of male pride and whatnot. But despite that fact, she couldn't help but make use of this most opportune moment. "I could not help but notice the fly you chose to cast," she said.

"You couldn't, could you?"

"Your choice is all wrong, my lord. At this time of year, you should be using a full-bodied fly and not a nymph."

Lord Wylde looked as though he'd swallowed one of those flies. "You actually know about nymphs and flies?"

"Of course I do. I know insects, my lord. A green-drake would have been your best choice. Or perhaps a camlet fly. I've studied and sketched the insects of this area for as long as I can recall. I know, in fact, that an angler would be better served by a—"

Lissa suddenly let out an unintentional
oof
as her boots slid on the slippery log and she careened to one side. She instinctively reached one hand to her breast in a moment of fright, catching in her palm the hand-painted locket Lord Langford had given to her. The chain—blastedly too secure until now—burst apart.

Lissa gasped as the troublesome locket fell free of her neck, falling down into the water. A huge, dark-colored river trout suddenly shot out from beneath the log and swallowed the locket whole, then just as quickly snapped back under the log.

"Oh my!"
Lissa cried.

"What?" Lord Wylde demanded, her cry clearly alarming him. "What the duece is wrong now?" he groused, looping one arm about her waist. "You're not going to fall. I've got you. Don't scream like that."

"The locket,"
Lissa gasped, very aware of his muscular arm pinioning her to him, of the hard feel of his chest against hers.

Pressed against him, Lissa could sense the steady, deep rhythm of his heart, could feel her own heart pounding like the fast wings of a bird in flight. She hadn't expected to be so
affected
by the man.

Lissa glanced down, seeing his strong fingers splayed about the curve of her waist. Such a large hand. And so warm, even through layers of fabric.

Staring up at him through her lashes, Lissa realized that he, too, seemed momentarily taken aback by the close contact of their bodies.

She had to shake her head to clear her thoughts. "Th—that trout ate my locket, my lord. Did you see? He just gulped it down!"

"I saw," he answered, voice husky, his gaze infinitely dark. He stared at her hard—as though surprised by what he saw, or perhaps, at what he was feeling inside of himself. " 'Tis gone now, you can be assured of that." He released his hold by slow degrees, his open palm skimming the small of her back as he slid his arm away from her.

A deep quiver of feeling pumped through Lissa. Again, she had to shake her head, had to force herself to remain focused on her purpose. "No, it—it cannot be. I—I
must
retrieve that locket."

"Was it a part of the family jewels?"

"No, of course not."

"Priceless, perhaps?"

"I—I do not believe so."

"Then forget about it," said Lord Wylde. Without another word, he took hold of her right hand and nimbly led her across to the side of the river, firmly planting her down onto the bank. Lissa was once again unnerved by the feel of his hands on her as he set her down.

"Do not look so Friday-faced," he growled. "You can purchase another locket."

"I cannot!" Lissa insisted, feeling miserable and turning to stare at the water where the trout made its home. "It is irreplaceable. It is... oh, drat, it is imperative I retrieve
that
particular locket."

" 'Twould be a neat trick," he said, moving away from her to gather up his fishing basket and net. He looped the leather straps of both over his neck, tipped his angling pole over one shoulder, then glanced at her one more time before he took his leave. "The inner digestive juices of a trout are very powerful, Lady Lovington—or so I've learned. Within twenty-four hours, I suspect that locket will begin to disintegrate, unless it is made of gold."

"Gold?" Lissa paused, trying hard to remember from what exactly Lord Langford's locket had been fashioned. She hadn't a clue. She'd never wanted the blasted thing to begin with, and she'd certainly not spent an innordinate amount of time looking at or even touching the thing. "Truth to tell, sir, I—I am not certain
what
it was made of. I do know, though, that it was hand-painted. Yes, I am quite certain it was hand-painted."

He appeared a bit agitated by her vague description of a locket she seemed so bent on retrieving. His frown deepened. "Take my advice and forget about it, my lady." With that, he turned.

"Wait!" Lissa cried. "You—you are taking your leave? Just like that?"

He glanced over one shoulder, his darkling eyes narrowing. "And just what, alas, would you have me do?"

"Hook that trout, of course!"

Lord Wylde looked at her as though she'd sprouted two heads. And then he laughed.

The sound of his laughter smarted. "You find my situation amusing, sir?"

"I find you demanding a tall order, my lady."

"Not so tall," she insisted. "You've a pole in your hand, and you came here to fish. All you need do is fish for
that
particular trout."

He said nothing for a full minute, time in which Lissa feared she'd pushed his patience too far.

"I suggest you go home, Lady Lovington," he finally said, his words clipped, "and forget about your locket. No one will be catching that trout, not today anyway. He won't bite again for a good long while, trust me. I have been tracking him for a number of days, and this is the first I've seen him take a bite of anything."

With that, the Earl of Wylde headed away from her.

Lissa blew out an exasperated breath. Feeling desperate, she called after him: "The trout may bite if the right fly is placed before him, sir! He certainly will not surface for a nymph—or even for
any
of the other flies you have tied, if indeed their craftsmanship is anything like that sorrowful fly I viewed at the end of your line!"

Her words got his attention.

Wylde stopped and turned toward her, his gaze blacker than the darkest of crypts.
"Sorrowful?"

Lissa gulped down a lump of fear in her throat.

"You heard me aright," she said, straightening, refusing to back down. "For all of your expert casting, sir, you obviously haven't a clue as to what type of fly should be affixed to your line."

"B'god, were you a man to say such a thing to me, I would—"

"You would
what?"
Lissa dangerously cut in. "Challenge me? Come now, Lord Wylde, you obviously have a hankering to catch some trout, and you just as obviously haven't the knowledge as to what bait to use. I can help you." She paused, then went on quickly, "And you—you can help
me."

One black brow lifted above his deep, dark eyes. "Oh? How so?"