“Why?”

His gaze was alert now. Clearly any mention of Prudence earned his close attention.

Because of you, Beatrix thought, and managed a faint, wry smile. “It seems we have different interests.” I’m interested in you, and she’s interested in your inheritance.

“You’re hardly cut from the same cloth.”

Hearing the sardonic note in his voice, Beatrix tilted her head and regarded him curiously. “I don’t take your meaning.”

He hesitated. “I only meant that Miss Mercer is conventional. And you’re . . . not.” His tone was seasoned with the merest hint of condescension . . . but there was no mistaking it.

Abruptly all the feelings of compassion and tenderness disappeared as Beatrix realized that Christopher Phelan had not changed in one regard: he still didn’t like her.

“I would never want to be a conventional person,” she said. “They’re usually dull and superficial.”

It seemed he took that as a slight against Prudence.

“As compared to people who bring garden pests to picnics? No one could accuse you of being dull, Miss Hathaway.”

Beatrix felt the blood drain from her face. He had insulted her. The realization made her numb.

“You may insult me,” she said, half amazed that she could still speak. “But leave my hedgehog alone.”

Whirling around, she walked away from him in long, digging strides. Albert whimpered and began to follow, which forced Christopher to call him back.

Beatrix didn’t glance over her shoulder, only plowed forward. Bad enough to love a man who didn’t love her. But it was exponentially worse to love a man who actively disliked her.

Ridiculously, she wished she could write to her Christopher about the stranger she had just met.

He was so contemptuous, she would write. He dismissed me as someone who didn’t deserve a modicum of respect. Clearly he thinks I’m wild and more than a little mad. And the worst part is that he’s probably right.

It crossed her mind that this was why she preferred the company of animals to people. Animals weren’t deceitful. They didn’t give one conflicting impressions of who they were. And one was never tempted to hope that an animal might change its nature.

Christopher walked back home with Albert padding calmly beside him. For some reason the dog seemed improved after meeting Beatrix Hathaway. As Christopher gave him a damning glance, Albert looked up at him with a toothy grin, his tongue lolling.

“Idiot,” Christopher muttered, although he wasn’t certain if the word was directed at his dog or himself.

He felt troubled and guilty. He knew he’d behaved like an ass to Beatrix Hathaway. She had tried to be friendly, and he had been cold and condescending.

He hadn’t meant to be offensive. It was just that he was nearly mad with longing for Prudence, for the sweet, artless voice that had saved his sanity. Every word of every letter she’d sent him still resonated through his soul.

“I’ve done a great deal of walking lately. I seem to think better outdoors . . .”

And when Christopher had set out to find Albert, and found himself walking through the forest, a mad idea had taken hold of him . . . that she was nearby, and fate would bring them together that quickly, that simply.

But instead of finding the woman he had dreamed of, craved, needed for so long, he had found Beatrix Hathaway.

It wasn’t that he disliked her. Beatrix was an odd creature, but fairly engaging, and far more attractive than he had remembered. In fact, she had become a beauty in his absence, her gangly coltish shape now curved and graceful . . .

Christopher shook his head impatiently, trying to redirect his thoughts. But the image of Beatrix Hathaway remained. A lovely oval face, a gently erotic mouth, and haunting blue eyes, a blue so rich and deep it seemed to contain hints of purple. And that silky dark hair, pinned up haphazardly, with teasing locks slipping free.

Christ, it had been too long since he’d had a woman. He was randy as the devil, and lonely, and filled with equal measures of grief and anger. He had so many unfulfilled needs, and he didn’t begin to know how to address any of them. But finding Prudence seemed like a good start.

He would rest here for a few days. When he felt more like his former self, he would go to Prudence in London. At the moment, however, it was fairly clear that his old way with words had left him. And Christopher knew that whereas he had once been relaxed and charming, he was now guarded and wooden.

Part of the problem was that he wasn’t sleeping well. Any slight noise, a creak of the house settling, a rap of a branch against the window, woke him to full heart-pounding readiness. And it happened in the daylight hours as well. Yesterday Audrey had dropped a book from a stack she was carrying, and Christopher had nearly jumped out of his shoes. He had instinctively reached for a weapon before recalling in the next instant that he no longer carried a gun. His rifle had become as familiar as one of his own limbs . . . he often felt it as a phantom presence.

Christopher’s steps slowed. He stopped to crouch beside Albert, looking into that shaggy fur-whisked face. “Hard to leave the war behind, isn’t it?” he murmured, petting the dog with affectionate roughness. Albert panted and lunged against him, and tried to lick his face. “Poor fellow, you have no idea what’s going on, do you? For all you know, shells may start exploding overhead at any moment.”

Albert flopped to his back and arched up his tummy, begging for a scratch. Christopher obliged him, and stood. “Let’s go back,” he said. “I’ll let you inside the house again—but God help you if you bite anyone.”