"Probably."

"Probably! Why? Have you foul-play in mind?"

"Not yet."

She studied his eyes, then scoffed. "You're not a criminal. Don't try to scare me."

"I wasn't trying."

"And you haven't."

"Good."

"Why are you lurking under the bridge? Are you hiding?"

"Yes, I'm always hiding."

"Spoken like a true bandit. Are you one?"

"Not today."

"What does that mean? It's Thursday. Were you one on Wednesday? Might you be one again on Friday?"

"I might-if the mood strikes me."

"What sort of brigand are you? Are you the type to rob travelers of their jewelry?"

"I don't need anyone's jewels."

"Then are you the type to creep in at night and make off with the silverware? Should we start locking our windows and doors?"

"I don't care about your paltry silverware either."

"I'm glad to hear it."

She studied him again, anxious to figure out if he was jesting or if he actually had felonious tendencies. He certainly seemed dodgy and capable of inflicting damage on others, but she didn't believe a criminal would confess to being a criminal.

She told herself he was jesting.

"I've resided in the area most of my life," she said.

"How awful for you," he sarcastically retorted. "How have you survived it?"

"I don't recognize you as a neighbor. Are you passing through or are you visiting?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe what? Are you passing through? Are you visiting? What?"

"I haven't decided. I might be staying for a while."

"With friends?"

He didn't answer her question, but asked, "May I escort you up to the road? Or will you remain down here and lose your bonnet again?"

"I think I've courted enough calamity. I'd better continue on home."

"Where is home?"

For the briefest second, she hesitated, wondering whether she should tell him, but she shook off the silly notion. There was no reason not to say. "I live at Kirkwood Manor. The gate is just around the next bend."

At her mentioning Kirkwood, he froze in that intriguing way he had, growing so still he might have been turned to stone.

"Kirkwood?"

"Yes. You know of it?"

"I've heard stories."

From how he'd cocked his head, from how he was evaluating her, she thought he was much more familiar with the estate than he wished to let on. Her suspicions were ignited again. Who was he? What was his purpose?

She was sure he was plotting mischief, but she'd had scant experience with wastrels and ne'er-do-wells, except for her cousin, Miles, so she couldn't begin to guess what tomfoolery he might be contemplating.

"You've heard of Kirkwood?" she said. "What have you heard?"

"Nothing that would interest you."

"Ha! You are the most infuriating man. You likely have a thousand secrets."

"You could be right." He took her arm and eased her over to the path that led up the bank to the road. "Who owns Kirkwood these days? It used to be the Marshall family. Are they still there?"

"Yes, they're still there."

She peered back at him, but he had no expression on his face, and he was staring at her so blandly she couldn't imagine what he was thinking.

"Are you acquainted with any of the Marshalls?" she asked.

"Not really." He urged her on. "Are you a servant or a relative?"

"Are my clothes so hideous that you've mistaken me for a servant?"

He laughed, his voice sounding rusty, as if it didn't happen often. "I probably shouldn't answer that question. I'll land myself in too much trouble."

"I'm a relative."

"Which one?"

"I'm the dreaded poor one."

"How poor?" he shocked her by inquiring.

"I don't have two pennies to my name," she blithely said, confused as to why she'd admit such an embarrassing detail to a total stranger.

"Is that why you've never married?"

"No."

"Why then?"

"I've never married because all men are idiots, and I can't abide their foolishness."

"I'm inclined to agree with you."

He grinned, abruptly looking so appealing that she had to glance away. He had no wedding ring on his finger so he was a bachelor, and there weren't many in the neighborhood, especially not any who were handsome and fascinating. He was definitely both.

"How are you related to the family?" he asked.

"My mother and the late Edward Marshall were siblings."

"So Augusta is your aunt."

"Yes."

"Miles and Sophia are your cousins."

"Yes." She scowled. "For someone who claims to merely know of Kirkwood, you possess a great deal of information about us."

"Not that much. I'd never heard of you previously."

She feigned a pout. "You're deliberately trying to hurt my feelings."

It dawned on her that she was flirting, which was highly unusual. She'd meant it when she'd said men were idiots. After living with her Uncle Edward and Cousin Miles, she had no patience for them. She'd expended too much effort cleaning up Miles's messes after Edward had died.

Miles was a spendthrift who frittered away his money at gambling clubs in London. If she hadn't worked so diligently to keep the farm producing, he'd have beggared them.

"I doubt I could hurt your feelings, Miss Fogarty. You seem to have quite a stern constitution."

"Now there's a compliment to make a young lady swoon. I have a stern constitution. If you weren't the first bachelor to cross my path in ages, I'd stomp off in a huff."

"You would not. You like me, and you're curious as the dickens about who I am and what I'm about."

"Perhaps."

"How long have you been at the estate?"

"Since I was seven."

"That's why I wasn't aware of you," he mused.

"Why would you have been aware of me?"

He was saved from replying by their reaching the road.

"Would you like me to walk you the rest of the way?" he asked. "Or will you be all right on your own?"

"I'll be all right. I've been going to the village by myself for nearly twenty years, and in all that time, the sole brigand I've encountered is you."

He didn't deny that he was a brigand, and she rippled with concern over him and his motives.

"It was lovely meeting you, Miss Fogarty."

"Even if the only kind thing you can say is that I have a stern constitution?"

"Even then."

He grabbed her bonnet, gave it several hard shakes, then put it on her head. She dawdled like an imbecile as he tied the bow. Then, to her stunned surprise, he placed his hands on her cheeks, and he stood very close, cataloguing her features.

It was a scandalously intimate gesture, one that no man had ever attempted prior, and she should have slapped him away. But the feel of his palms on her skin was so riveting that her heart was pounding.

"You're very pretty, Miss Fogarty."

With her auburn hair and big blue eyes, she'd always thought so. She looked exactly like her beautiful, exotic mother, but after listening to Aunt Augusta complain for most of two decades that she was homely and plain, she'd let doubts creep in. It was divine to have him confirm what she secretly believed.

Still though, she ought to keep her vanity in check, should pretend to be offended, pretend that he was wrong.

"As we're not acquainted in the slightest," she protested, "it's outrageous for you to make such a personal comment."

"I know, but I think you're very pretty anyway."

"What's your name? You never told me."

"No, I didn't."

He stepped back, his hands dropping away, and she realized that she'd be terribly disappointed if she never saw him again. Which was ridiculous. She wasn't attracted to men, didn't care about them and wasn't interested in romance, and she had no idea why she was gaping at him like a love-struck adolescent.

"Will you be in the neighborhood long?" she asked.

"I expect I will be."

"I wish you'd stop by Kirkwood."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Definitely."

He smiled the slyest smile. "Then how can I refuse?"

"We're having a large party tomorrow night. There'll be dancing and cards. Why don't you join us?"