Dorothea reached for the hat, but like the rascal he undoubtedly was, he kept it from her grasp, pretending to examine it closely. He brushed off a bit of grit from the brim and fingered the now-tattered veil.

“A mite worse for its adventure, but no doubt you can mend it, women having a certain magical talent for such things.”

Again Dorothea reached for her hat; again he kept it from her only to take a step closer and set it on her head.

“There you go, beautiful lady. You will be sure and hold on to it more closely next time.”

Dorothea, assaulted by the full force of his masculinity, said nothing, though she reached up one hand and clamped the hat to her head. She looked into his face, and all the breath fled her lungs.

He wore no cap and had a headful of copper curls well-tossed by the wind. His face screamed Ireland, with a broad forehead and slightly squared jaw, all sprinkled with freckles visible even beneath his worker’s tan. His eyes—but no. Dorothea met them once before her gaze skittered away much as the hat had, only to return again on a rush of fascination.

Tawny gold as those of a tomcat, his eyes held a world of emotions: amusement first of all, that flaming confidence, an uncanny wisdom, and a hint of daring. Dorothea responded to the last first—seldom did she fail to accept a dare.