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    “I am not crying over the spanking!” she bit out, even as more tears coursed down her cheeks.
    “Of course you are not,” he soothed. “You are crying because you have just lost everything.”
    She lifted her eyes to see if he mocked her, but his expression held only compassion. She lowered her lashes as more tears spilled, leaning her shoulder against his. In a flash, he pulled her in his lap, his arms winding around her as he settled onto the ground.
    She marveled at the sense of comfort she derived from nothing more than a man’s strong arms wrapped around her. How long had it been since anyone offered her comfort? Since she was a child? Could she count the attentions paid her by servants? No, they gave out of duty. Jean-Claude gave freely, and the gentleness of his gift eased her ire.
    Yet it troubled her to feel so safe curled on a stranger’s lap when her life was at stake, her parents possibly dead, and she had no idea what her future held. This is what is to be a peasant. To find the simple comforts.
    He peered into her face and used his thumb to wipe away her tears.
    She pressed her lips to stop their trembling, willing the tears to stop. “Did you steal the pig?” she asked to deflect the attention.
    His eyebrows shot up and he laughed. “Yes. I tried to, but I did not succeed. It escaped and ran right back to its pen, but still they wanted my neck for it.” He shrugged. “I know, I should not have attempted it. I am not a thief. It was a stupid idea, one for which my mother never forgave me.”
    She looked at blue eyes framed with the dark curling lashes ladies strive to affect. How ancient they seemed. He had already known a lifetime of hardship whilst she had been dancing court dances in Paris and Versailles. And yet he smiled easily. Her eyes dropped to his lips. What would it be like to be kissed on the cheek by a man like him? Different than the few kisses she had received at court?
    “And you? Were you punished as promised?” he asked.
    The mention of the word “punish” almost made her wince, eliciting a fresh throbbing of her hot flesh against his hard thigh.
    “Yes. Maman was irate—she feared the queen would hear of the way I mocked her sheep, and Papa whipped me out of principle. But he was proud of me just the same. He liked when I took a stand on something and stuck to it. Maman called me stubborn, but Papa claimed it showed character. He always lamented I was born female.”
     
    * * *
     
    How could anyone lament Corinne was of the delicate sex? Because she was, in fact, more delicate, more female, it seemed, than any woman he had known. Was it her nobility? The regal way she held her neck? The way her slender fingers laced so primly?
    A few strands of her dark hair stuck to her dry lips, and he hooked a finger through them and tugged them off. The bruise on her cheek made him angry, but even worse, she now had scratches on her face from the bark of the log where he had punished her. He should have been more careful—spanking was one thing, but marring her face was quite another.
    “Will you be missed, in Gramont?”
    He gave a shrug. “Not so much. I lost my wife two years ago in childbirth.”
    She gasped, covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry. The child, too?”
    He nodded. “Yes, the baby died with her.” Two years and it still ached to speak of her.
    “And your parents?”
    “Dead.”
    “What do you do for trade?”
    “I am the blacksmith.”
    She raised her eyebrows, looking impressed.
    He smiled. “Did you think I still ran about trying to steal pigs?”
    She flushed. “I have heard of you. They say you are quite good. You do some silversmithing as well, is that true?”
    He studied her eyes—gray like the ashes of a fire. No, darker. Storm cloud gray. He liked the soft weight of her in his arms, the proximity of her face to his. “I have done some silversmithing for your father.”
    She looked at him appraisingly, as if adjusting her judgment of