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pressed her case. “You may name your terms,” she said in a seductive tone that had brought generals to their knees, “as long as they can be measured in coin.” She paused for effect, then took a gamble. “Unless you prefer something less tangible than coin.”
    He removed her hand from his chest with a strength that could have broken bones and with a gentleness that didn’t.
    â€œThat’s about the most inane thing anyone has said to me all evening. Go away before I chew you into little bits and spit you out.” Dunstan flung her hand away and retreated from her reach. He’d been without a woman for so long, he’d forgotten their alluring scents and softness, the sway and rustle of tempting curves, the hot bloodlust that throbbed through him when the need was on him.
    He couldn’t afford passion any more than he could afford women. Whatever she offered, she would take too much in return.
    â€œI am not an empty-headed twit,” the lady replied with scorn. “You can’t frighten me with exaggerated threats and intimidating stances. If you are the best agronomist in all England, then I need your services.”
    Intimidating stances. Dunstan almost chuckled at the way the irritating scrap of fluff stood there with her hands on her hips in her own version of intimidation.
    â€œI am the best agronomist in England, but I am already employed,” he avowed. “The last person in the world I’d work for is a Malcolm witch.”
    Even though he could barely see the lady in the darkness, she was still working her witchy Malcolm wiles on him. A part of him wanted to show her he was far more than the best agronomist in all England. He wanted to prove he was first and foremost a man—but that pathway led to hell, and he refused to take it, no matter what enticements she offered. Name his own terms! Gad, the woman had parsnips for brains if she didn’t know the power of her own seductiveness.
    Lady Leila had the most luscious curves created in the eyes of God and mankind. He was far better off out of her presence, and she was far better off understanding with whom she toyed.
    Dunstan wrapped his hands around her corseted waist and lifted her to the potting bench, knocking plants out of the way with her wide panniers.
    She gasped and got in a well-placed kick with her heeled shoes, but Dunstan merely grunted and staggered away.
    Name his own terms , indeed. She would scream and have his head cut off if he told her exactly what terms he’d choose.

Three
    Wiltshire, April 1752
    The last person in the world I’d work for is a Malcolm witch . Famous last words. Taunting a Malcolm was as witless as teasing dragons.
    Cursing and wiping the filth of the road from his brow, Dunstan halted at a crossroad near Swindon and let his aging mount nibble grass while he debated his route.
    Dismissed. The best damned agronomist in the land, and he’d been dismissed. For insubordination. Imagine that. And not another fat-headed lordling on the horizon seemed interested in hiring him.
    Dunstan returned to pondering the crossroad. He could take the route east and crawl back to Drogo, but he’d rather eat his own foot than ask for help. The fiasco in London had proven he was a detriment to his noble brother as well as to his own son, whom he was determined to take under his wing one day.
    Years ago, Celia had been horrified when he’d suggested bringing his by-blow, Griffith, into their household. Celia’s death and the subsequent rumors had effectively destroyed his hopes of developing any filial relationship with the boy. Until Dunstan’s innocence was established, Griffith was better off with his mother.
    Dunstan might be a failure at his social obligations, but he knew he possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of experimental agricultural techniques. He wasn’t too proud to work, provided someone would let him.
    The cursed Malcolm witch had seen to