The Wedding Wager

Every English village had to have at least one eccentric -- and Mary Gates, the old squire's daughter, was Lyford Meadows's. She dressed in mens clothing, was capable of outswearing a stable hand, and claimed to be as good as any man alive, if not better...especially when the subject was horses.

Tye Barlow stifled the urge to swear aloud himself as he spied her winding her way through the crowded yard. He'd not wanted her here. Had hoped she'd stay away. Why didn't Mary know her place like other women?

Instead, she moved among the completely male crowd of buyers assembled at Lord Spender's stables for the horse auction with an easy, loose-limbed grace, seemingly oblivious to the surprised but appreciative silence trailing in her wake. Conversations stopped. Eyebrows raised. Speculation appeared in men's eyes.

Tye understood their response. Mary was a beauty, the loveliest woman in the shire, a fragrant red rose among the smell of muck and horses. Aristocratic breeding might mark her high cheekbones and straight, elegant, patrician nose, but in the depths of her sea-green eyes was a hint of fire, a trait passed to her from some Viking ancestor who had raided these parts...and she had a sensual, full lower lip that begged to be kissed.