Swift’s lips twitched as he considered the point. “Since China is the leading international producer of hemp,” he said, “I suppose one could say ‘Not for all the hemp in China’…but it doesn’t have the same ring. However you care to phrase it, I’m not going to help the goose.” He bent to pick up his creel.

“Please,” Daisy said.

Swift gave her a long-suffering look.

“Please,” she repeated.

No gentleman could refuse a lady who had used the word twice.

Muttering something indecipherable beneath his breath, Swift set the creel back down.

A self-satisfied smile curved Daisy’s lips. “Thank you.”

Her smile faded, however, when he warned, “You’ll owe me for this.”

“Naturally,” Daisy replied. “I would never expect you to do something for nothing.”

“And when I call in the favor, you’re not even going to think of refusing, no matter what it is.”

“Within reason. I’m not going to agree to marry you just because you rescued a poor trapped goose.”

“Believe me,” Swift said darkly, “marriage won’t be any part of it.” He began to remove his coat, having difficulty stripping the damp olive-colored tweed from his broad shoulders.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Daisy’s eyes widened.

His mouth held an exasperated slant. “I’m not going to let that blasted bird ruin my coat.”

“There’s no need to make a fuss over getting a few feathers on your coat.”

“It’s not feathers I’m worried about,” he said curtly.

“Oh.” Daisy fought to hold back a sudden smile.

She watched him take off his coat and his vest. His creased white shirt adhered to his broad chest, becoming wetter and almost transparent as it stuck to the muscle-banded surface of his abdomen and disappeared beneath the sodden band of his trousers. A pair of white braces stretched over his shoulders and crossed the powerful surface of his back. He laid his discarded garments carefully over his creel to keep them from becoming muddy. A breeze played with the clipped layers of his hair, briefly lifting a lock on his forehead.

The strangeness of the situation…the baleful goose, Matthew Swift waterlogged and dressed in his shirtsleeves…caused an irrepressible giggle to rise to Daisy’s lips. Hastily she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it came out anyway.

He shook his head, while an answering smile broke out on his face. Daisy noticed that his smiles never lasted for long, they vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was like catching sight of some rare natural phenomenon, like a shooting star, brief and striking.

“If you tell anyone about this, you little imp…you’ll pay.” The words were threatening, but something in his tone…an erotic softness…sent a hot-and-cold chill down her spine.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Daisy said breathlessly. “The situation would reflect as badly on me as it would on you.”

Swift reached into his discarded coat, extracted a small penknife and handed it to her. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered an extra second on the surface of her palm?

“What’s this for?” she asked uneasily.

“To cut the string from the bird’s leg. Be careful—it’s very sharp. I’d hate for you to accidentally slice open an artery.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.”

“I was referring to myself, not the goose.” He slid an assessing glance over the impatient fowl. “If you make this difficult,” he said to the goose, “you’ll be pate by suppertime.”

The bird raised its wings threateningly to make itself appear as large as possible.

Moving forward in a deliberate step, Swift placed one foot on the line, shortening the goose’s range of movement. The creature flapped and hissed, pausing for a moment before making the decision to hurl itself forward. Swift seized the goose, cursing as he tried to avoid the driving beak. A flurry of feathers rose around the pair.

“Don’t choke him,” Daisy cried, seeing that Swift had gotten hold of the goose’s neck.

It was perhaps fortunate that Swift’s reply was lost in the explosion of movement and honking and goose-battling. Somehow Swift managed to restrain the bird until it was a writhing, spitting mass in his arms. Disheveled and blanketed with feathers and down, he glared at Daisy, “Get over here and cut the line,” he snapped.

Hastily she obeyed, dropping to her knees beside the grappling pair. Gingerly she reached for the goose’s muddy webbed foot, and it squawked and jerked its leg away.

“For God’s sake, don’t be timid,” she heard Swift say impatiently. “Just grab hold of the thing and get to work.”

Had there not been thirty pounds of furious goose caught between them, Daisy would have glared at Matthew Swift. Instead she seized the goose’s tethered foot in a firm grip and carefully slid the tip of the knife beneath the line. Swift had been right—the blade was wickedly sharp. With one nick it cut the line cleanly in two.

“It’s done,” she said triumphantly, closing the knife. “You may release our feathered friend, Mr. Swift.”

“Thank you,” came his sardonic reply.

But as Swift opened his arms and freed the bird, it reacted unexpectedly. Bent on vengeance, blaming its captor for all its woes, the creature twisted to aim a jab at his face.