Good Lord, what was that?

With startling suddenness a huge, bulky shape charged toward the cart from the forest cover.

Everything happened too fast for Daisy to comprehend. She gripped the ribbons as Hubert jerked forward with a panicked whinny, the cart rattling and bouncing as if it were a child’s toy.

Daisy tried in vain to keep her seat, but as the cart hit a deep rut she was thrown clear of the vehicle. Hubert continued racing pell-mell down the lane while Daisy landed on the hard-packed earth with stunning force.

The breath was knocked from her, and she choked and wheezed. She had the impression of a massive creature, a monster rushing toward her, but the sound of a gunshot rent the air and caused her ears to ring.

A bone-chilling animal squeal…then nothing.

Daisy tried to sit up, then flopped weakly on her stomach as her lungs spasmed. Her chest felt as if it had been caught in a vise. There was a good chance she was going to cast up her crumpets, but the thought of how much that would hurt was enough to keep her gorge down.

In a moment the thundering of hooves—several sets—vibrated the ground beneath Daisy’s cheek. Finally able to draw a shallow breath, she pushed up on her elbows and lifted her chin.

Three riders—no, four—were galloping toward her, hooves thrasing up clouds of dust in the lane. One of the men swung off his horse before it had even stopped and rushed to her in a few ground-eating strides.

Daisy blinked in surprise as he dropped to his knees and gathered her up in the same motion. Her head fell back on his arm, and she found herself staring hazily up into Matthew Swift’s dark face.

“Daisy.” It was a tone she had never heard from him before, rough and urgent. Cradling her in one arm, he ran his free hand over her body in a rapid search for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

Daisy tried to explain that she’d just gotten the wind knocked out of her, and he seemed to understand her incoherent sounds. “All right,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Breathe slowly.” Feeling her stir against him, he resettled her in his arms. “Rest against me.” His hand passed over her hair, smoothing it back from her face. Tiny shivers of reaction ran through her limbs, and he gathered her closer. “Slowly, sweetheart. Easy. You’re safe now.”

Daisy closed her eyes to hide her astonishment. Matthew Swift was murmuring endearments and holding her in hard, strong arms, and her bones seemed to have melted like boiling sugar.

Years of uncivilized rough-and-tumble with her siblings had taught Daisy to recover quickly from a fall. In any other circumstances she would have sprung up and dusted herself off by now. But every pleasure-saturated cell in her body sought to preserve the moment for as long as possible.

Matthew’s gentle fingers stroked the side of her face. “Look at me, sweetheart. Tell me where it hurts.”

Her lashes swept upward. His face was right over hers. As she was held in the compass of his extraordinary blue eyes, she felt as if she were floating in layers of color. “You have nice teeth,” she told him groggily, “but you know, your eyes are even nicer…”

Swift frowned, the pad of his thumb passing over the crest of her cheek. His touch brought a wash of pink to the surface of her skin. “Can you tell me your name?”

She blinked at him. “You’ve forgotten it?”

“No, I want to know if you’ve forgotten it.”

“I would never be so silly as to forget my own name,” she said. “I’m Daisy Bowman.”

“What is your birthday?”

She couldn’t repress a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t know if I told you the wrong one.”

“Your birthday,” he insisted.

“March the fifth.”

His mouth curved wryly. “Don’t play games, imp.”

“All right. It’s September the twelfth. How did you know my birthday?”

Instead of replying, Swift looked up and spoke to his companions, who had gathered around them. “Her pupils are the same size,” he said. “And she’s alert. No broken bones, either.”

“Thank God.” Westcliff’s voice.

Looking over Matthew Swift’s broad shoulder, Daisy saw her brother-in-law standing over them. Mr. Mardling and Lord Llandrindon were also there, wearing sympathetic expressions.

Westcliff held a rifle in his hand. He lowered to his haunches beside her. “We were just returning from an afternoon shoot,” the earl said. “It was pure chance that we came upon you just as you were charged.”

“I could have sworn it was a wild boar,” Daisy said in wonder.

“But that can’t be,” Lord Landrindon remarked with a patronizing chuckle. “Your imagination has gotten the better of you, Miss Bowman. There have been no wild boars in England for hundreds of years.”

“But I saw—” Daisy began defensively.

“It’s all right,” Swift murmured, tightening his hold. “I saw it too.”

Westcliff’s expression was rueful. “Miss Bowman is not entirely mistaken,” he told Llandrindon. “We’ve had a local problem with some escaped livestock that have farrowed a generation or two of feral litters. Only last month a horse-woman was charged by one of them.”

“You mean I was just attacked by an angry pig?” Daisy asked, struggling to a sitting position. Swift kept a supportive arm at her back and tucked her against his warm side.

A last ray of sunlight flashed over the horizon, temporarily blinding her. Turning her face away from it, Daisy felt Swift’s chin brush against her hair.