“Does it have something to do with . . . women?” Pandora brought herself to ask, her pulse beating a rapid tattoo of alarm in her throat and wrists.

He gave her an oblique glance. “Yes.”

Oh God, no, no. Too upset to guard her tongue, she burst out, “I knew it. You have the pox.”

Gabriel shot her a startled look. The quiver of arrows dropped to the ground with a clatter. “What?”

“I knew you’d probably caught it by now,” Pandora said distractedly, as he pulled her around the nearest target and behind one of the earthworks mounds, where they were obscured from the view of the house. “Heaven knows how many kinds. English pox, French pox, Bavarian pox, Turkish—”

“Pandora, wait.” He gave her a slight shake to capture her attention, but the words kept tumbling out.

“—Spanish pox, German pox, Australian pox—”

“I’ve never had the pox,” he interrupted.

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

Her eyes turned huge. “You’ve had all of them?”

“No, damn it—” Gabriel broke off and turned partially away. He began to cough roughly, his shoulders trembling. One of his hands lifted to cover his eyes, and with a pang of horror, she thought he was weeping. But in the next moment, she realized he was laughing. Every time he glanced at her indignant face, it started a new round of irrepressible choking. She was forced to wait, annoyed at finding herself the object of hilarity while he struggled to control himself.

Finally Gabriel managed to gasp, “I’ve had none of them. And there’s only one kind.”

A tide of relief swept away Pandora’s annoyance. “Why are there so many different names, then?”

His chuckles subsided with a last ragged breath, and he wiped at the wet inner corners of his eyes. “The English began calling it French pox when we were at war, and naturally they returned the favor by calling it English pox. I doubt anyone has ever called it Bavarian or German pox, but if someone did, it would have been the Austrians. The point is, I don’t have it, because I’ve always used protection.”

“What does that mean?”

“Prophylactics. Viscera of ovis aries.” His tone had turned lightly caustic. “French letters, English hats, baudruches. Take your pick.”

Pandora puzzled over the French word, which sounded somewhat familiar. “Isn’t baudruche the fabric made from, er . . . sheep’s innards . . . that they use for making hot air balloons? What does a sheep balloon have to do with warding off the pox?”

“It’s not a sheep balloon,” he said. “I’ll explain if you think you’re ready for that level of anatomical detail.”

“Never mind,” she replied quickly, having no desire to be embarrassed further.

With a slow shake of his head, Gabriel asked, “How the devil did you come by the idea that I had the pox?”

“Because you’re a notorious rake.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Lord Chaworth said you were.”

“My father was the notorious rake,” Gabriel replied with poorly contained exasperation, “in the days before he married my mother. I’ve been tarred by the same brush because I happen to look like him. And because I inherited his old title. But even if I wanted to acquire legions of amorous conquests, which I don’t, I wouldn’t have the damned time.”

“But you’ve ‘known’ many women, haven’t you? In the Biblical sense.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “How are we defining many?”

“I don’t have a particular quantity in mind,” Pandora protested. “I wouldn’t even know—”

“Give me a number.”

Pandora rolled her eyes and sighed shortly to convey that she was humoring him. “Twenty-three.”

“I’ve known fewer than twenty-three women in the Biblical sense,” Gabriel said promptly, seeming to think that would end the discussion. “Now, I think we’ve spent enough time indulging in filthy conversation on the archery grounds. Let’s go back to the house.”

“Have you been with twenty-two women?” Pandora asked, refusing to move.

A rapid succession of emotions crossed his face—annoyance, amusement, desire, warning. “No.”

“Twenty-one?”

There was a moment of absolute stillness before something in him seemed to snap. He pounced on her with a sort of tigerish delight, and clamped his mouth over hers. She squeaked in surprise, wriggling in his hold, but his arms clamped around her easily, his muscles as solid as oak. He kissed her possessively, almost roughly at first, gentling by voluptuous degrees. Her body surrendered without giving her brain a chance to object, applying itself eagerly to every available inch of him. The luxurious male heat and hardness of him satisfied a wrenching hunger she hadn’t been aware of until now. It also gave her the close-but-not-close-enough feeling she remembered from before. Oh, how confusing this was, this maddening need to crawl inside his clothes, practically inside his skin.

She let her fingertips wander over his cheeks and jaw, the neat shape of his ears, the taut smoothness of his neck. When he offered no objection, she sank her fingers into his thick, vibrant hair and sighed in satisfaction. He searched for her tongue, teased and stroked intimately until her heart pounded in a tumult of longing, and a sweet, empty ache spread all through her. Dimly aware that she was going to lose control, that she was on the verge of swooning, or assaulting him again, she managed to break the kiss and turn her face away with a gasp.