He was a big man. Strapping, Aunt Charlotte would have called him. Tall and broad of shoulder, with dark hair that flopped over his forehead, and a close-trimmed beard and mustache that—upon second glance—might well have been nothing more than a week’s worth of heavy stubble.

He was also a stranger. A man she couldn’t recall having ever seen before. If she had, she’d surely have remembered. His face and figure were not the sort easily forgotten. Indeed, if she weren’t so put out at him for bursting into her private sanctuary and disrupting her peace, Laura might even have admitted to his being handsome.

But handsome or no, strangers weren’t welcome in Talbot’s Wood, and certainly not during those hours when she was clad in her knickers and availing herself of the pond. There were too many gentlemen who considered a scantily clad female to be fair game.

And he was some manner of gentleman. She could tell that much by the cut of his clothes and the quality of his horse—a bay hunter standing at the edge of the clearing with a leather portmanteau strapped to the back of its saddle.

She’d learned to be on her guard where gentlemen were concerned. Not that her rescuer looked as if he intended to ravish her. Far from it. He looked, truth be told, rather angry.

He sat on the bank beside her, one leanly muscled arm thrown over his updrawn knees. His shirt, waistcoat, and Bedford cord breeches were soaked through, his hair half-plastered to his head. Even his leather boots were wet.

A flicker of guilt pricked at her conscience. Had he really believed she was drowning? He must have done. Why else would he jump into the pond with his boots on? Boots that were now damaged beyond all hope of repair.

“I was in no danger,” she said.

He glared at her. His heavy-lidded gray eyes were as cold as hoarfrost.

Her stomach fluttered, even as her spine stiffened at his temerity. “And if you’re going to sit there staring at me—”

“I’m not staring at you.”

“You’re scowling at me.”

“Because I could bloody well wring your neck.”

Her mouth fell open. No man had ever spoken to her thus. Certainly not a stranger. “I beg your pardon?”

“How could anyone be so careless—so thoughtless—to even attempt—”

“I wasn’t trying to drown myself, you great lummox.” If he was speaking plainly, then so would she. “Not that it’s any of your business.” She sat up on the bank, resting her weight on one hip as she pushed her wet hair back from her face. It had come loose from its plaits. Flower petals, broken twigs, and goodness knew what else clung to the tangled strands. She’d have to wash it this evening if—

The stranger sucked in a sharp breath.