It was nothing, she told herself. Just a kiss. She had no reason to be embarrassed or feel awkward. But there was no denying that she was both. The memory of that kiss—and how thoroughly she’d responded to it—was too fresh.

“Aye,” she answered with as much nonchalance as she could manage. Then before he noticed them, or her cousin did something dreadful like call out a greeting, she took Margaret’s arm to steer her away. “Come, I think I smell tarts.”

There was no surer way to get them moving quickly—like her, both of her cousins loved tarts. It must be a family trait.

Unfortunately, they weren’t quick enough. They’d only taken a few steps toward the stalls when someone—a big someone—blocked their path.

“Ladies.”

The deep masculine voice sent shivers of awareness down Joan’s spine that made her skin prickle and the tiny hairs on her neck stand on edge. Blast it, how did he do that? And did he have to smell so good? He was a man in full armor on a hot day. He should stink with sweat, not smell like he’d just stepped out of a steamy bath.

Her cheeks flushed hotter as that image came unwittingly to mind. His naked chest had been spectacular; she imagined the rest would be . . .

Nothing that she should be thinking about!

But if she were the type of woman to admire backsides—which she just might be—she would be in heaven. She couldn’t help but notice the strong muscles of his flanks in the leather breeches when she’d been able to tear her eyes away from his bare chest the other day.

God in heaven, what was the matter with her?

Something about Alex made her feel like a lovesick maid again—before she’d had the stars wrenched from her eyes and her innocence stolen forever. Although she couldn’t ever remember being so physically attracted to a man and filled with such decidedly unmaidenly thoughts.

Annoyed by her silly reaction to him, she looked up with a purse to her mouth that faltered a bit when she found those spectacular crystal-clear blue eyes riveted on her. She feared she sucked in her breath again.

“My lord,” she said with a curt bow of her head that was more to avoid that penetrating gaze than out of deference.

Had he noticed her flushed cheeks? She hoped he attributed them to the warm day. Her sixteen-year-old lass’s reaction to him was bad enough without him being aware of it.

She wasn’t to be so fortunate.

“Is something wrong, Joan?” Alice asked, waving her fan in her direction as if to cool her off. “Your face is as red as a beet.”