She regarded him steadily as he made his assessment, neither dipping her head nor coyly fluttering her lashes. Benedict’s interest kicked up a notch at her directness, and a twitch in his breeches reminded him with unpleasantly bad timing of his enforced abstinence. This was neither the time nor the place to do anything about that.

They’d never met in the ton. She must have come to town after he’d left for the peninsula three years ago, which would make her around twenty-four. Most women would be considered on the shelf at that age, unmarried after so many social seasons, but with the near-irresistible lure of her fortune and with those dazzling looks, Georgiana Caversteed could be eighty-four and someone would still want her.

And yet here she was.

Benedict kept his expression bland, even as he tried to breathe normally. What on earth had made her take such drastic action? Was the chit daft in the head? He couldn’t imagine any situation desperate enough to warrant getting leg-shackled to a man like him.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue—which sent another shot of heat straight to his gut—and fixed him with an imperious glare. “What is your name, sir?” She took a step closer, almost in challenge, in defiance of his unchained hands and undoubtedly menacing demeanor.

He quelled a spurt of admiration for her courage, even if it was ill-advised. His inhaled breath caught a subtle whiff of her perfume. It made his knees weak. He’d forgotten the intoxicating scent of woman and skin. For one foolish moment, he imagined pulling her close and pressing his nose into her hair, just filling his lungs with the divine scent of her. He wanted to drink in her smell. He wanted to see if those lips really were as soft as they looked.

He took an involuntary step toward her but stopped at the low growl of warning from her manservant. Sanity prevailed, and he just remembered to stay in the role of rough smuggler they all expected of him.

“My name? Ben Wylde. At your service.”

His voice was a deep rasp, rough from lack of use, and Georgie’s stomach did an odd little flip. She needed to take command here, like Father on board one of his ships, but the man facing her was huge, hairy, and thoroughly intimidating.

When she’d glanced around Knollys’s rotund form and into the gloomy cell, her first impression of the prisoner had been astonishment at his sheer size. He’d seemed to fill the entire space, all broad shoulders, wide chest, and long legs. She’d been expecting some poor, ragged, cowering scrap of humanity. Not this strapping, unapologetically male creature.