She’d studied his shaggy, overlong hair and splendid proportions from the back as they’d traipsed down the corridor. He stood a good head taller than Knollys, and unlike the jailer’s waddling shuffle, this man walked with a long, confident stride, straight-backed and chin high, as if he owned the prison and were simply taking a tour for his pleasure.

Now, in the chapel, she finally saw his face—the parts that weren’t covered with a dark bristle of beard—and her skin prickled as she allowed her eyes to rove over him. She pretended she was inspecting a horse or a piece of furniture. Something large and impersonal.

His dark hair was matted and hung around his face almost to his chin. It was hard to tell what color it would be when it was clean. A small wisp of straw stuck out from one side, just above his ear, and she resisted a bizarre feminine urge to reach up and remove it. Dark beard hid the shape of his jaw, but the candlelight caught his slanted cheekbones and cast shadows in the hollows beneath. The skin that she could see—a straight slash of nose, cheeks, and forehead—was unfashionably tanned and emphasized his deep brown eyes.

She’d stepped as close to him as she dared; no doubt he’d smell like a cesspool if she got any nearer, but even so, she was aware of an uncomfortable curl of … what? Reluctant attraction? Repelled fascination?

The top of her head only came up to his chin, and his size was, paradoxically, both threatening and reassuring. He was large enough to lean on; she was certain if she raised her hand to his chest, he would be solid and warm. Unmovable. Her heart hammered in alarm. He was huge and unwashed, and yet her body reacted to him in the most disconcerting manner.

His stare was uncomfortably intense. She dropped her eyes, breaking the odd frisson between them, and took a small step backward.

His lawn shirt, open at the neck, was so thin it was almost transparent. His muscled chest and arms were clearly visible through the grimy fabric. His breeches were a nondescript brown, snug at the seams, and delineated the hard ridges of muscles of his lean thighs with unnerving clarity.

Georgie frowned. This was a man in the prime of life. It seemed wrong that he’d been caged like an animal. He exuded such a piratical air of command that she could easily imagine him on the prow of a ship or pacing in front of a group of soldiers, snapping orders.

She found her voice. “Were you in the military, Mr. Wylde?”

That would certainly explain his splendid physique and air of cocky confidence.

His dark brows twitched in what might have been surprise but could equally have been irritation. “I was.”