“Don’t come any closer!” hissed Beryl over her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” came the anxious inquiry. It was a man’s voice, pleasantly baritone. American?

“I’m fine,” snapped Beryl.

“What about your horse?”

Murmuring softly to Froggie, Beryl knelt down and ran her hands along Froggie’s foreleg. The delicate bones all seemed to be intact.

“Is he all right?” said the man.

“It’s a she,” answered Beryl. “And yes, she seems to be just fine.”

“I really can tell the difference,” came the dry response. “When I have a view of the essential parts.”

Suppressing a smile, Beryl straightened and turned to look at the man. Dark hair, dark eyes, she noted. And the definite glint of humor-nothing stiff-upper-lip about this one. Forty plus years of laughter had left attractive creases about his eyes. He was dressed in formal black tie, and his broad shoulders filled out the tuxedo jacket quite impressively.

“I’m sorry about the spill,” he said. “I guess it was my fault.”

“This is a country road, you know. Not exactly the place to be speeding. You never can tell what lies around the bend.”

“So I’ve discovered.”

Froggie gave her an impatient nudge. Beryl stroked the horse’s neck, all the time intensely aware of the man’s gaze.

“I do have something of an excuse,” he said. “I got turned around in the village back there, and I’m running late. I’m trying to find some place called Chetwynd. Do you know it?”

She cocked her head in surprise. “You’re going to Chetwynd? Then you’re on the wrong road.”

“Am I?”

“You turned off a half mile too soon. Head back to the main road and keep going. You can’t miss the turn. It’s a private drive, flanked by elms-quite tall ones.”

“I’ll watch for the elms, then.”

She remounted Froggie and gazed down at the man. Even viewed from the saddle, he cut an impressive figure, lean and elegant in his tuxedo. And strikingly confident, not a man to be intimidated by anyone-even a woman sitting astride nine hundred muscular pounds of horseflesh.