by Lori Foster
Distracted, the bull paused only for an instant before adjusting his direction to charge at Luke.
“Get her loose, boys. Get her loose. Hang on, Shay.”
Terrified more for him than she’d been for herself, Shay shook her head. The bull caught Luke with a horn and sent him flying into the metal fence, which collapsed around him. Still the bull chose fighting instead of freedom, lowering his horns and stabbing at Luke’s prone form on the ground. Shay couldn’t see through the tears and didn’t feel when Joe and Chad released her. “Come on out, fast!” they shouted.
She pulled the bandanna off as police officers and sheriff’s deputies and WBP officials swarmed from all directions but kept their distance because of the bull. Luke was throwing the fence off his legs as the bull rammed him again. A bullfighter flapped his arms. The bull ignored him and stamped in the middle of Luke’s chest. Shay ran to him, but Monty’s long arm grabbed around her torso. She strained to get to the man she loved, motionless and bloody on the ground.
“I’m not ordering up two coffins today, Shay,” he said.
Then, he squeezed her injured ribs so tight the world went black.
CHAPTER 10
The antiseptic smell assailed her first. Shay wrinkled her nose against it even in her half-conscious state. The tinny voice of a doctor’s page confirmed what she suspected: She was in a hospital. Alone. Then she thought she caught a whiff of rain and oak but shoved it aside as a memory. A cruel one.
She remembered Luke’s inert body and lots of blood and talk of coffins.
He hadn’t ridden. He’d saved her. He’d loved her.
Now he was gone.
Fighting back bitterness and the tears that came with it, she looked to her right and saw a white curtain dividing the room in two and keeping her from seeing out the window.
Shay scooted to a sitting position, trying to swallow a moan but failing.
“You awake now, girl?”
Coming from the bed on the other side of the curtain, the gravelly voice of an elderly woman who’d downed one too many bottles of liquor in her life startled Shay. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I was getting a little lonely over here. Lord knows I like to be independent, but sometimes I wonder where independence leaves off and loneliness begins.”
“I know what you mean.” Shay’s heartbeat accelerated as she began to recognize the familiar whiskey tone.
“Good. A well-chosen compromise, now that can make independence stronger instead of weaker.”
“I had to learn that the hard way,” Shay said, carefully, pulling the thin blanket gingerly off her legs and pulling them to the side of the bed.
“Oooo. And what other things have you learned the hard way, girl?” the now obviously falsetto voice on the other side of the curtain chuckled lasciviously.
Smiling, Shay crept on shaky legs to the curtain, ribs cringing with each step. “How to love a hard-headed, hard-bodied handsome heartbreaker.”
“Any love left over for a noodle-headed, broken-bodied, butt-ugly cowboy who just found his heart?”
Shay felt like her own heart had swelled enough to burst. She threw back the curtain, ignoring the shot of pain that ran down her side. He lay swathed in bandages and casts, his silvery eyes twinkling, dimple digging into a face crisscrossed with bruises and cuts. “I just might consider it, if all the cowboy’s important parts are in working order.”
“Just what do you consider important?” Luke’s eyebrow went up, and he winced.
Shay laughed, and she winced. Lifting up the sheet, he patted the bed next to him. “Better come check it out.”
She slid into the bed beside him and kissed each and every scratch and bruise she could find; then she stopped, putting her head on his chest to listen to the delicious pounding of his heart. Whole and happy, Shay knew she could do nothing but listen to this beautiful music forever. “This is the only thing that matters to me.”
“Well, there’s something else that matters to me.” He took her hand in his and guided it under his hospital gown to his erection, the only part of him not wearing a bandage. “I was a little worried after the bull got through with me, but I see now that it just needed just the right motivation.”
“Like most things in life,” Shay said.
“Like most things in love,” Luke corrected, covering her mouth with his and drawing her on top of him for a kiss that lasted a lot longer than eight seconds.
COMPROMISED
Gayle Callen
To Maggie Shayne, dear friend and writing buddy,
who answers my questions, commiserates
with my problems, and is always there
when I need her.
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, 1589
“Whom shall I flirt with?” Lady Elizabeth Stanwood murmured to herself as she stood on tiptoes and searched the large gilt-ceilinged room, crowded with dancing couples. She was through waiting for Lord Wyndham to ask for her hand in marriage—she was one and twenty, and it was time to do something to make it happen.
She needed the perfect man to make him jealous. She wasn’t certain whom she was looking for; an acquaintance would surely play along with her scheme, but a stranger might make the evening all the more interesting for her, and unnerving for Wyndham. And wouldn’t that be enough to make his lordship squirm?
She caught a glimpse of Sir Ralph Cobham and quickly looked away. She had had to repeatedly dissuade him from asking her father for her hand in marriage. There was an underhandedness about the man that made her dislike him, so she certainly couldn’t use him to make Lord Wyndham jealous.
Then she saw a newcomer step into the room, and her eyes narrowed as she examined him. He was tall, taller than most of the men in attendance, with a breadth of shoulders that needed no padding. His clothing was years out of fashion, only a simple short tunic, belted at the waist, with a cloak thrown back over those impressive shoulders—as if it were not the hottest summer of her memory. His legs were thick and sturdy under his plain hose, and he wore a flat cap over close-cropped brown hair. His strong-jawed face was clean shaven, appearing stark amid the hall’s plenitude of curled and colored beards.
Though woefully out of place, he didn’t appear ill at ease. Could he be someone’s idea of entertainment, a joke to enliven the party?
Whatever he was, the man was perfect for Elizabeth’s plan. She gulped the last of her wine, then smiled as she slowly made her way through the crowd, dropping small, perfect curtsies to the noblemen, dipping her head modestly to the ladies, but all the while keeping her gaze on the newcomer.
It wasn’t long before he saw her. He glanced away; then his gaze returned to her with satisfying swiftness. She allowed her smile to deepen, to grow mysterious in that way that her suitors had long admired. As his gaze dropped down her body, she took a deep breath, amused when he seemed in a hurry to return to her face. He was perhaps … embarrassed.
How unusual.
No one came up to greet the stranger; no one arrived to join him. It was as if he were put directly in Elizabeth’s path for her purpose.
She walked ever nearer, aware of the faintest thrill as his height towered ever higher above her, making her feel delicate and feminine.
Surely it was her overindulgence in wine that was inspiring her imagination.
When she finally stopped before him, the stranger’s eyes widened for a moment.
“Good evening, my lord,” she murmured, and when he didn’t deny the noble title, she relaxed ever so slightly.
“My lady,” he responded, in a deep, gruff voice that sent a shiver through her.
She had always loved the rich tones of a man’s voice.
Once again his appreciative gaze dropped to her amply revealed bosom, and she surprised herself by blushing, surely due to the warmth in the great hall.
She suddenly remembered Lord Wyndham and turned to see if he had noticed her. But he was deep in conversation with their host, the Marquess of Worcest
er. Elizabeth frowned.
“Are you waiting for someone, my lady?” the man asked softly.
“No.” She glanced back up as he leaned toward her. She felt the faintest touch of his breath on her cheek, and it was strangely pleasant. He was close enough now for her to smell the outdoors about him, to feel the heat of his presence. For a moment, she was slightly overwhelmed.
But no, he was plain, with ordinary brown hair and ordinary brown eyes. He was only a man, and never had a man been born who could resist her charms—or her control. She had to find a way to attract Lord Wyndham’s notice.
“Kind sir,” she began softly, “the dancing is about to begin. Would you partner with me?”
“Regretfully no, my lady,” he said. “I do not dance—at least not this sort of dancing.”
“What other kind is there?”
“The country dances of my home,” he answered, “but they are performed much … closer together.”
His voice had dropped, become almost husky. This time she noticed a faint accent. She thought she should ask him where he came from, but once again his gaze drifted down her body, and she had the uncanny feeling that her skin heated wherever his gaze touched.
“Perhaps someday you can show me these country dances,” she found herself saying with a sudden breathlessness.
What was wrong with her? He was only a simple man from the country. So what if his presence loomed large and rugged before her? She had to remind herself of her purpose. She glanced once more at Lord Wyndham, who finally sent her the smallest frown.
Elizabeth smiled up at the stranger. “Would you care to accompany me to the refreshment table? The wine this evening is excellent.”
She waited for him to hold his arm out to her, and when he didn’t, she wet her lips and bravely slid her arm through his, feeling deliciously warmed by the heat of his body. She was suddenly very glad her parents were not in attendance this evening.
Now she felt Lord Wyndham—and others—watching her. She had not done anything truly scandalous, just enough to make her feel an unusual thrill of excitement.
Soon, she and the stranger both held goblets of wine, and they studied each other as they drank.
John Malory was doing his best to conceal his surprise. He’d never been to London, though he’d been told the nobility here lived a different kind of life than he did in the north. He was used to women waiting for his attention, with the deference they always felt was due him. Perhaps they’d even felt a sort of fear. He’d grown larger than his parents, larger than his older brother, and it bothered him that he intimidated so many.
So he’d come to London to make a fresh start at finding a wife.
Oh, he had doubts that this comely woman before him had marriage on her mind. He was just the newest face, the newest amusement.
But if this was how London women greeted strangers, he would be going to more parties.
She was not the kind of woman he was seeking, with her rare beauty, of which she seemed very aware. Her wheat blond hair hung in maidenly curls down her back, tumbling over her shoulders past her impressive breasts. Jewels clung to her hair, shimmering with candlelight when she but inclined her head. Her breasts were full and rounded, and he imagined their heavy weight would fill his hands with pleasure. She obviously wanted them looked at, because she showed them so readily.
But it was her secretive green eyes that held him enthralled. There was mischief in her gaze, leaving him feeling pleasantly off-guard. He might enjoy these strange London customs.
He watched her mouth as she sipped the wine, let his glance linger on the curve of her throat as she swallowed. Her skin would be so soft to touch. She was a pretty thing, and he was certain some man would find her useful as a wife.
But not him.
He gave another regretful glance at her breasts. Ah, he could think of other uses for her, though. Then he chastised himself for such base thoughts.
She leaned closer to smile up at him, and he felt the first heady taste of forbidden passion.
She was dangerous, this one, and he should move on to women more suitable to be his wife. But still he stood at her side and looked his fill and imagined her warming his bed. He was suddenly glad for the tunic that fell to his thighs and hid the obvious.
“How is it that I have never seen you before, my lord?”
“I am new to London, my lady.”
“New? In all of your life, you have never been here before?”
She seemed shocked and disbelieving at such a notion, and he hid a smile.
“It is at least five days’ journey from my home, my lady. I have not found it necessary to travel to London before now.”
He waited for her to ask why, imagined scaring her away by telling of his quest. But again she looked past him at someone else.
He felt a sudden stab of unease—surely it was not jealousy. He hardly expected his simple conversation to hold the attention of a sophisticated woman, whose name he didn’t even know.
But this evening it seemed important to prove to himself that he hadn’t made a mistake by coming to London. He smiled at her and was rewarded by her full attention again. In fact, she seemed to be looking him over as much as he was looking at her.
He took her free hand in his, and when she stiffened, he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.
The woman stared at their joined hands, then raised her wide, luminous eyes to his. He felt his breath catch in his throat, then heard the most ridiculous words leave his mouth.
“This room has become overly warm, my lady. There is a full moon tonight—perhaps we could look upon it together?” He took her trembling hand and laid it upon his chest over his racing heart.
John kept expecting her to pull away, to alert everyone with her screaming. But she only stared at her hand and nodded.
“There is a door to the garden near here,” she said in a soft but clear voice. Then she linked her fingers with his to lead him away.
Elizabeth felt excited and warm—and terrified. Could she have consumed too much wine? She had never done anything so wild, and though somewhere in her mind she heard the word, No! she was powerless to listen. The need to make Lord Wyndham jealous was fast fading beneath the heated passion in this stranger’s eyes.
She pushed open the tall lead-paned doors leading to the garden and drew the man out with her. Immediately it was like breathing in hot, wet steam. The heat of the day had not dissipated and clung in wet droplets to the foliage and rose like a mist from the hot ground. The moon illuminated overgrown paths; stone benches seemed to call from secret hideaways.
Elizabeth let go of the stranger’s hand, keeping her back to him. Perspiration broke out on her face and chest, and she felt the strangest need to pluck her garments away from her skin.
Suddenly he rested his hands on her shoulders. She froze, feeling his nearness at her back and the hot heaviness of his large, rough hands, half-afraid and half-excited to find out what he meant to do.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked softly.
“But you said—”
“I could teach you my dancing.”
It was his voice, surely it was his voice weaving this strange languorous spell through her. “You may,” she whispered.
“I have your permission, do I?”
Was he laughing at her? She turned around and looked up into his face, shadowed by the night. He wasn’t smiling as he slipped an arm around her waist. She gasped as he brought her up against his well-muscled body, then began to turn her about the stone terrace, faster and faster.
The earth tilted away from her as he put his arm beneath her knees and swung her up into the air. With a little cry, she flung her arms around his neck. She was breathing hard, surely from terror, and he was breathing just as heavily.
“Put me down, my lord,” she commanded, but it sounded weak even to herself.
He grinned and dropped her legs until she slid down the length of his body. And then she felt what a man’s codpi
ece normally kept hidden.
For an astonished moment, Elizabeth hung suspended against him, her toes only brushing the ground, feeling a strange, tense heat blossom low in her belly. She didn’t know where to look, what to do, until finally she raised her gaze to his.
His face was darkly shadowed, his cheekbones high and sharp. His eyes stared at her with a passionate heat that made her forget any other sensation but this. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at his mouth.
Suddenly he lifted her higher and touched his lips to hers. The sweet shock of it sent a shudder through her. She’d never been kissed, had never wanted to let a man do such a thing to her.
But it felt wonderful. His lips were expressive, gentle, so soft as they moved against hers. She kissed him back, barely noticing that he was carrying her deeper into the garden, away from the lights of the house. He sat down on a bench with her in his lap, and she caressed his shoulders, his strong neck.
He threaded his hands through her hair, then cupped her face in warmth. He tilted his head, his kisses growing more insistent, his mouth opening against hers. She didn’t understand what he wanted until his tongue rasped along her lips. She was startled as an arrow of heat lanced through her, and with a soft moan she opened her mouth. His tongue invaded, met with hers, and danced until she tentatively responded. The party, her problems, everything retreated except for the moist heat of him. When her tongue finally entered his mouth, he groaned and clutched her tighter to him, pressing her aching breasts to his chest.
Every part of her felt alive and needy and so sensitive to his touch. He moved his hands down her back, rubbing, caressing. He pressed kisses along her cheek, blew softly in her ear until she shivered. She tilted her head back as he nuzzled at her neck and licked along her collarbone. Her fluttering hands touched his shoulders, then flattened along his chest, until he surprised her by shuddering.
