by Lois Greiman
She let him hobble off for several yards before stopping him. “Come back here.”
He turned carefully, hiding his humor. To be honest, his ankle did hurt a bit. “You are in need of something afore I go, me lady?”
How could her scowl look so bonny? It made no sense. “At that rate it shall be morning before you catch up with the steed.”
He glanced toward the sun. It was nearing the horizon. “I shall try to make haste, me lady.”
She stared at him a moment, then gave an impatient huff and glanced toward the chestnut. “Take the mare.”
He raised his brows in honest surprise. “And leave you here afoot? I could not.”
“I’m quite sure you’re wrong.”
“I don’t mean to argue, but—”
“Then don’t.”
He grinned a little at her tone. “But I vowed on me life to keep you safe.”
“These fields are hardly filled with ravaging beasts.”
“Perhaps not, but I cannot afford to lose this job.”
She scowled at him. He waited, then turned slowly and took one limping step toward the horizon.
“We’ll ride together.”
He stopped, smiled into the distance, sobered carefully, and turned. “I couldn’t ask you to—”
“And you didn’t. Can you mount or do you require assistance?”
He didn’t allow the surprise to show in his eyes. “I’m certain I can—” he began, then grimaced artfully as he stepped toward the mare.
“Stay where you are,” she insisted.
“Truly, me lady—”
“Not another step,” she ordered, and hurrying to where the mare grazed, led her to him. “Put your arm ’round my shoulder.”
He refrained from raising his brows. He also refrained from kissing her. Suffering saints, he was the very picture of decorum. “I don’t think it seemly for me to take such liberties, me lady.”
She scowled, perhaps wondering about his previous behavior. But he could hardly be blamed for kissing her wrist. It was irresistible.
“Aye, well, I’m not thrilled about being stranded out here in the dark with an Irishman with too many hands.”
He managed to remain absolutely sober. “I assure you, my lady, I have the usual number of hands. I was simply trying to—”
“Get on the horse,” she ordered.
“Perhaps I should help you mount first, then climb up behind.”
She gave him one raised brow. “I’ll be sitting behind, Shortwick,” she said. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”
No fool, she. “Expecting me to swoon, are you, Lady A?”
“Only if I hit you on the head.”
Containing his laughter was becoming more difficult. “I’d feel much safer if you were in front.”
“You’d probably feel a lot of things,” she countered briskly. “Now hurry or I shall leave you behind.”
He glanced toward the farmstead. It was a good five miles to Knollcrest.
Daisy stood patiently as he mounted, and in a matter of moments he was aboard. He glanced down at the baroness. She looked peeved and a little thoughtful, but finally shifted the stirrup toward the animal’s rump and put her foot in the U-shaped leather. He reached for her hand and she took it regretfully.
Helping her mount was simple enough, but not because she was particularly light. It was either because she was unusually strong or notably agile. He couldn’t quite decide which, and it made him wonder, but in a second she was perched behind the saddle’s high cantle.
Her breasts brushed his back. His penis shifted against the pommel.
“You’d best hold onto me,” he said.
“I think I can stay aloft on this fiery steed,” she said, and in that moment he couldn’t quite help but tap his heels against the chestnut’s flanks.
Well trained and deceptively responsive after nearly two decades of life, Daisy leapt forward.
As for the baroness, she snagged his waist with sudden zeal. Her breasts pressed tight and firm to his back, and though it took some discipline, he refrained from closing his eyes to the euphoric feelings.
“If this little mare is too much for you, I could take the reins,” she gritted, her lips near his ear.
He managed not to laugh as he slowed the chestnut to a more sedate pace. “You wish to change places, me lady?”
“Just try to control her,” she ordered.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, trying to appear somber. “Certainly, me lady. Me apologies, Me Lady. But Daisy here is really quite a spirited steed.”
His passenger snorted softly. Her huff of disbelief brushed the nape of his neck, doing foolishly erotic things to certain parts of his suddenly hard anatomy.
But he only shrugged, casual to a fault. “Believe what you will, lass, but not everything is as it appears,” he said, and tried to ignore the discomfort of his ridiculous desire for her.
Chapter 4
Savaana sat alone in Clarette’s bedchamber, once again studying her reflection. Her persona was firmly back in place.
Perhaps it had not been particularly wise for her to ride on the previous night. But at least she’d learned that the Irishman was attracted to her. It was a good piece of information to possess, though she could hardly be surprised. She was, after all, a beautiful woman. As for Gallagher, he was not entirely lacking in charm. He was handsome enough, she supposed, and some might say his smile was…alluring.
But that meant nothing to her, she reminded herself quickly. After all, she was a married woman. Happily married. Her entire job was to remain here. To be faithful. To bear an heir. Hardly a difficult task. After all, she had plenty to eat. She had servants to attend to her every whim. She had warm fires on chilly nights.
And if she spent one more damned hour in this stifling house she was going to lose her mind!
Feeling her guise slip, Savaana jerked abruptly to her feet. She was at the door before she could stop her retreat. The carpet on the stairs was plush and silent beneath her slippers.
“Gregors!” she called from the stairs.
“Yes, my lady,” he said, appearing from nowhere. She stifled a jerk. It was as if he lived underfoot, popping up out of midair.
“Fetch my cloak. I am going for a walk.”
“In this chill weather, my lady?”
Yes! Yes! God yes! She wasn’t accustomed to being trapped inside. She thrived in the open air, blossomed with activity. Tumbling, hiking, entertaining, but she revealed none of those things. Instead, she gave him her most withering look. “Might there be warmer weather available?” she asked, and half turned away.
“In hell,” he said.
“What?” She pivoted back, wondering rather wildly if she’d heard him correctly.
“’Tis hard to tell,” he said, bowing smoothly. “I shall see that Emily is ready with your cloak ever so quickly.”
“Do that,” she said, and though she couldn’t help but wonder about the old cadaver’s animosity toward the baroness, she was out of doors in a matter of minutes. The rain had begun anew before she returned from her ride on the previous day. Even so, she had insisted that the Irishman dismount and walk before they could be seen from Knollcrest’s high windows.
The new day had brought intermittent sprinkles, but evening was setting in now, making everything still and secretive with the oncoming night. Hidden from the house by a small copse of rowan, she tilted her face toward the sky and stuck out her tongue, catching raindrops on its tip. They tasted like laughter, and she smiled as she wiped her chin.
“Is that you yourself, lass?”
She jumped as Gallagher stepped from the shadows near the barn. Behind him, the broad doors stood open.
“Must you always be lurking about?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, and even in the dim mist she could see his smile. For a man who slept in the stables, he seemed ungodly happy. “I’m an Irishman, trained to lurk for hundreds of years.”
“Have you?” Ins
ide the barn, it looked warm and cozy. Diffuse light glowed from the interior, gilding the scattered straw, the ruminating ewes, the one horned milk cow. The horses were stabled farther down. Savaana stepped toward the shelter, drawn against her will and better judgment.
“Pressed into secrecy from centuries of hiding from our betters,” he added. Moving back, he swept his hand in front of him, inviting her to enter his domain.
“Your betters.” She raised a brow and watched him from the corner of her eye as she strode toward the byre. Sturdy pens filled with contented animals lined the wide aisle. “It’s good to know you realize your place, Wickingham.”
If her intentional slaughter of his name bothered him, he did not show it. “Indeed I do,” he said. “’Tis well beneath the likes of you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, then faced him full on, wondering if there was double meaning to his words.
But his expression gave no clues. He was usually smiling, it seemed, and this moment was little different, unless there was an extra spark of mischief in his grin.
“You do remember that I’m a married woman, do you not, Wicknub?”
“Every waking moment, fair Clarette,” he assured her, then: “How does your shoulder fare?”
“My shoulder?”
“The one you injured during our ride.”
“Oh, yes.” Holy hell, how hard could it be for her to remember she was supposed to be hurt? It wasn’t as if the ridiculously alluring smile on his ridiculously handsome face was addling her thought processes, so it was probably the forced inactivity that was hampering her thinking apparatus. “Though in actuality I was fine during the ‘ride.’ ’Twas the fall that caused the problem.”
“Had I been thinking proper, I would have leapt from old Daisy and raced to catch you before you hit the ground,” he said.
“Yes. What were you thinking?” she asked, and wandered farther into the barn.
“I fear you may not wish to know,” he said.
She turned to find his eyes, but if he was being suggestive, it didn’t show on his face.
“Sorry I am that you were hurt,” he said.
Some weak-kneed part of her was tempted to assure him it was not his fault, but she bullied that part into silence. “And what of your ankle? You seem to be quite yourself,” she said, and wondered if his infirmary had been nothing but a ploy to gain him a seat on her mount.
“We Irish are remarkably fast healers. Survival of the fittest, I suppose, from living with our—”
“Betters,” she said. “Yes I know.”
He grinned. “Perhaps I could massage your shoulder for you.”
“Still married,” she said. “Remember?”
Crossing his arms against his tight chest, he settled his lean hips against the empty stall behind him. Indigo reached over the planks between them, tousling Gallagher’s hair as he huffed into it.
“We are a far distance from a doctor,” he said. “Surely even a married woman deserves a bit of attention when she’s been hurt.”
She wandered down the hard-packed aisle. A pair of speckled lambkins were nestled close to their mother’s side, spiky, two-toned lashes closed over sleepy eyes. “I assure you I get plenty of attention.”
“Oh? I was under the impression that your beloved husband was gone.”
She eyed him askance. “I feel confident that he will return.”
“Who would not?” he asked, and there was something in his tone that made her turn toward him.
He shrugged, still grinning. “I doubt you’re unaware of your charms, me lady.”
Dear God, he was a flirt. She straightened her back. “I’m not entirely stupid.”
“Or modest.”
It was her turn to shrug. “Seeming so would be a waste of my time.”
“And your time is so valuable.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“No offense, sure,” he said. “You but seem restless this night.”
She let her fingers trail along the top plank of the pigs’ enclosure. A dozen spotted bodies were attached like living pods to their mother’s underbelly. The piebald sow was smiling as she snored.
“Tell me, Lady A, why are you here?”
“I thought the answer to that was so obvious that even a candle would understand.”
“A cand…? Ahh, Wicklow,” he said, and grinned. “Well, perhaps I am even more daft than I appear.”
“Doubtful,” she said, and even she wasn’t sure how she meant it. But he didn’t seem to be insulted by any of the possibilities.
“Forgive me for me boldness, lass, but you do not seem the sort to be content on some country hillock, watching autumn chill to winter.”
“You know very little of me,” she said, and found that despite her considerable good sense, she wanted to tell him the truth about herself.
“I but wait with bated breath to learn more,” he said.
She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “Tell me, do your bumbling ploys work on the tittering maids of your homeland?”
He laughed. “Not near oft enough.”
“And I can assure you they will not work on me.”
“So attached to your husband, are you?” he asked, and crossing the aisle, tossed a bit of fodder to the soft-eyed milk cow.
“Till death do us part.”
“And yet he is gone.”
“But never replaced,” she said.
“He must be quite a shining example of manhood to have won such loyalty.”
“Perhaps I am just that sort,” she said, and turning at the end of the barn, paced slowly toward him, still running her gloved fingers over the tops of the stalls.
“Loyal?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stood within a few feet of him now, and regardless of her words of staunch faithfulness, she felt his allure like a warm wind on her face. Could feel it washing away her pretenses. Odd. It was not as if she had been cloistered before leaving her troupe. There had been more than a few men interested in her charms. Truth to tell, there had been more than a hundred. But they did not have his…something. And perhaps he could feel her own despicable yearning, for he faced her straight on, watching her, his mischievous angel eyes never wavering.
“So you are never tempted?”
She gave him the meanest of smiles and remembered her mission here. “Not by roughshod Irishmen from Wickham,” she said, and let her attention drift to the dark gelding.
“By who, then?” he asked.
She let her gaze skim the animal’s graceful neck. His mane gleamed in dark waves from his proud crest. His eyes were widespread and intelligent. What a splendid animal.
“None but my husband,” she lied, and found Gallagher’s eyes again.
“How very convenient.”
“Much more than convenient,” she said. Gripping a plank that ran perpendicular to the ceiling, she leaned back to arm’s length and sighed toward the heavens as if she could not wait for her beloved’s return. “He is everything—”
“Careful!” cried the Irishman, and leaping forward, snatched her hand from the stall just as the gelding’s teeth snapped together.
Indigo backed away, shaking his heavy mane.
“Did he hurt you?” Gallagher asked, quieter now, but still holding her wrist.
Holy hell, that horse was a handful. It made her want nothing more than to hop aboard and let him run till they were breathless.
“Clarette?”
She dragged her gaze from the gelding’s. “What?”
He turned her hand, gazing at it. “Are you unscathed?”
“Yes,” she said, but suddenly the barn seemed strangely airless.
He took a step toward her. “You must be more careful.”
If the cow’s stall had not been behind her, she would have stepped back. Really, she would have. It wasn’t as if she was mesmerized by his eyes, immobilized by his touch.
“You are certain you’re unhurt?” he asked, and slipping her sleeve to
ward her elbow, bared her wrist.
“Of course,” she breathed.
“It would be a shame to harm even an inch of such skin.”
“Well, consider me shameless,” she said, then sternly reprimanded herself for such a silly attempt at wit. She was a baroness, for God’s sake. Or, barring that, she was Rom. Either one should be woman enough to withstand his pathetic advances. “I am unscathed.”
He raised his gaze to hers for a moment. His thumb felt like magic as it worked a circle against the tender flesh of her inner wrist. “Tell me, lass, why do you take such risks?”
“Risks!” She tried to guffaw. It came out as nothing more than a soft puff of air, more like a sigh than a scoff. “Forgive me if I did not think the byre such a deadly place.”
“I was thinking of yesterday,” he said, “when you rode that black devil as if he were your pet pony.”
“He’s not a devil,” she said.
“Nay?”
They were inches apart now, his eyes enthralling, his hands warm velvet against her skin.
“Just…just frustrated,” she said.
The left corner of his scandalous lips canted up as his fingers trilled across her flesh. “Do we still speak of the gelding?”
She managed a nod, though it was a close thing.
“And why is he frustrated?”
“He doesn’t like to be told what to do.”
He moved half a step nearer. “And what of you, lass? Are you frustrated too?” He kissed her wrist. She tried to move away. Really she did, but he was some kind of weird magician when it came to skin.
“No.”
“So you do not mind being told what to do?”
“No one tells me what to do.”
“Then I shall ask nicely,” he said, and taking the barest step toward her, slipped his arm beneath her cape, encircling her waist. “Might I kiss you?”
She opened her mouth to speak. It was possible she even intended to refuse. But no sound came out.
Perhaps he took her silence as agreement? Or perhaps her acquiescence wasn’t required, for in that moment he leaned in.
She felt the breath leave her lungs. Felt his lips touch hers. Felt a thousand titillating sensations explode in her suddenly overheated body.
His hand moved up her back, pulling her against him as his thigh, as hard as chiseled granite, settled between hers.
