Dark Stallion

by Dark Stallion (lit)

  The fingers tangled in the fabric of her bodice, but since he was racing forward, too, it was more like getting hit in the back than getting grabbed. The jolt finished her off. Her knees, already like rubber from the fright and the flight, gave. She stumbled, went flying toward the ground and landed so hard she tumbled and skidded onto her back as if she’d been thrown from a moving car.

  There were hands all over her before she even came to a full halt. Lightheaded from the disorientation of the fall and the fact that she couldn’t get a decent breath of air, she kicked and slapped at the hands ineffectually. Gritting her teeth, she wrestled to pull free of them.

  “Be still, woman!” a male voice growled.

  Like she was going to!

  The sound of tearing fabric and the pull that told her it was part of the gown she was wearing were enough to send another surge of adrenaline through her, but it was a pitiful spurt and not enough to counter the exhaustion already pulling at her. Her mind screamed rape, but she didn’t have the strength left to fight. Gasping for breath, she wiggled and writhed and flailed her arms. He caught her wrists, rolled her onto her belly, and dragged both arms behind her, binding her wrists. When he rolled her onto her back again, she tried a last ditch effort to bite her way to freedom. He used that to wedge a piece of fabric between her jaws, and she felt the sting of pulled hairs as he tied it around the back of her head.

  She went limp as the fight went out of her, struggling to keep from throwing up.

  Through her lashes, she caught glimpses of the shadowy figures bending over her. Recognition clicked in her mind that it was the same two men she’d glimpsed just before she dove out the window and nearly broke her neck—one dark and one fair. She was sure it was even though very little had registered in her mind beyond the long, flowing black hair that one of them had and the long, pale golden the other had.

  She was hoisted to her feet. She wavered there while the man shifted his hold to her waist and then lifted her and threw her across the back of a horse—or pony. She wasn’t that familiar with horses but there certainly didn’t seem to be much room across the back. That reflection was fleeting. As soon as her weight settled on her stomach, she was waging a war with her stomach and lungs and balance. Already nauseated from the memory of the horribly kiss she’d endured at the hands from the king and the running, the pressure on her stomach was almost agony. Unable to catch her breath through just her nostrils, the weight on her lungs forced her closer to unconsciousness and beyond that, she had no way to hold on or balance.

  The horse took off. She managed to remain where she was for all of two seconds and slid off backwards. Her feet hit the ground with a jolt, then her ass. Fortunately, she pitched to one side and rolled onto her belly. Otherwise, she thought the fall might have broken her arms, or at least her wrists.

  She lay stunned, panting for breath.

  “Well that didn’t fucking well work worth a shit!” one of the men growled.

  “She jumped off,” the other responded. “The little hellcat!”

  Indignation swelled within Emma’s breast despite her state. “Fell!” she mumbled against the gag.

  She felt someone pulling on her wrists. The binding loosened, and then she was jerked to her feet again.

  “I’ll tie her to my waist,” the first man said. “We’ve wasted enough time with her. I’ve no mind to join you in the damned hoonan’s dungeon!”

  That time, she was hoisted astride the horse’s back. Someone grabbed both her arms before she could even orient herself. She fell against a bare back and felt the wrench to her shoulder joints as her arms were wrapped tightly around the man and her wrists tied again. There was no saddle, nothing to help her keep her ass centered on the horse’s back. Someone grabbed her ass and slid her to the center of the horse’s back and then the horse launched into a teeth jarring run.

  She didn’t particularly want to plaster her face against the man’s bare back, but she was too weak from her ordeal to manage anything else. She slumped against him, still fighting her gag reflex and trying to steady her heart and lungs before they failed her. Thankfully, it all proved to be just too much for her system to handle. She passed out despite the jarring ride.

  Chapter Two

  Aydin was too furious for a while to really be aware of his burden beyond the fact that she was an encumbrance, an uncomfortable, unwanted weight on his back. As the certainty of imminent capture began to wane, however, and it finally occurred to him that, as angry as Colwin’s impulse had made him, it had transpired to be a stroke of unexpected luck, his seething fury abated. Not that he was about to congratulate Colwin on his stupidity! It was just sheer dumb luck that the other prisoners had ended up being a diversion that had helped them get away.

  Bad luck for them, he thought with disgust, feeling guilt begin to creep into him that, by allowing himself to be distracted, their bid for freedom might well have cost them their lives—almost certainly had for some of them.

  He shook it off. He’d come for Colwin. He hadn’t risked his neck for the others. He’d done what he could, more than anyone else had. He had no reason to feel guilty, to feel as if he’d failed them. They weren’t his responsibility.

  Colwin wasn’t if it came to that. He was a man full grown, not a foal any longer! Not even a colt! It didn’t matter that he still thought of Colwin as his little brother. He had twenty and four winters under his belt! He’d had plenty of time to work his youthful foolishness off and assume the responsibilities of adulthood!

  How ironic was it that Colwin was as wild and reckless as his father, Teagan, instead of the responsible brother, Chandler, who’d sired him?

  Mayhap he’d grow out of it—if he lived long enough!

  It was unfortunate that such thoughts didn’t occupy him long. Almost the moment his anger began to wane, mayhap even before that, he began to notice things he would’ve preferred not to notice.

  Like the soft breasts pressed against his back like firebrands.

  And the hot, moist cleft at the juncture of her thighs that rocked back and forth across his back with the rhythm of his movements.

  He tried to convince himself that he was imagining it even though he had a firm mental picture of what she’d looked like beneath the volumes of fabric when he’d tossed her skirts up and torn pieces from her under skirt to use to bind her. The bright thatch at the apex of her thighs was an even brighter scarlet than her hair and that was like the heart of a fire—a deep, rich color that had caught his attention even before he’d noticed the little heart shaped face it framed.

  Or the bountiful breasts threatening to spill out of the neckline of the dress she was wearing.

  He had the distinct feeling her breasts, or at least one, actually had fallen out of the neck of her dress.

  Unless that was a button he felt digging into his back and he certainly couldn’t recall buttons any where near the neck of the dress.

  The suspicion that she was deliberately provoking him didn’t last more than a few seconds, unfortunately. She felt as limp as a ragdoll, and he didn’t think she could feign that—particularly not at the speed he was going. It was clear if she hadn’t been bound to him she would’ve fallen off. Even so, he had to reach back every few minutes and adjust her weight.

  He slowed a little to catch his breath, motioning for Colwin to do the same, and listened for any sounds of pursuit. It didn’t particularly ease his mind that he didn’t hear any. That only meant they weren’t on to them yet—either hadn’t discovered they’d lost their prize or hadn’t figured out the direction they’d taken yet. He had a very bad feeling the king wasn’t going to be very happy about them making off with his bride, however.

  * * * *

  Jubilation over their triumph in stealing the woman the king had planned to wed combined with his exhilaration at winning his freedom kept Colwin’s blood surging through his veins for the better part of an hour. It began to drain away at the reckless pace Aydin set, however, and he’d b
egun to feel the strain even before the last of his elation waned. Two months in King Bart’s realm had taken its toll, he realized grimly. He’d been starved, beaten, and worked until he was ready to collapse in that time and never was it more apparent that it had severely compromised his stamina.

  He hadn’t considered that when he’d decided he wasn’t leaving without taking his revenge on the king.

  Gritting his teeth, he struggled to keep pace with Aydin and ignore the weakness slowly gaining ground. Aydin was already furious with him for risking their necks to get the woman. He would’ve been reluctant to allow his elder brother to think he was weak at any time, but he was more reluctant under the circumstances.

  Not but what Aydin was bound to read him a lecture once they finally stopped anyway, but it wasn’t any part of his plan to give him more ammunition to fling at his head about his recklessness and his impulsiveness.

  As much as he loved his elder brother, it irked the hell out of him that he behaved as if he was his father much of the time. He supposed it was inevitable when there was such a difference in their ages, but Aydin was still his brother—well half-brother—even if he was nine years his senior, by the gods!

  How his Uncle Teagan had sired such a killjoy was beyond him. He had no sense of adventure, no spontaneity, and no sense of humor.

  He supposed, in all fairness, that Aydin had reason enough to be so cold and distant. He’d never truly been accepted, never really fit in, within the tribe because, like his father, Teagan, he was so dark. If that wasn’t bad enough, he’d been gravely ill after his sojourn in the king’s mines and too weak to play with the other foals. It had only emphasized the fact that he was different, made it impossible for him to form friendships with the other tribe members.

  He’d grown strong in time, excelled as a warrior—Colwin thought that was as much sheer determination to show everyone he was as good, or better, than any of the other warriors as it was natural abilities. And it still hadn’t won him true acceptance because, like Teagan, none of the females were willing to accept him as a mate when they could see he would ‘taint’ their bloodlines with his strange hoonan-like coloring.

  Not that he’d had an easy time of it himself, by any means, regardless of his good fortune in being born golden skinned and golden haired like everyone else! His mother was an other-worlder—not centaur—and no one really saw a great deal of difference between her and the hoonans they so despised.

  He was willing to bet that he’d fought more battles growing up over his mother than Aydin had because of his black hair and his heritage as part hoonan!

  Well, he knew he had. Aydin hadn’t been strong enough to tangle with the others until he was nigh full grown! He hadn’t been able to do much besides brood over their taunts.

  And maybe that accounted for his sour outlook on life.

  Well, part of it. He suspected the biggest part of it was the fact that no one would accept him as a mate.

  And he could certainly relate to that! He was no more acceptable to the females of their tribe himself with his other-worlder blood!

  Those thoughts brought his mind to the woman they’d captured.

  He wouldn’t have admitted it under torture, but he’d been stunned to discover she was such a beauty. Actually, stunned and not especially pleased that he thought so. The hoonans did—at least the hoonan men—which was why he’d known exactly where to find her. They were absolutely fascinated with her hair, however, and he’d been inclined to think that was all there was about her to enthrall them.

  He hadn’t gotten that good of a look at her, though, he reminded himself—only that still image of her as she’d paused in the window. The details that had been firmly planted in his mind with that one, brief, glance were uncanny. He could recall every feature from her wide, terror filled eyes, to the shape of her face, and the sweet curve of her lovely lips that had been formed in an ‘O’ of surprise. He could recall the pale white swell of her breasts, the creamy flawlessness of her skin, the narrowness of her waist, and the slenderness of her arms and tiny hands.

  The image most indelibly imprinted in his mind, however, was the curve of her hips and the bright thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs when Aydin had tossed her skirts over her head.

  He frowned, not particularly pleased that he remembered far too many details to discount his reaction to her.

  Mayhap she was a witch, though?

  He frowned when he felt unwillingness to accept that settle in his gut, and it occurred to him abruptly that she’d been climbing out the window when they arrived. She’d already torn her bed hangings down, fashioned a rope, secured the rope, and was on the point of escaping when he and Aydin had burst into the room!

  They’d made off with King Bart’s unwilling bride to be!

  * * * *

  Emma thought she might’ve felt worse when she roused despite the fact that she’d passed out from exhaustion and, she thought, slept at least a couple of hours if her screaming muscles and the numbness of her arms, hands, and butt were any indication. She felt bad enough her heart leapt with hopefulness when she realized the riders had slowed to a walk and she thought they might be stopping soon instead of fearful of what would happen next. It did flicker through her mind that it was something new to worry about, but only briefly.

  It wasn’t even the full focus of her mind when they finally did stop. Although another flash of uneasiness went through her, the moment the rider she was with untied her hands and allowed her arms to drop to her sides, more immediate concerns struck her. Her arms felt like lead weights. When she tried to straighten away from him, she instantly lost her balance and began to pitch to one side. He made a grab for her. She felt the pressure of his hold, but it didn’t stop her downward slide toward the ground, where she discovered her legs were also numb. Her knees buckled, and she kept going until her numb butt hit the ground.

  She supposed he’d broken her fall, but she couldn’t exactly tell. When he let go of her arm, she wilted to the ground like a jellyfish and lay there with her eyes closed and her teeth gritted, trying not to groan as the circulation began to return to everything with painful stabs. She felt like she was being used as a pincushion. For a while, she was too focused on the agony to pay much attention to the men. They could’ve killed her then with her blessing.

  Slowly, as the pain eased, she became aware of their movements around her and decided they must be setting up camp. Relieved that it didn’t seem that she would be dragged up and thrown across the damned horse again any time soon, she made no attempt to do anything beyond trying to work the circulation back so it would stop hurting.

  “You might as well drop the act,” one of the men growled. “We know you are not unconscious.”

  Emma sucked in an indignant breath, opening her eyes, but she never voiced the blistering denunciation that leapt into her mind, gag or no gag. Moonlight lit the clearing quite well enough for her to see that it wasn’t two men at all. She stared at them blankly with disbelief, blinking her eyes slowly after a few moments to clear her vision.

  It didn’t help. They still looked like … centaurs.

  Her skin pebbled all over. Like a sleepwalker, she lifted her hands to the gag and pulled it free. “You’re … uh … You’re … uh … What are you?”

  The expressions of both men—centaurs—hardened. They exchanged a glance.

  “No one told you that you could remove the gag,” the blond centaur growled. “Should we tie your hands again?”

  Emma pulled the gag up again, tempted to pull it high enough to cover her eyes while she was at it. Maybe she was just seeing things? Maybe she’d reached a point where she really was hallucinating? But was it any more unbelievable to find herself in what at least appeared to be a medieval castle on American soil, filled with medieval folk?

  Hard call, she decided.

  As hard as she tried not to be too obvious, she couldn’t drag her gaze away from them once she’d gotten a look at them. Unfortunatel
y, she also couldn’t see them nearly as well as she wanted to—because as soon as she recovered from the first jolt of shock, she began to feel a sense almost of awe.

  Centaurs.

  They didn’t really look like what she would’ve thought they would look like—even if she’d spent a great deal of time thinking about mythological beings, and she really hadn’t.

  Because they weren’t real.

  Except here—where ever here was.

  If nothing else that fact stuck in her mind as an indisputable truth. She’d never been that ‘in’ to mythology, and, given the little she recalled, they didn’t look as she would’ve expected.

  How could she be imagining any of this under those circumstances? Wouldn’t she hallucinate them to be like the paintings and drawings she’d seen?

  The animal part of their bodies almost reminded her more of stags—except the tail which was definitely horse-like. They looked sleek and powerful—in fact she knew they were when they’d virtually flown over the ground during their escape, bounding amazingly, smoothly—with the sort of grace and ease that only came from powerful muscles.

  She thought the one with golden hair—and a golden coat to match—must be younger. She wasn’t certain why she did when she couldn’t really tell that much about their faces for the shadows, unless it was because the dark one seemed to have taken charge even though it was the other, the blond, who’d come after her. Or maybe it was because he was the stockier of the two? Had a more mature build?

  Not that either of them should ever wear a shirt with their builds!

  Their upper bodies—the human part—was as powerful looking and sleek as their animal half. Body builders would’ve envied them those well defined muscles!

  It dawned on her abruptly that they hadn’t looked as they did now when she’d first seen them. It was the same two men who’d burst into the room she’d been imprisoned in.

  Unfortunately, she’d been too terrified to get more than an impression of them, but she certainly couldn’t recall that they’d looked as they did now. She did recall legs—human legs.