A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the big black was thundering in her wake.
The mare was fleet of foot, and she rode a great deal lighter than he, but the black was like its rider-relentless. It came on, heavy hooves steadily eating up her lead.
Leaning low over the mare’s neck, she urged the horse on, streaking across the lush green. The wind tugged at her curls, sent them rippling over her shoulders. Shifting her weight as she swung around a stand of trees, she tried to think of what she should say when he caught up with her.
Would he wonder why she’d fled? Would he guess her real reason-that she wanted him far from the string she’d been watching? But no-their last clash, especially those moments behind the wood, were reason enough for her to flee him. And he knew that, damn him! She recalled all too well that instant before his friend had arrived when he’d decided to try a certain method of persuasion that, to her immense shock, had had her heart standing still.
With a peculiar, never-before-felt fear, and an unholy anticipation.
No. She had a good reason not to want to fall into his hands again.
But she didn’t want him thinking about that last string. Remembering it enough to go back later and check. She had to convince him it was just another string like all the others she’d viewed, not the one she was searching for.
She glanced behind her. He was even closer than she’d guessed. Stifling a curse, she looked ahead-she was rapidly running out of Heath. The stands of trees were getting larger; she was heading into more wooded terrain.
He was going to catch up with her soon, but she would rather any catching was done on her terms. As for making sure he didn’t focus on that last string…she might not want to fall into his arms, but there was one weapon she possessed that, in her experience, was all but guaranteed to rattle his brain, to fog his mind and cloud his memories.
She wasn’t keen-wielding that weapon was neither smart nor safe-but desperation beckoned.
The last thing she wanted, the very last thing Rus needed, was Mr. Caxton, Keeper of the Breeding Register, calling at Lord Cromarty’s stables.
Dragging in a breath, she gathered the mare in, let Caxton bring his mount up on her right flank.
She picked her moment, swerved hard and sharp, swinging around a clump of trees large enough to qualify as a wood. The black was less maneuverable; the rapid shift in direction left him careening on.
Curses erupted behind her as Caxton wrestled the beast around, but then she whipped around the wood, streaked along its rear, rounded it again, returning to where she’d started; by then he’d followed and was on the other side.
Hauling the mare to a halt, she slid from the saddle, snagged the reins on a branch, grabbed her skirts, and pelted into the wood.
She raced through the cool shadows, grateful it was reasonably clear under the trees. She found what she was looking for roughly in the wood’s center, a huge old tree with a wide, thick bole. Panting, she whisked around behind it, drew her skirts in, and leaned back against the trunk.
She closed her eyes, fought to catch her breath. Caxton would either find her, or he wouldn’t.
The minutes stretched. She couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of her heart. There was light enough to see, sunbeams lancing through the canopy to dapple the ground; the air was cool, sweet with the scent of wood and leaves.
Her heart slowed, steadied. She strained to hear. All about seemed still. Unthreatening.
A twig snapped, close, on the other side of the tree.
A second later he loomed at her shoulder. Real, larger than life, twice as handsome. Sinfully beautiful and darkly dangerous.
He looked down at her, leaning against the tree, her hands gripping her skirts, then arched his brows, arrogantly unimpressed.
She didn’t stop to think. Straightening, she raised one hand, reached for his nape, came up on her toes, and drew his lips to hers.
And kissed him.
Dillon’s thoughts stopped the instant her lips met his. It was as if he mentally blinked, and when he opened his mental eyes there was nothing there…except for the beguiling sweetness of her lips shifting seductively against his. Delicately tasting, subtly yet evocatively tempting.
His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. He tried to bring his vision into focus, couldn’t. Instead, he let his lids fall, surrendered, and accepted he was caught, somehow trapped in the moment, that her bold and totally unexpected attack had caught him unawares and snared him.
His lips gave under hers, eased, shifted; he started to respond to her blatant invitation, his arms rising to hold her, then instinct reared and he caught himself. Tried to pull back, free-tried to find the will to do so.
The clasp of her small hand at his nape tightened; she stepped closer, her lips taunting. Her body brushed his, sinuous, sirenlike. Her other hand rose, came to rest splayed against his chest, then she slid it slowly upward, over his shoulder to twine about his neck as she moved closer yet.
He felt the change in him, the sudden surge of driving need he recognized, yet didn’t. This was desire grown unusually strong, unusually forceful, born of lust heightened by her beauty, colored by a primal need to dominate, to subjugate, lashed to life by her cool contempt-a medley of deeper passions she’d effortlessly stirred, and seemed determined to unleash.
More fool she.
But if she wanted…so did he.
He played out his inner reins, lifted his arms, and closed them about her. Gathering her more definitely against him, he felt the hitch in her breathing, was even more aware of the unadulterated need that seared him. A need to conquer, to possess. To meet her challenge head-on, and triumph.
To put her in her place, beneath him once again.
He did as he wished, and kissed her back. For long moments, he toyed with her, a give-and-take that remained at the level she’d initiated, neither light nor unmeaningful, yet not threatening, more promise than action. A superficial sensual landscape, one where sexual taunts and responses belonged.
She was comfortable enough there, sufficiently in control. Able to duel with him.
He mentally smiled and ruthlessly took control, backed her against the tree, parted her lips, surged into her mouth, and laid claim. Crashed through her outer defenses and engaged her, tasted her, not the sweet but the sensual, the more intimate self she’d until then kept guarded.
Shocked, Pris tried to draw back only to feel his arms lock about her. Like steel, they caged her, trapping her, the tree a solid wall at her back, his body an even more intimidating barrier before her. A threatening barrier. As if to demonstrate, his hands, palms and fingers strong, spread over her back, then he drew her even more definitely into him, against a body far harder, far stronger than her own. One mind-numbingly masculine.
He surrounded her, alien and powerful-and intent.
Her body responded, but not as she wished. Instead of fighting to break free, her limbs melted, her muscles turned to jelly. Clamping her hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking into heavy muscle, she struggled to hang on, to cling to control, or at least to her wits, but he wouldn’t allow her even that much-angling his head over hers, he mercilessly plundered her mouth and sent her wits careening.
Some part of her continued to struggle, to frantically look for some way out even while her senses reeled, even while her mind was overwhelmed, all thought submerged by the waves of sensuality he sent pouring through her.
She tried to draw a line and hold to it, tried to dig in her sensual heels, but he ruthlessly, relentlessly undermined her, and drove her back-into deeper waters. Waters into which she’d never before stuck a toe.
His lips were commanding, demanding, forcing her to scramble to appease, to placate. His tongue dueled with hers, and he constantly won, seizing as his reward the right to caress, explicit and knowing, until shudders of plea sure racked her spine.
She was breathing all but entirely through him, helpless in his arms, unable to retreat. To call a halt, to step back from the engagement she’d started, to break away from what it had become.
There was heat and fire in him; with him wrapped about her she couldn’t mistake it. Couldn’t miss the rigid evidence of his desire so flagrantly impressed against her belly. Yet there was a coolness behind all he did-that
