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  Orde­ring her­self not to lo­se her he­ad, she fo­und the re­ins, shor­te­ning them to an ap­prop­ri­ate length. Even tho­ugh she was no ex­pert hor­se­wo­man, it was ob­vi­o­us that she had re­ce­ived so­me tra­ining.

  They wal­ked out of the barn. The wind blas­ted them. The hor­se le­aped ab­ruptly, al­most thro­wing her. Re­gi­na clung to the re­ins and his neck at the sa­me ti­me. The hor­se dan­ced a lit­tle. "Not now, ple­ase, boy," she cri­ed, glan­cing aro­und des­pe­ra­tely. No one was in sight. She nud­ged the bay with her he­els, de­ter­mi­ned to get down the ro­ad and away from the ho­use as qu­ickly as pos­sib­le.

  The bay res­pon­ded in­s­tantly, bre­aking in­to a bo­ne-jar­ring trot. Re­gi­na hung on for her li­fe, her body bo­un­cing un­con­t­rol­lably.

  The wind wren­c­hed her straw bon­net from her he­ad. Re­gi­na, grip­ping the pom­mel and the re­ins, lo­oked up, wat­c­hing it fly away. Her skirts flew up abo­ut her thighs. Just her luck. A storm was co­ming.

  It oc­cur­red to her to turn back.

  She saw Sla­de's dark fa­ce aga­in. His in­ten­se mid­nig­ht-blue eyes. Her re­sol­ve fal­te­red. And then she did not ha­ve to worry abo­ut chan­ging her mind. Her skirts frot­hed up aga­in even mo­re wildly than be­fo­re. Her mo­unt snor­ted and, as a gust of wind lif­ted his ta­il, he bro­ke in­to a can­ter.

  Re­gi­na's scre­am di­ed in her thro­at. All she co­uld con­cen­t­ra­te upon was not fal­ling off. The bay was gal­lo­ping now, the bit bet­we­en his te­eth. She felt her­self be­gin­ning to sli­de off the sad­dle. He ran fas­ter* She tri­ed to hang on, but it was ho­pe­less. The scre­am she had wan­ted to emit burst forth as she lost her grip and tum­b­led to the dirt.

  She lan­ded on her sho­ul­der and her back with a for­ce that left her bre­at­h­less. When she co­uld bre­at­he, she to­ok gre­at re­as­su­ring gulps of air. She was re­gar­ding the low, op­pres­si­ve sky. Very ca­uti­o­usly, she sat up, ex­pec­ting her body not to work. But it did, al­be­it with so­me amo­unt of in­ter­nal pro­tes­ta­ti­on. She sig­hed in re­li­ef.

  The hor­se was go­ne.

  She glan­ced aro­und, but the­re was no sight of him- or of the ho­use. She wasn't su­re whet­her to be re­li­eved or dis­ma­yed. Trem­b­ling, she got to her fe­et. She lo­oked at the sky. In the dis­tan­ce, over what must be the oce­an, it was black. But she did not turn back. She had co­me this far; she wo­uld con­ti­nue on. As she half-ran and half-wal­ked, the wind wor­ked with her now, pus­hing her from be­hind. She cast many glan­ces over her sho­ul­der, but the­re was no one in pur­su­it. Sla­de was not in pur­su­it.

  Re­gi­na felt as if she had be­en wal­king fo­re­ver. Her fe­et hurt so badly that she lim­ped, and she was ex­ha­us­ted. The wind had chan­ged di­rec­ti­on with a ven­ge­an­ce and now it blas­ted her in the fa­ce, ma­king her fight for every step she to­ok away from Mi­ra­mar. Even the tall, so­lid pi­ne tre­es shud­de­red un­der the wind's vi­olent as­sa­ult. The pi­nes we­re be­co­ming scar­cer, gi­ving way to mo­re and mo­re oak, but the­ir very exis­ten­ce told her that she had not tra­ve­led mo­re than a few mi­les from the ho­use.

  The sky was dar­ke­ning qu­ickly. She had run away in the la­te af­ter­no­on, but so­on it wo­uld be early eve­ning. So­on the De­lan­zas wo­uld be sit­ting down for sup­per- so­on her di­sap­pe­aran­ce wo­uld be no­ti­ced.

  She cho­ked on a long-rep­res­sed sob.

  She was not go­ing to ma­ke it. She had co­me a few mi­les, but she gu­es­sed it had ta­ken her two ho­urs to tra­vel that small dis­tan­ce. If she re­mem­be­red at all cor­rectly, the cros­sro­ads, which we­re so clo­se to town, we­re a go­od do­zen mi­les from whe­re she was. Was she go­ing to ha­ve to spend the night alo­ne in the mid­dle of the mo­un­ta­ins? The pros­pect was frig­h­te­ning. Sla­de had tal­ked abo­ut the wil­d­li­fe so abun­dant at Mi­ra­mar when he had bro­ught her the­re ear­li­er. She co­uld only ima­gi­ne that the­re we­re many hungry wol­ves ro­aming abo­ut lo­oking for de­er. She shud­de­red at the tho­ught of be­ing dis­co­ve­red by a wolf pack. And then, to ma­ke mat­ters wor­se, the first few drops of ra­in be­gan to fall.

  She stop­ped in her tracks, lo­oking up at the thre­ate­ning sky. "Oh, no," she mo­aned. As if on cue, the he­avens ope­ned and re­le­ased a de­lu­ge.

  In an in­s­tant Re­gi­na was dren­c­hed. She had be­en cold be­fo­re; now she was fre­ezing. The wind ro­ared. The ra­in pel­ted her fa­ce and body fi­er­cely. She co­uld not con­ti­nue to stand in the open; she ran be­ne­ath a thick, sto­oped oak tree.

  She col­lap­sed at the bot­tom of the tree, reg­ret­ting what she had do­ne. The le­afy ca­nopy abo­ve her fil­te­red so­me of the fal­ling ra­in, but she was al­re­ady so­aked to the bo­ne. Even had she wan­ted to turn aro­und and go back, she did not ha­ve the strength, and the ra­in was an ad­ded de­ter­rent.

  She was ex­ha­us­ted and fro­zen, reg­ret­ting her fo­olish, chil­dish es­ca­pa­de. But crying wo­uld re­sol­ve not­hing. She swal­lo­wed her te­ars. If she we­re very lucky, her di­sap­pe­aran­ce had be­en no­ti­ced and she wo­uld be res­cu­ed. Aga­in.

  And then she he­ard her na­me.

  She ten­sed. Su­rely she had be­en ima­gi­ning it. She lis­te­ned acu­tely, but he­ard only the how­ling wind- or was it a wolf? The ra­in be­at the gro­und lo­udly, ad­ding to the din. She stra­ined to lo­ok back up the ro­ad, but al­re­ady it was too dark to see. She hug­ged her­self, shi­ve­ring.

  "Eli­za­beth!"

  So­me­one was cal­ling her, and if her ears had he­ard cor­rectly, it was Sla­de. She wan­ted to run. Not away from him, but in­to his arms.

  She was such a fo­ol.

  "Eli­za­beth!"

  His vo­ice was gro­wing Stron­ger. She cro­uc­hed, re­mem­be­ring his bet­ra­yal. It did not se­em to mat­ter. "Sla­de! Sla­de, I'm he­re!"

  A light fla­red, wob­bling to­ward her. She he­ard his hor­se snor­ting.

  She sto­od. "Sla­de!"

  He emer­ged from the dark li­ke a phan­tom emer­ging from the mist. His sha­dowy out­li­ne grew stron­ger and bri­efly he ap­pe­ared to be one with his hor­se, li­ke a mythi­cal cen­ta­ur. Then he le­aped to the gro­und, stri­ding for­ward, le­aving the hor­se be­hind. His pon­c­ho swir­led abo­ut him. The lan­tern he held up sho­ne in her eyes, mo­men­ta­rily blin­ding her. When he saw her, he bro­ke in­to a run.

  Re­gi­na didn't mo­ve. She sag­ged aga­inst the tree, sob­bing in re­li­ef, wa­iting for him to res­cue her.

  Chapter 7

  Sla­de grab­bed her. It was not an em­b­ra­ce. He was angry. Re­gi­na brus­hed away the hot te­ars that we­re sud­denly spil­ling forth. On­ce aga­in, he was res­cu­ing her, and on­ce aga­in, she was ut­terly re­li­eved.

  He grip­ped her. "You know the­re are wol­ves and mo­un­ta­in li­ons in the­se parts?"

  "Wol­ves and li­ons?"

  "Yes!" He sho­ok her on­ce for em­p­ha­sis. Re­gi­na bob­bed in his hands li­ke a cork on wa­ter. "Jesus! You're so­aking wet!"

  Re­gi­na hug­ged her­self as a few drops of ra­in fo­und the­ir way thro­ugh the fo­li­age over­he­ad and con­ti­nu­ed to sprin­k­le down on her. He bac­ked away from her, sta­ring. "I don't want to he­ar a word of pro­test out of you," he sa­id grimly.

  No lon­ger thin­king of flight, Re­gi­na co­uld fre­ely suc­cumb to ex­ha­us­ti­on, and to his will. She was so ti­red that she wan­ted him to ta­ke char­ge of her. "All right." She be­gan to shi­ver un­con­t­rol­lably. The cold was cre­eping ac­ross every inch of her flesh.

  Abruptly, he re­mo­ved his pon­c­ho, his thick le­at­her vest, and his soft cot­ton shirt. Re­gi­na star­ted, for­get­ting all abo­ut be­ing cold. His up­per body was be­a­u
ti­ful. He was be­a­uti­ful. He was not re­al­ly a big man, but every inch of him was scul­p­ted mus­c­le, every inch of him was ex­qu­isi­tely de­fi­ned. He was the es­sen­ce of po­wer and mas­cu­li­nity.

  He sta­red back at her gra­vely, swiftly slip­ping his vest back on over his ba­re tor­so. "Ta­ke off yo­ur clot­hes."

  She co­uld not ha­ve he­ard cor­rectly. "What?"

  "Ta­ke off yo­ur clot­hes be­fo­re you catch yo­ur de­ath and put on my shirt."

  She was in­c­re­du­lo­us, dis­be­li­eving. It was a mo­ment be­fo­re she co­uld spe­ak. "You are joking."

  "No, I'm not." He re­ac­hed for the shiny brass clo­su­res of her jac­ket. Be­fo­re she co­uld re­act, he un­did them with swift fin­gers and pul­led the jac­ket off.

  "What are you do­ing?" she cri­ed, trying to push his hands away as they per­for­med the exact sa­me pro­ce­du­re on her ruf­fled blo­use.

  "You're get­ting in­to dry clot­hes," he sa­id, yan­king off her shirt. "And we're not go­ing to was­te ti­me ar­gu­ing abo­ut it."

  "Yo­ur in­ten­ti­ons may be le­gi­ti­ma­te, but this is unac­cep­tab­le!" she cri­ed, shi­el­ding her chest with her arms, and bac­king away un­til her he­ad hit a low branch of the tree.

  He re­ac­hed for her cor­set.

  She grip­ped his wrist with sur­p­ri­sing strength. "Don't you da­re." She me­ant it. She was shi­ve­ring, but was ob­li­vi­o­us to her dis­com­fort in the fa­ce of what he was in­ten­ding. It didn't mat­ter that he ob­vi­o­usly fe­ared for her he­alth; his in­ten­ti­ons we­re be­yond the pa­le. If he tri­ed to re­mo­ve her che­mi­se and cor­set she wo­uld scratch his eyes out.

  A long mo­ment pas­sed. "You are not the first wo­man I've se­en na­ked," he fi­nal­ly sa­id.

  She blan­c­hed. That was not re­as­su­ring, nor was it com­for­ting. To the con­t­rary. She bris­t­led, even mo­re re­sol­ved to re­ma­in fully clot­hed.

  He did not at­tempt to per­su­ade her aga­in. He whir­led her aro­und be­fo­re she co­uld even com­p­re­hend what he was do­ing. As he yan­ked on the ti­es she sho­uted at him. He was just as adept at re­mo­ving a lady's

  cor­set as he was at re­mo­ving her jac­ket and blo­use, and Re­gi­na fo­und this re­ve­la­ti­on as un­p­le­asant as the first. Up­set with his pro­fi­ci­ency as well as his ac­ti­ons, she squ­ir­med li­ke an eel, for­cing him aga­in and aga­in to ce­ase his ef­forts to di­vest her of her cor­set and jerk her back to him. By the ti­me he tri­um­p­hed, they we­re both pan­ting and flus­hed with exer­ti­on.

  "Stop!" Re­gi­na cri­ed. She was acu­tely awa­re of we­aring not­hing on her bre­asts but a she­er silk che­mi­se, and she was equ­al­ly awa­re of his ga­ze, which slid to in­s­pect its con­tents. "Eno­ugh! I am not dis­ro­bing! Gi­ve me back my clot­hing!" As an af­ter­t­ho­ught, she ad­ded, "Ple­ase."

  "You're get­ting out of yo­ur clot­hes be­fo­re you catch pne­umo­nia. I won't lo­ok."

  She was fu­ri­o­us. "Why sho­uld you? When you've al­re­ady had yo­ur fill?"

  "If you think I've had my fill, you are so­rely mis­ta­ken."

  Re­gi­na hug­ged her­self har­der, as if that might era­se the glim­p­ses of her per­son that he'd had; her flush de­epe­ned. She da­red not anal­y­ze his sta­te­ment. "I am not dis­ro­bing," she re­pe­ated firmly. "May I ple­ase ha­ve my clot­hing back?"

  He sho­ved his bal­led-up shirt at her. "Ta­ke off yo­ur clot­hes and put this on."

  Re­gi­na eyed him de­fi­antly, re­fu­sing to ta­ke it. It was out of the re­alm of pos­si­bi­lity. She was not go­ing to gi­ve anot­her inch. Dis­t­ress ma­de it dif­fi­cult to bre­at­he nor­mal­ly. "No."

  "I don't want to do this any mo­re than you want me to do this," he mut­te­red.

  Re­gi­na was re­li­eved. Her re­li­ef las­ted all of two se­conds.

  De­ter­mi­ned, Sla­de grip­ped the che­mi­se. Re­gi­na pro­tes­ted im­me­di­ately, in­co­he­rently, trying to pull the fab­ric out of his hand. The thin de­li­ca­te ma­te­ri­al rip­ped com­p­le­tely in two.

  For one in­s­tant she was the obj­ect of his un­di­vi­ded at­ten­ti­on. She qu­ickly co­ve­red her­self with her hands.

  She was ag­hast, too shoc­ked for words. She co­uld not be­li­eve what he had do­ne.

  He had the gra­ce to red­den as well. "I didn't me­an to te­ar the damn thing off of you. If I was trying to te­ar yo­ur clot­hes off, you'd su­re as hell know it."

  She was mo­ti­on­less, clut­c­hing her arms to her ba­re bo­som, shi­el­ding her­self. His words drum­med up an ima­ge she sho­uldn't en­ter­ta­in, one of him rip­ping her clot­hing from her in a hasty pre­lu­de to his lo­ve­ma­king. She sho­ok. She was shoc­ked that she wo­uld think such a thing. How co­uld she think such a thing?

  "Eli­za­beth, I just want-"

  "No!" she cri­ed, hyste­ria pit­c­hing her vo­ice up­ward. "I don't ca­re what you think you we­re trying to do! Lo­ok at what you've do­ne! How co­uld you? How co­uld you tre­at me this way?"

  His co­lor de­epe­ned to a sha­de of be­et-red.

  The­ir ga­zes con­nec­ted sharply, then they bo­un­ced off of one anot­her. "I'm sorry. You're right." He sho­ved the shirt at her; she to­ok it wit­ho­ut re­mo­ving her arms from her chest. "Put my damn shirt on. I'm go­ing to get my bed­roll."

  Re­gi­na was still sha­king, but not en­ti­rely from the cold. She was ter­ribly awa­re of be­ing half-na­ked. She was ter­ribly awa­re of him. She was awa­re that he had se­en her bre­asts. Thank God he step­ped out of the glow of the lan­tern's light, di­sap­pe­aring in­to the dar­k­ness.

  She blin­ked at the shirt, his shirt. Her co­lor he­ig­h­te­ned aga­in. How co­uld she put on his shirt? The shirt was snowy-whi­te and cot­ton. It was soft from too many was­hes and too many we­arings. It was warm from his body. She swal­lo­wed. How co­uld she put it on when it had co­ve­red his body a mo­ment ago? How co­uld she put it over her own na­ked bre­asts? If she put it on, it wo­uld be the most in­ti­ma­te act she had ever sha­red with a man, she was qu­ite cer­ta­in of that. Yet the idea, the very idea, ma­de her lig­ht-he­aded and bre­at­h­less.

  How co­uld she not? Sla­de wo­uld re­turn at any mo­ment.

  "You are not a re­al gen­t­le­man," she whis­pe­red to the night. "If you we­re a re­al gen­t­le­man, you wo­uld not for­ce me to do this."

  "I am not a gen­t­le­man, and mo­re im­por­tantly, I ne­ver sa­id I was," Sla­de sa­id tightly, step­ping back in­to the cir­c­le of light be­ne­ath the oak tree.

  He was car­rying a blan­ket. His eyes auto­ma­ti­cal­ly went to the shirt she clut­c­hed to her bo­som. Re­gi­na did not ha­ve to be a wi­zard to know that he was thin­king along the sa­me li­nes as she-or wor­se. She sur­ren­de­red. "Turn aro­und," she whis­pe­red.

  Sla­de's ga­ze met hers. The mo­ment se­emed ago­ni­zingly in­ti­ma­te. He tur­ned his back to her.

  Qu­ickly she slip­ped his shirt on, fum­b­ling with the but­tons. As the soft cot­ton te­ased her ba­re bre­asts, she felt dizzy and da­zed. Her skin tin­g­led with il­li­cit ple­asu­re and hungry ex­pec­ta­ti­on.

  He tur­ned, but his glan­ce slid past her, as if he we­re de­ter­mi­ned not to lo­ok at her. "Just get rid of tho­se so­aking skirts and for­get the rest."

  Her skirts we­re so­aked, he­avy and im­pos­sib­le to mo­ve in, but she had go­ne far eno­ugh. She wo­uld not strip down to her pet­ti­co­at and dra­wers. When she did not an­s­wer and she did not mo­ve, he lo­oked at her grimly. She cho­ked when she re­ali­zed that he was im­p­la­cab­le.

  Re­gi­na's fin­gers dug in­to her palms. The shoc­king fan­tasy she'd en­ter­ta­ined so bri­efly in res­pon­se to his words, of him rip­ping off her clot­hes and em­b­r
a­cing her, swel­led in her mind. She co­uld not lo­ok away from him. And she knew, she ab­so­lu­tely knew, that in not mo­ving and not tur­ning away, she was is­su­ing anot­her in­vi­ta­ti­on, one that was in­fi­ni­tely dan­ge­ro­us.

  Sla­de mo­ved. Lit­he and gra­ce­ful, he ca­me to­ward her. His hands re­ac­hed for her. Her body sho­ok in res­pon­se, her he­art mis­sed a be­at. An­ti­ci­pa­ti­on al­most wrung a cry from her mo­uth. For one se­cond she was fro­zen, grip­ping his ba­re arms, her bre­asts stra­ining aga­inst his shirt. In that se­cond he fro­ze too. Be­ne­ath her soft palms she felt the strength of his arms and the po­wer of his body and the ten­si­on that ran li­ke a hot li­ve wi­re thro­ugh him. The at­mos­p­he­re aro­und them was char­ged with pos­si­bi­lity. If he had da­red to stri­ke a match, Re­gi­na tho­ught that most li­kely the air it­self wo­uld ha­ve bla­zed in­to a fi­re.

  "Eli­za­beth." His to­ne was un­be­arably in­ti­ma­te. His ro­ugh hands set­tled on her back and slid up to her sho­ul­ders. A wa­ve of sen­sa­ti­on, the li­kes of which Re­gi­na had ne­ver be­fo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ced, was­hed over her. The­ir glan­ces ca­me to­get­her.

  It was the­re, the dark hun­ger she had se­en be­fo­re. Its po­wer and star­k­ness both frig­h­te­ned and com­pel­led her. With a soft mo­an she grip­ped him mo­re tightly, kno­wing she sho­uld not, but re­ady to sur­ren­der com­p­le­tely and kno­wing that too.

  And he knew it as well; she saw that in the bla­ze of his eyes. Re­gi­na clung, wa­iting for him to ta­ke her. In­s­te­ad, he re­ac­hed un­der her shirt, and a mo­ment la­ter her he­avy skirts fell down aro­und her an­k­les. In­s­tantly he re­le­ased her, mo­ving away from her. She bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her hands with a small sob. His scent, ma­le and sexy, fil­led her nos­t­rils, waf­ting from his shirt, the fi­nal crus­hing blow.