Taming the Barbarian (6 page)

K
illian watched the baroness turn, watched her eyes narrow, watched her watch him. Gone was the gracious maid who’d first arrived on Gardner’s property, and in her place was this snarling she-wolf. “Who are you?” she snapped. Who indeed? Truth to tell, he remembered his name and little else since awakening beside the road some days ago. Since that moment nothing had been as it should be. Everything was changed, different, confusing. When had he journeyed to England? He had been in France. He was certain of that, for he could remember the lilting sounds of cultured voices, the sweet scent of cranesbill and alyssum in the Parisian gardens.

How and why had he arrived in England? And what did his sojourn there have to do with Lady Glendowne? That he did not know, and yet their lives were somehow entwined. That much he knew, felt in the very marrow of his bones.

Thus he had learned what he could, asked questions where he dared. Subtle inquires about the lady. The answers had set his mind racing, and none more than from the besotted Lord Gardner.

It seems she had married well. Lord Glendowne had been ” ‘andsome as a god and well-bred to boot, if a bit free with her funds,” or so said Shanks, the scrawny wainwright Killian had drunk with in a London pub.

Further inquiries had suggested the young baron had been “a fine chap, ready to buy a bloke a pint when he was out and about,” which was a fair amount by all accounts.

Everyone agreed with shaking heads and morose expressions that his death was a bloody shame.

And yet Killian wondered whether the lady felt the same. If rumors were correct, it had been her coin that had bought the pints and financed the gambling. Might not a woman of her caliber resent such a thing?

“Why do you bedevil me?” The lady’s back was as straight as an archer’s arrow, and her lips were pursed with disapproval.

“Bedevil,” he repeated and though she was well covered this day, he could not help but remember how she had looked on the previous night, with her glorious hair unhidden and her breasts all but bare to his parched gaze. What kind of men would allow their women to traipse about half-unclothed? “Is that what ye lowlanders call it when another comes to your aid?”

“Aid!” Her face was flushed pink from the tiny coil of her ears to the slim column of her neck. A few strawberry curls trickled out from beneath her silly hat and lay like pinkened gold against her ivory flesh. How soft would that flesh be beneath his fingertips, he wondered, and found that he was tempted almost beyond control to find out.

The idea made him grit his teeth against his own foolish desires. He was here on borrowed time. That much he had ascertained, though little else.

Her lips moved breathlessly for a moment, but when she finally spoke, she seemed to be in control once again. “Aid.” She nodded once, the movement sharp and crisp. “In the quagmire where you were conceived, is that what they call it when one tries to steal another’s land out from under her very—”

He stepped up to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, to smell the intoxicating sweet pea scent that wafted like summer magic from her elegant form. “Nay, lass,” he said, ” ‘tis what I call it when I save ye from some sniveling coward intent on doin’ ye bodily harm.” He let his gaze rest on her heaving bosom, then slide slowly downward. She was built as fine and sleek as a prized mare. But a beautiful form did not necessarily speak of a good heart. That much he knew. Still, the temptation was as sharp as a spear. “Or mayhap men are free to do what they will with yer body.”

Perhaps she had been angry before, but fire filled her eyes now, and her nostrils flared with rage. “You, Mr. Hiltsglen, are a bastard and a rogue,” she said, and turned away.

He caught her arm, though he knew he should not. It had been a long age since he had felt a woman’s skin against his own, and his defenses were weak, his instincts thrumming like pounding hooves. “Are they?” he asked. And though he tried to imbue his tone with scalding criticism, he found that he half hoped he was right. That she was the sort to offer herself to a man in aching need if the price was right.

But her teeth were gritted, her eyes narrowed to sparking green slits, and if he remembered correctly, women for hire tried to present a more congenial mien. “Release me,” she hissed, her voice low and angry.

“Are ye offering yerself?” he asked instead, because, dammit, he was desperate.

He would not have thought she could stand straighter, but she drew her shoulders back and turned toward him, as slow and regal as a conquering queen. Pulling her arm from his grasp, she pursed her lips and held his gaze with a lethal glare. “I do not, nor shall I ever,
offer
myself to the likes of you.”

Angry frustration brewed slowly in his own gut, but he would not let it dictate his actions. He must be patient. He must be wise. Indeed, he must turn away, let her go, say no more. “But ye dunna say the same of a prince such as Kendrick?”

“Kendrick,” she said, then seemed to remember of whom he spoke and gave a thoughtful nod. “Tell me, Scotsman,” she said, “do you think him so different from other men because he dared to threaten me outright?”

He scowled, his mind churning to override the agony of his long suffering desires. “Aye,” he assured her. “I do.”

“Then you are a fool,” she said, and, lifting her skirt in one gloved hand, marched down the stairs toward her mount.

He paced after her. “I dunna care to be cast into the same basket as a coward who would accost a woman,” he said.

“Don’t you?” She turned when she’d reached her mare. “That is unfortunate then, for I see you just the same.”

“I’ve not threatened a maid,” he said, and although he tried to keep his restless thoughts at bay, broken memories stormed ruthlessly in. “Though in truth, I believe I may have had some reason.”

She smiled, but her eyes remained glittery hard. “Believe this,” she said, and untied the bay without glancing down, “men will ever believe they have good reason.” Easing the reins over her mount’s elegant neck, she turned the iron toward her.

He grasped the mare’s bridle in one hand. “Reason for what?” he asked.

“For whatever atrocities they choose to perform.” She was no longer blushing. Indeed, her face was pale, her eyes huge in her neatly sculpted face. He watched her closely, for if he had learned aught, he knew enough to study his adversaries. And that was most certainly what she was. For though he remembered little, he had immediately recognized her title… Lady Glendowne. But there would be no more of her husband’s line, for he had died and left her childless.

“What drives ye to labor like a man?” he asked.

For a moment she showed her surprise, and maybe a flicker of fear, but it was gone in an instant, hidden behind her cat-bright eyes. “I do not believe that is any affair of yours, Mr. Hiltsglen.”

“Yer husband,” he said, his mind finally taking precedence over his body’s insistent demands. “Did he na see to yer needs?”

Her eyes were narrowed, her fine body tense.

“How did he die?” he asked.

“That is none of your—” she gritted, but he interrupted her.

” ‘Twas na a love match,” he guessed.

She stood breathless for a moment, her lips parted, and in that instant he saw the fear, long denied and hard fought, but there nonetheless.

“How dare you assume to know anything about me?” Anger brewed in her stormy eyes again, and he found that he was glad to see it, was thrilled to watch the fear be replaced by the blaze of her vibrant eyes. “Release my horse,” she ordered.

“But what of yer bridegroom?” he asked, tightening his grip as she swung unaided onto her mount. “Did he cherish ye after a time in yer bed?”

Seated astride, she pulled a crop from beneath her saddle. “Release her,” she said, and raised the whip.

The mare swung her haunches nervously sideways, her head tucked against her chest, her eyes rimmed white.

Killian scowled and tightened his grip. The animal was as bonny and fine-limbed as a doe, as fiery as hell, and not a suitable ride for such a delicate maid.

“Tell me, lass, is it by choice that ye ride alone, or is it yer temperament that dictates yer solitude?” he asked.

For one blessed moment she was speechless, then, “Do not make me call for Lord Gardner,” she said, and set her heels to her mount.

If it was a threat, it was a poor one indeed, for the jovial baron had probably drunk himself into a stupor some time ago. God’s bones, until Killian had stepped through his doorway, the other had been completely unaware of his guest’s lingering presence. Did he not have knights to protect his property, to guard his holdings?

And what of this woman? Where was her champion? Tightening his grip, Killian scowled up at her. The mare tossed her head against the restraint. He drew her back down, and though he tried to hush the grating chivalry that seeped like old wine through his veins, he could not quite stop himself.

“If ye wish it,” he suggested slowly, “we could change about.”

The lady’s brows raised slightly, but she didn’t speak. Pride emanated from her in waves. Perhaps too much pride to allow her to admit her needs.

“Though the gelding is na so bonny as the mare, he will keep ye safe until ye reach—” he began, but suddenly she laughed out loud.

“Are you suggesting that I let you ride
Fille
?”

Killian felt the anger color his face, but he kept a tight rein on his emotions. “Pride can be a cruel mistress, lass,” he said. “This I know.”

“If I had any idea of what you spoke, I would respond scathingly. As it is, I must tell you, I wouldn’t put that animal in my stew, much less in my stable.”

He watched her carefully. Anger brewed in her expression, but there was more, long-suppressed emotions hidden deep beneath the surface. ” ‘Tis a strange thing,” he said, “but some never learn to look beyond the flesh, no matter the past they’ve endured.”

“Release me!” she demanded, and thumped hard against her mount’s flanks. The mare lurched onto her hind legs. Caught off guard, Killian was yanked nearly off his feet before the bridle was snatched from his hand.

She leaned against the animal’s mane, then straightened. The mare struck the earth with her footfeet, then lurched into a gallop.

Reaching forward, Lady Glendowne turned her about, drawing her into a tight circle.

“The land will be mine,” she said struggling with her mount. “This I can guarantee.”

Killian scowled and reached toward her. “Ease up on the bit,” he ordered.

“So you may just as well crawl back into whatever cave you recently crept out of.”

“Come down,” he ordered, breath held. “Until she’s settled.”

“Leave. This is no place for you,” she spat, and, loosening her inside rein, let the mare pivot onto the driveway and leap back into a gallop.

Killian cursed as they careened around the corner, then, unable to resist urges older than time, he threw himself onto his own spavined steed and rushed after her.

Fleurette glanced behind her, saw the barbarian give chase and smiled as she leaned low over
Title’s
gleaming neck. The mare’s mane, black as night, blew against her face. Her hoof-beats thundered against the road, and her nostrils, stretched thin and wide with straining effort, blew like a roaring dragon. Fleurette turned again, and already the sorrel was dropping back. She laughed out loud and gave the mare her head. They all but flew over the hard-packed road, and it was that speed, that euphoric, liberating speed that eased the biting questions from her mind.

The barbarian’s identity was insignificant, after all. Nor did it matter what he wanted, for she would make certain he did not get it. He was nothing more than a nettle in her saddle pad. An irritating nettle. An opinionated nettle. But a nettle nevertheless.

The road swung wide to the south, looping generously around Gardner’s woods before winding back.
Fille
leaned into the northern turn. One more glance behind proved they had left Hiltsglen and his pigeon-toed gelding far behind, but Fleur let the mare run on, for they were both in the mood for a gallop.

All was well, Fleurette reminded herself. She was secure. Gardner would realize the wisdom of selling his woods to her. After all, Hiltsglen was not only a cretin, he was an unknown cretin, amongst the lowest ranks of the peerage. And there was nothing that irked the gentry more than dealing with underlings as if they were their equals. Of course, Gardner was a different sort. Maybe even a better sort, despite his affection for spirits. Still, she had created a good relationship with him and—

It was at that moment that something sprang from the woods. Seeing the thing from the corner of her eye,
Fille
lunged sideways, stumbling madly into the brush beside the road. Caught off guard, Fleurette tried to hold on, to keep her seat, to control her reins, but the mare was falling.

The earth spilled toward them. Panicked, Fleur kicked loose her stirrups and leapt. She hit the ground in time with the mare and lay absolutely still, staring through the branches at the sky overhead.

Moments passed with leisurely uncertainty, but finally the world settled slowly back into normality. She’d taken a foolish risk. Turning her head, Fleur saw that
Fille
had already scrambled to her feet. Her saddle was askew and her reins were broken, but she looked unscathed.

So luck had come through where Fleur’s wits had failed. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t some flighty debutante inclined to risk her mount or herself because of a few irritating words with an overbearing barbarian. She’d dealt with all types of men since taking up the reins of Eddings Carriages and had never acted so idiotically.

Scowling at her own foolishness, she braced her hands on the damp earth at her sides and tried to sit up.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re about?”

Fleur jerked around with a gasp, and there, not thirty feet away, stood the Scotsman.

“What…” She glanced side to side, searching for his mount, but he was the only animal in sight. “How did you get here?”