The Horsemaster's Daughter

by Susan Wiggs

  She nearly choked with surprise. “How?” she blurted.

  “Because I’m thinking the same thing.” Then, wasting no more time, he settled his mouth over hers and kissed her. She was lost instantly. The speed of her surrender was shameful; the eagerness of her response, shameless. She arched forward, wanting a closeness and intimacy she understood only vaguely, wanting him in a way that touched her every nerve ending with flame.

  He stopped kissing her for a moment, long enough to pull back and stare down at her. His face lay in shadow, but she knew he could see hers in the starlight. She wondered what it was he saw there, what made him whisper her name on that quavering note and then dip down again to kiss her, long and roughly, as if some will besides his own were forcing him to do this to her.

  After he said her name, just once, in a whisper, neither of them spoke again. Words had no place in whatever strange communion they shared. She wanted him; she strained toward him. This was what had kept her awake for so many nights, feeling so alone. This was what she had hungered for. She was consumed by the same primal instinct of a mare in season, the instinct that made a horse tear her flesh on sharp brambles and swim great distances to find a stallion. Now Eliza knew the feeling of needing something so badly that it didn’t even matter if she wounded herself in the process.

  He took hold of the hem of her smock and peeled it upward, and then did the same with her shift. She didn’t cover herself, even though she knew the milky light spilled freely over her bare breasts, concealing nothing. She didn’t even cover herself when he removed her drawers and lifted her onto the outspread dress, using the garment as a blanket. She didn’t recoil with shyness as he studied her frankly, his eyes dark and glittering as they swept over her. And she didn’t look away when he took off his shirt and trousers and lay on his side next to her.

  He looked beautiful in the way the stallion was beautiful. His skin had a fine-grained, polished look to it, and his musculature had the firmness of a marble sculpture. She stared at him, all of him, too dazed to be abashed. And then, still in the grip of the wildness inside her, she touched.

  He made a sound like the hiss of a bead of water on a hot stove. Thinking she had hurt him, she started to pull away, but he covered her hand with his to keep it there.

  And then he touched—everywhere, invading her most sensitive and vulnerable places, without a single word of explanation. And the whole time he was touching her, he watched with a frank, intent stare. He watched his fingers circle her breasts, pulling at the tingling tips. He watched his hand skim slowly and inexorably down her torso, trailing over the soft skin of her belly toward the nest of curls. He watched her fall limp upon the slope of the roof and arch the small of her back upward. Her neck grew taut as her legs grew slack while he touched lightly, then harder. Quickly, then slower. And he watched her look up at the stars.

  Did he know they changed color before her very eyes? Did he know that each and every star in the sky exploded into a rainbow-hued blossom, that the sound that leaped from her throat was a sound of joy, even though it sounded like pain?

  She reached for him urgently. She had to taste him again, to speak without words, because she had no idea what words to say. She caught at his shoulders and drew him downward, all the while reaching up with her whole body and her whole burning will. She kissed him as he had kissed her, hard and searchingly, with a hunger that knew no satisfaction. The taste of him overwhelmed her: sweetness and sweat and something as distant and indefinable as the spaces between the stars.

  Responding to her hunger, he moved closer still, so that their bodies were aligned, touching in a hundred places, the friction striking sparks in the night. Her body knew what she wanted before her mind did, and she made it happen, bringing him lower, pressing up toward him, urging and guiding him. He settled over her with a controlled gentleness, like a blanket flicked out to the wind and then drifting downward in a dreamlike motion, covering her, yet barely touching her, his flesh just skimming hers. She tipped herself up higher to receive him. With a single breath he signaled resistance and then surrender, holding back, and finally sinking down, filling her. The heat and the pain shocked her, and she felt her every muscle stiffen as she cried out. Yet when he braced his arms on either side of her and prepared to draw away, she caught at him again and held him close, closer than she could imagine. Aye, she felt the pain of their joining. Yet with an inner wisdom that came from a source she could not name, she knew what lay on the other side of that pain.

  The moment he had sunk into her she had glimpsed a lightning bolt, and she knew that if she surrendered to him completely, that flash of beauty would be hers. It would belong to her like the pleasure he had shown her moments ago.

  He began to move, and it was a rhythm she understood. She had seen the silent mating flutters of the shorebirds and the more violent couplings of the wild horses. She had seen the beauty and the desperation of an act as natural and as inevitable as the waves beating upon the shore. She knew this; she wanted it.

  She experienced an overwhelming excess of sensation. Too much came at her at once—the taste and feel of him, the rasp of his breathing and the night sounds of the island, the misty white starlight and the pulsations deep inside her, pounding to get out. Certain she was about to explode, she squeezed her eyes shut and held tight to his shoulders, believing with all that she was that if she let go, she would drift away into nothingness.

  Unrelenting passion tore through her, a wildfire burning a path through the sere landscape of her body and her heart. His caresses brought heat to cold places, light to dark corners, drew music from silence, and, most of all, reminded her that she had, until this moment, only been half alive.

  Too much, it was too much, and she heard herself begging him to stop because there was no way she could fit this experience into her sedate, quiet, contemplative life. No way she could carry on after this.

  But he didn’t stop, even though she begged him. If anything, his strokes quickened and became more aggressive, bringing her to a state of unbearable sensitivity. Finally he froze at a peak that made him seem miles away from her, and he said, “I’m sorry,” in a pained whisper. Then he shuddered and lowered himself, almost falling on her, though he broke the fall with his strong, sweating arms.

  He covered her completely and put his mouth down upon hers. Only now he didn’t plunder with his tongue, but tasted and probed with a tenderness that made her want to whimper and weep. He kept kissing her, and between kisses he lifted his head and whispered “I’m sorry” into her mouth as if to blow the very essence of his words into her.

  She wanted to tell him to stay like this forever, blanketing her and kissing her and speaking so tenderly. She wanted to thank him for this night, because he had shown her wonders she had never before imagined. He had shown her that she was alive, vital and filled with a need to live and go on, no matter what she had suffered in the past.

  But each time she tried to speak, her throat locked up the words, and the only thing she could do was sob. It was terrible, weeping like this, making him think it was because he’d hurt her, and more terrible still when he separated from her.

  The emptiness was suddenly more apparent than it had ever been before. She felt helpless, unable to speak. Putting on her shift and her dress seemed a Herculean task. Donning his own clothes, he turned away from her, leaned back on the roof and stared up at the sky. His profile was a clean line of anguish against the starlight, and she could see the working of his throat as he swallowed. She had never seen a man so filled with regret. She didn’t know what to do or what to say to him, so she merely watched and waited until he turned to her.

  He moved to the edge of the roof and held out his hand. She took it, and he drew her to the eaves.

  Catlike in his grace, he climbed down and dropped to the ground beside her. They stood in the yard, facing one another. The tears had dried on her face, but she could feel them gathering in her eyes once again. He was so beautiful in the starli
ght. It was impossible to look at him and not weep.

  He put out one hand, and though it felt hard and callused, his touch was insistent, like the touch he had used to tame the horse. “I think I’ll take a swig of that rum after all.”

  Thirteen

  Hunter awoke with the bitterness of guilt and old rum in his mouth. Judging by the position of the sun, it was early still. He unfolded his long form from the hammock with utmost care. The way his head felt, it would be too easy to dump himself unceremoniously onto the porch. He wobbled a little and had to grab the railing to steady his swaying.

  Each pounding pulse of the headache hammered home the message of what he had done.

  He had ruined the girl who had saved his horse.

  There was probably a special place in hell for him. He was probably headed there right now, he thought as he walked barefoot and muzzy-headed into the small house.

  Empty. She was gone. Maybe she took the dinghy to Eastwick to cry up a lynch mob for him. Maybe she’d fled to a witch-woman in the wood who, young ladies whispered, had a magical means of “restoring” a woman’s lost virginity.

  At the cistern outside, he washed himself and tried to rinse the sour taste from his mouth. He was glad she had no mirror, for he didn’t want to see his bloodshot eyes, his ashen face and the corners of his mouth turned down in self-disgust. Her accusing stare, when she saw him next, would be mirror enough.

  Last night before he had left her, he should have shown a little restraint. A decent man would have done so. But any explanation would be a lie, of course. The truth was, he’d taken her because he was selfish and accustomed to taking what he wanted. And she was so damn pretty. And the way she felt when he touched her seemed to fill the aching void in his heart. Mostly, he made love to her because she was so alone.

  The way she lived out here, all by herself, tending her animals and grieving for her father, nearly put Hunter out of his head with pity, and made him want to hold her close and comfort her. Still, it didn’t excuse what he had done.

  Making love to Eliza—Lord, he had almost lost himself inside her—had sucked all coherent thought from his head. Afterward, words had failed him and he’d had to settle for touching her cheek, touching that milk-white skin and feeling the dampness where her tears had been.

  She hadn’t spoken to him, but had turned away and gone to the cistern. The moon was high by then, and her face had a bluish caste as she took a cloth and dipped it in the water and bathed herself, never looking at him, never speaking, simply washing her face and her neck, her arms and her legs, up under her skirts. She had looked strangely lovely to him, so silent, so solemn, so intent on her task. But part of him knew what she was doing. She was washing away his touch, trying to regain the purity that had never been breached until that night.

  After a while he could no longer look at her. It hurt too much to see this beautiful, damaged girl trying to reclaim herself after what he’d done.

  He had drunk rum straight from the jug, hoping to blind himself to the image of the trusting young woman he had destroyed. Stumbling, staggering, he had somehow managed to find his way to the hammock, where he collapsed and knew no more.

  Now by the harsh light of day, he had to face up to what he had done. He had to find Eliza and see if there was a way to smooth things out with her. But when he encountered her on the beach, she scarcely acknowledged him, so intent was she on riding the stallion.

  “We’re using the hackamore today,” she said, cantering up to him. Finn whistled lightly and tossed his head. “He took to it well enough.”

  “Eliza—”

  But she had already ridden off, urging the horse to a wild gallop that hurled sand and spray in their wake. Hunter could see that she was lost in the world of the stallion, and he knew there would be no talking to her now. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to discuss last night, and this was her way of showing it. He stood watching her for a while, and as always her unusual dark beauty took his breath away. Her hair, the color of ink, thick as the stallion’s mane, streamed out on the wind like a banner. Her small, lithe body moved with the gallop as if girl and horse were one.

  Hunter’s thoughts turned hot and wayward, and he had to force his gaze away from her. This wasn’t doing any good at all. He decided to keep busy with chores. The burned-out barn needed plenty of attention, so he decided to remove the charred timbers from another part of the arena. It was hot, dirty work, and he was grateful for the occupation. The thoughts that nagged at him while he labored were not pleasant. This, after all, was the place where her father had died.

  The ghost of Henry Flyte was bound to take offense at the man who had violated his only daughter. Though he knew it was foolish, Hunter kept looking over his shoulder. He found himself wondering about Henry Flyte. So adored by his daughter.

  But someone had hated him enough to murder him.

  That night over supper, Eliza spoke to Hunter of the stallion’s progress, and her pleasure in the newly cleared corner of the arena, and the possibility of rain because the silver maple leaves had been blowing wrong-side up.

  Her voice was pleasant and cordial. She sounded little different than she had…before. She sounded completely normal.

  She had made love to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Was it possible a woman could actually feel that way? The idea boggled his mind.

  He kept trying to think of a way to bring up the subject, but he didn’t know how to approach it. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened between them.

  No, that was lying to himself. He knew exactly what had happened. He had raped her.

  He knew what rape was. Not always a violent act, but always a violation.

  It was true that their mating had not been savage. But he had violated her. He had stolen her innocence. No matter that she had offered it freely, as freely as the face of a flower turning to the sun. No matter that she had kept her eyes wide open, looking up at him, and that he had seen the reflection of thousands of stars in her eyes.

  When it came to women, Hunter had always been careless. Quick to love them, quick to stop. But never, ever had he bedded a virgin.

  Even Lacey had not been a virgin—

  He pushed aside the thought of his late wife.

  Maybe Eliza was untroubled. Maybe what he had done to her was so horrible that she refused to think of it or speak of it at all.

  He didn’t know what to think, what to say, how to act around her. He had worried the subject like a dog with a bone all day, but he’d failed to arrive at a solution. Well, he thought, if she was not going to bring up the subject, maybe he wouldn’t either.

  She finished tidying the kitchen, then lit her lamp and brought it to the carved wooden bench by the fireplace. Hunter’s gaze tracked her around the room, and when she settled into her seat and opened Jane Eyre, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He burst out, “Hell, I don’t understand you, Eliza Flyte. I don’t understand you at all.”

  She glanced up, blinking. “What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well what I mean. I’m talking about last night.”

  A softness stole over her, almost like a trick of the light. Her eyes grew cloudy and unfocused, and her mouth slackened almost imperceptibly. The look made Hunter want to forget caution and manners and propriety, and ravish her all over again. He made himself stay where he was, planted like a tree in the middle of the room.

  “What about last night?” she asked quietly.

  “You haven’t mentioned it at all.”

  “Was I supposed to?” From anyone else the question might have been coy, but coming from Eliza, it sounded completely guileless.

  Irritated, he said, “I didn’t expect you to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Oh!” She shut her book. “I’m not pretending at all. I thought about it all day. Didn’t you?”

  Yes.

  She set aside her book and hugged her knees up to her chest. “When I woke up this morning
, I felt different. In a good way, I think. As if I had been someplace completely new, and then came home to discover that the whole world had changed.” Her gaze was direct, unwavering. “Did you feel that way too?”

  Trapped. He felt trapped by her probing questions and by her innocent stare. What in God’s name did she want from him, need from him? An apology? Dear God—a proposal?

  She didn’t wait for his answer, but carefully changed position on the wooden bench, lowering her knees and crossing her ankles. “When I was riding the horse today, it felt…a little uncomfortable. Not unbearable,” she hastened to add. “But in a way that kept me thinking about last night.”

  It was all he could do to keep from leaping across the room and clamping his hand over her mouth to shut her up. Didn’t she know how frank she was being, how inappropriate?

  No, of course not. How could she? Raised by a man alone, she couldn’t know what was proper and what wasn’t. Still, some things were so obvious.

  “Is that the sort of thing you expected me to do?” she asked him. “Talk about it like that? Tell you everything I’ve been thinking?”

  “Christ, no. I meant…by doing…what we did—”

  “What do you call it anyway?” she asked. “Surely there’s a term for it other than mating.”

  Hunter sat down on the wooden crab trap across from her. He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. Speaking of last night made him uncomfortable and peevish too, because he knew he could not allow himself to repeat the experience. He shouldn’t even want to, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “That depends,” he said in answer to her question, “on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  How was it that this weird, rag-clad girl had such a disruptive effect on him? He was Hunter Calhoun, who had a reputation for handling beautiful women and blooded horses. Cold control had always been his stock-in-trade. Yet when he considered Eliza Flyte, he could think only of heat and surrender and a wanting so pure that he almost couldn’t look at her for fear she would see the passion in his eyes.