‘Almost there,’ he dismissed lightly—that lightness belied by the heavy frown between his brows.
‘I—’ Skye broke off as she heard a familiar sound, her whole body tensing as she turned in the direction of that sound, and she realized not all of the stables were empty after all, eyes widening in shocked surprise as that whinny of recognition was loudly repeated. ‘Storm…?’ she questioned dazedly, hurrying to the open stable door several stalls down, staring in total disbelief as the massive head stretched across the top of the open door to nuzzle ecstatically against her face. ‘Storm!’ she acknowledged chokingly, burying her own face into his glistening black neck, tears falling hotly down her cheeks as her arms clung to him weakly.
It had been the shock of her young life six years ago when, three months after her initial meeting with Falkner, a horsebox had arrived late one evening at her father’s stable, the door opening to reveal a very disgruntled Storm.
Skye had turned to her father dazedly as she’d easily recognized the horse.
‘Falkner changed his mind,’ her father told her with satisfaction. ‘He telephoned me one day last week and offered to let me buy Storm, after all.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a total surprise for you,’ he added happily.
A total surprise had to be an understatement. Falkner Harrington hadn’t looked like a man who ever changed his mind about anything, and after the blistering rebuke he had given her three months earlier, once she had walked back to his house, Skye had been sure he would never allow her so much as near one of his horses again, let alone allow her to own one.
But there Storm was, as big and beautiful as ever. And—miraculously—he was hers.
‘This is literally a case of “never look a gift horse in the mouth”, me darlin’,’ her father teased as he slipped his arm about her shoulders, giving her a hug as they both looked admiringly at the prancing stallion.
That was how Skye had come to own Storm, after all—but it certainly didn’t explain what Storm was doing back in England now.
He should still be in Ireland, at her father’s stable, had certainly been there a week ago when they’d last spoken to Uncle Seamus on the telephone.
She turned to look at Falkner, her arms still wrapped around Storm’s neck, the paleness of her face showing the tracks of her tears. ‘Why—how—when—?’ She gave a helpless shrug, totally overwhelmed by this latest development.
‘I brought him back from Ireland with me last night,’ Falkner told her evenly. ‘Although he certainly wasn’t as sweet-tempered as this on the journey,’ he added ruefully.
No, she could imagine he hadn’t been. Storm hated travel of any sort, part of that ‘temperament’ Falkner had once referred to, and crossing the Irish Sea in a horsebox must have seemed like the ultimate in discomfort to him.
Falkner’s explanation told Skye ‘how’ and ‘when’, but it still didn’t explain ‘why’…
Storm hadn’t left Ireland since the day he’d been delivered to her six years ago, had made his feelings clear from the beginning concerning even the possibility of being put into a horsebox again, let alone being taken anywhere in one.
Yet Falkner had somehow managed to bring the horse back from Ireland with him yesterday, something that must have been as uncomfortable for him, with his injured leg, as it must have been to the horse…
Skye shook her head. She didn’t understand any of this. Friday, the day of her father’s funeral, was going to be the second worst day in her life—the day her father died would always be the worst—but surely after that there would be no further need for her to remain in England.
And yet Falkner said he had brought the horse back from Ireland with him only yesterday—
‘What were you doing in Ireland?’ she questioned sharply.
Falkner grimaced admiringly. ‘That bump on the head hasn’t slowed you down any, has it?’
‘I was suffering from concussion, Falkner, not brain damage,’ she returned dismissively.
He shrugged. ‘I had no idea what had happened to—didn’t know about the accident,’ he bit out flatly, ‘until I saw that awful photograph of you in the newspaper—’
‘I’m surprised you recognized me,’ Skye derided.
Falkner gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he conceded dryly. ‘You’re looking a lot better now,’ he added encouragingly.
‘Really?’ she speculated. ‘Then I must have looked pretty awful earlier in the week.’ She had looked a complete wreck when she’d glanced at herself in the mirror at the hospital earlier.
‘You did,’ Falkner confirmed bluntly. ‘You were also, according to the officious ward receptionist when I telephoned, refusing all visitors. I was given the distinct impression that wasn’t negotiable, so, rather than kick my heels waiting for you to be well enough to be discharged, I flew over to Ireland to see if there was anything I could do there instead.’ He sighed. ‘Your uncle Seamus is a self-pitying drunk,’ he stated flatly.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed heavily; there was no doubting that he had become so since his wife had left him a year ago.
Falkner shrugged. ‘The housekeeper is quite happy to stay on, and I talked to your father’s groom, and he’s quite prepared to take care of the horses, but I thought you might rather have Storm here with you.’
Which explanation still left the question mark—why bring Storm here at all when the likelihood was that she would be returning to Ireland herself in another week or so?
Wouldn’t she…?
CHAPTER THREE
‘I WOULD suggest you have an early night, Skye,’ Falkner murmured after dinner. ‘You’ve had a very busy day,’ he added gently as she looked up at him dazedly.
Yes, she accepted it had been busy after her recent days of inertia, she just wasn’t sure going to bed early was such a good idea. It would give her longer to lay awake. Thinking.
Besides, she wasn’t in the least tired, still had far too many questions left unanswered to possibly be able to sleep. But Falkner had been more than usually uncommunicative as the two of them had eaten dinner together—a dinner neither of them had done justice to—and Skye could appreciate that Falkner probably had things of his own he wanted to deal with now. Maybe friends—or a particular friend—he would like to call…?
‘I’m sure you must have lots of things to do, Falkner. Please don’t let me keep you from them,’ Skye assured him. ‘I’m just not tired yet.’ After all, it was only nine-thirty. ‘Please don’t worry about me,’ she dismissed lightly as he continued to frown.
‘But I do worry about you, Skye,’ he drawled.
She shook her head. ‘There really is no need, and it’s far too early for me to go to bed yet.’ And actually stand any chance of sleeping.
‘In that case…do you play chess?’ He raised dark brows.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Badly.’
‘Hmm.’ He grimaced. ‘Then how about—?’
‘Falkner, I am not a child in need of entertainment,’ she assured him impatiently as she stood up, ignoring the painful twinges in her side as she did so; whatever the pain, she had really had enough of Falkner towering over her in this way.
His expression darkened. ‘Maybe all this would be easier if you were still a child!’ he snapped harshly.
Skye frowned her puzzlement at his harshness. ‘I don’t know what you mean…?’
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ He shook his head. ‘Skye, I’m doing my best, in very unusual circumstances, so maybe you could just cut me a little slack, okay?’ His eyes glittered challengingly.
Considering the man she had briefly known six years ago, Skye knew that he was more than doing his best where she was concerned. And she accepted they were unusual circumstances. It was just—Skye felt so angry. With herself. With Falkner. With Uncle Seamus. With—of all people—her father. How could she possibly feel angry with her beloved father? It wasn’t his fault that he—
that he—
She pushed that thought very firmly from her mind, her face pale with the effort. ‘Falkner, why did you bother going to the trouble of bringing Storm over here?’ He had neatly avoided answering that question when they had left the stables earlier, lingering to have a lengthy conversation with one of the gardeners, and there had been little chance to introduce the subject again since that time. Well, blow politeness. She wanted an answer. And she wanted it now.
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, having changed before they had dinner. ‘I thought you would like him to be here when you came out of hospital. A friendly face, so to speak,’ he added ruefully.
Skye’s mouth quirked humourlessly. ‘You didn’t think yours would be enough on its own?’
Falkner looked a little less grim as he grimaced derisively. ‘I haven’t had that impression so far in our acquaintance, no!’ he returned dryly.
Skye’s eyes widened incredulously. Did he really not know—? Could he not see—?
Obviously not, she realized with relief; everything was awful enough already, without having Falkner feeling sorry for her because she’d had the misfortune to fall in love with him six years ago—and remained that way.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given the impression I’m less than grateful for what you’re doing.’
Falkner laughed softly. ‘Skye, I can assure you I never expected you to run joyfully into my arms.’
He would never know the temptation she had had to do exactly that when he’d arrived in her hospital room earlier today. If her painful ribs hadn’t prevented it. If her own pride hadn’t forbidden it. If she hadn’t lain in that bed willing herself not to show him exactly how pleased she was to see him.
Falkner was both the first—and last—person she needed to be kind to her just now.
She shook her head. ‘I doubt I could run anywhere at this moment,’ she avoided. ‘Falkner, I—I’m very appreciative of all you’ve done for me—’
‘You sound like a little girl about to refuse a birthday party invitation!’ he derided.
Her eyes sparkled angrily. ‘You aren’t making this easy for me, either,’ she protested impatiently.
‘Maybe when you stop apologizing for your very existence, I might just do that. But until that time…’ He shrugged.
‘You’ll just keep irritating me,’ she guessed heavily.
His eyes widened. ‘Is that what I’m doing? Maybe I’m just wondering where the Skye O’Hara is that jumped on Storm’s back six years ago and rode off into the sunset.’
Her cheeks felt warm at this reminder of her earlier impetuosity. ‘I grew up?’
Falkner’s gaze travelled slowly over her from head to toe, from the short-cropped hair, the thinness of her elfin features, to the almost boyish slenderness of her body.
Skye shifted uncomfortably under the lengthiness of that probing gaze. Why didn’t he say something? Anything!
‘So you did,’ he finally murmured huskily. ‘And very nicely too.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I beg your pardon?’
His mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘I’m sure you heard me the first time—but I’ll repeat it if you would like—’
‘No! No,’ she repeated more calmly, wondering how the conversation had suddenly become so—so intimate. When intimacy was the last thing she had ever expected from Falkner.
‘What’s the matter, Skye?’ Falkner was suddenly standing much closer than was comfortable. ‘Issuing challenges you have no intention of honouring?’
Her eyes flashed warningly. ‘I can meet any challenge you care to make!’
‘Really?’ He really was too close now, so close Skye could feel the warmth of his body, the warmth of his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at her temple. ‘Let’s see, shall we…?’ He swept Skye into his arms, his mouth coming down forcefully on hers.
She had been waiting for this all her life, it seemed, had longed for the feel of Falkner’s lips moving so erotically against hers, the strength of his arms about her, giving herself up to the sheer pleasure of being close to him.
With a murmur of capitulation her body moulded to each hard contour of Falkner’s, her arms moving up about his neck as she returned his kiss with all the longing she had held in check for so long.
Falkner groaned low in his throat as his hands moved restlessly down her spine and over the slenderness of her hips, pulling her fiercely into the hardness of his body, his arousal more than evident.
And all the time his mouth continued that pleasurable assault on hers, his tongue moving searchingly over the moistness of her lips before exploring deeper.
Skye no longer had any idea where Falkner began and she ended, just wanting him to go on making love to her, to—
‘No!’ Falkner ended their lovemaking so suddenly that Skye swayed unsteadily on her feet as he placed her firmly away from him, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw as he looked at her with glittering blue eyes. ‘This is not a good idea, Skye,’ he rasped harshly. ‘You have no idea what you’re doing,’ he added self-disgustedly.
She was kissing the man she loved, the man she had longed to hold her for the last six years.
‘I had no right to do that,’ he continued gruffly. ‘I—I apologize.’
He ‘apologized’. For kissing her, for making love to her. Tears flooded her eyes now as she looked at him dazedly.
‘You were right earlier, Skye,’ he added harshly. ‘I do have things to do.’ He turned on his heel, walking briskly over to the door. ‘I suppose it’s useless for me to ask you to take things easy for a day or two?’ he paused to add impatiently. Skye could have no idea how forlorn a figure she looked standing alone in the middle of the gracious elegance of Falkner’s lounge—but she could take a pretty good guess! She was visibly physically battered and bruised, and as for emotionally—!
‘You can ask,’ she allowed heavily.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I accept that you’ll probably want to spend time with Storm, just don’t attempt riding him just yet, hmm? This time I might be tempted into giving you the warmed backside I should have given you six years ago.’ He closed the door forcefully behind him.
Instead of which he had kissed her until she was almost senseless.
And he had just done it again….
The tears felt hot on her cheeks, and she dashed them away impatiently; she had done nothing but cry since Falkner had collected her from the hospital, it seemed.
Would this nightmare ever end?
‘I thought you would still be upstairs asleep in bed.’ Falkner came to an abrupt halt in the kitchen doorway as he saw Skye seated at the table placed at one end of the cosily large room.
Skye gave a guilty start of surprise at his sudden entrance; at five-thirty in the morning she hadn’t thought anyone else would be awake. The silence in the house when she’d come quietly down the stairs half an hour ago had seemed to indicate as much.
But Falkner was already dressed in a casual blue shirt and faded denims, his hair damp from the shower.
Unlike Skye, who hadn’t bothered to dress before coming downstairs, still wearing the short cotton nightshirt she wore to sleep in. Except she hadn’t slept…
She sat back now, giving a shrug. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought coming down here and having a hot drink might help.’ She grimaced at the mug of coffee in front of her.
Although it was already daylight outside, it was gloomy in the kitchen, the single light from above the cooker the only illumination in the room, throwing Falkner’s features into grim relief. He looked less than pleased to see her here.
He drew in a harsh breath, nodding abruptly before coming further into the room. ‘It doesn’t seem to have worked,’ he murmured dryly.
Well, it might have done—if Falkner hadn’t just walked in. But, as usual, she found his presence disturbing, feeling even less sleepy now than she had an hour ag
o.
‘No,’ she conceded huskily. ‘Er—there’s coffee in the pot if you’re interested,’ she invited.
Ordinarily she would have got up and poured it for him, but, as her nightshirt only reached just below her bare thighs, she didn’t feel inclined to move at the moment. In fact, she felt altogether underdressed to be in Falkner’s company at all.
‘Didn’t you make rather a lot of coffee for just “a hot drink”?’ Falkner pointedly eyed the half full coffee-pot as he poured himself a cup.
She swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t think—I always make—made, a huge pot of coffee every morning for my father when we were at home. I just did it automatically. Da always said I made good coffee,’ she concluded lamely, her cheeks pale as she realized exactly what she had done. Everything she said and did reminded her of her beloved father.
Nothing was ever going to be the same. If this all felt like a nightmare, what on earth was it going to be like when she went back to Ireland, with no Da to care for, or Da to care for her?
‘He was right,’ Falkner murmured as he moved to sit opposite her at the kitchen table. ‘You do make good coffee.’ He took another appreciative sip.
This was all so strange, sitting here in the early hours of the morning in her skimpy nightshirt, talking to Falkner of all people. If she had ever thought of seeing him again—and she would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought of that a lot during the last six years!—it certainly hadn’t been under these circumstances.
She had always imagined herself as that sophisticated beauty she had wished herself to be six years ago, of bowling Falkner over with that beauty, so much so that he couldn’t help but fall in love with her in return.
Instead of which she looked, as he had already said, as if she had been in a fight—and lost.
His Bid for a Bride Page 4