Escape . . . the need pounded in Maryssa's blood, a desperation past bounds of fear and wisdom, uncontrollable as sea-captured birds driven onto rocky cliffs by the waves. And during the minutes it took her to make her way to the deserted stable and fling herself upon a saddled sorrel mare awaiting the groom outside its stall, she knew she would have ridden the devil himself if he had been flying from Nightwylde.
The groom's frantic cries as he ran after her, shouting warnings on the dangers of the hostile, unknown land, had only fed her need for freedom. As the battered gray turrets faded far behind her, the savage pace of the mare flying across the Donegal hills pulsed through Maryssa's own body, primal and wild. She rejoiced in it. Rejoiced even as she feared it. Until . . .
She yanked at the reins awkwardly, attempting to turn the thundering mare down a wide path branching to the right, the other jagged-carved trail seeming sinister, dangerous even bathed in moonlight. A shudder of foreboding shot through her as she glanced at the huge boulders slicing the ground to her left. The massive chunks of stone seemed almost alive, staring at her, blank and terrifying as a madwoman's eyes.
She felt the mare veer toward the path that promised safety, and the tension that had gripped her eased, when suddenly a mass of fangs, fur, and eyes glowing red charged from the tangle of underbrush. The horse shied, her terror-sound streaking horror through Maryssa as the night beast lunged toward them.
Maryssa didn’t know how she stayed on the mare's back in that terrible instant, knew only that she clung wildly with her hands, her legs, and every morsel of her strength. The reins flew from her grasp as the sorrel wheeled, bolting to the one path left them, crashing down the hillside at breakneck speed.
She clutched at hanks of the blooded mare's mane, terror deeper than her innate fear of horses cutting through her. What tiny fragment of control she had held on to shattered in the face of the mare's fright as she bolted wildly downward. She was going to die.
The coarse mane bit deep into Maryssa’s sweat-slick palms as the horse lunged to the left, plunging down yet another steep slope. Jagged stones pierced the tree-studded drop like gaping jaws eager to snap the sorrel's slender legs and send them both catapulting into the dusk-shrouded valley below,
"No!" She cried as thorny branches raked gashes in her arms and cheeks, the valley suddenly falling off as though gouged by a giant's hand. The sorrel dove downward, bunching its haunches, head thrown back.
The hard ridge of the horse's neck slammed into Maryssa's chin. She shut her eyes against the stinging pain, feeling the horse lose control, hoof skidding on rock, muscles straining and fighting. With a horrible shriek, the mare plummeted to the base of the valley. The crack of front hooves striking the earth jarred through Maryssa's whole body. Then suddenly the mare slammed to a halt, then reared wildly.
The coarse mane whipped through Maryssa's raw palms. Saddle leather tore free of Maryssa’s thighs as the mare threw her and bolted for the hills. Maryssa screamed as she hurtled through the air. But it was not the rocky earth she struck. Something closed over her, cutting off breath, dragging her under.
Water. She choked, flailing as panic engulfed her, the weight of her soaked skirts and quilted petticoats pulling her down. Oh, God, she couldn't swim.
She fought to break the surface, kicking and clawing as the water filled her eyes and mouth. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, the heavy cloth tangling like tentacles about her legs. Water rushed into her nose, a burning pain that seared her lungs. A sob choked deep in her throat.
Then suddenly something solid was against her, binding her, holding her. She kicked and clawed it, a muffled sound like an animal snarl reaching her even through the now-roiling water as the heel of her shoe connected solidly with whatever or whoever held her captive. The grip on her tightened, and Maryssa felt herself yanked upward with force that made her head spin. Wind struck her wet face, air bursting into her lungs in an agonizing, glorious rush. Her nails dug deep into something smooth, warm. Alive.
"Ow! Pull in your claws you little hellcat, or by Bridget's cross I'll throw you back in! You all but unmanned me!"
"Can't swim. Don't!" Maryssa clung to his neck frantically. Gulps of air shot pain through her chest, sharp objects scraping her ankles as she flailed.
Her hand clenched in the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling wet strands rip free in her fingers as the man stumbled. Cursing, he flung an arm over her thighs, as he sloshed forward through the water. "Don’t-don't throw . . . Can't swim . . ."
"You'll damn well have to learn if you don't quit choking me! Ow! Damn it, now, that hurts!" The indignation in the voice bit even through her panic as a steely grip closed over her wrist, and jerked her hand away from his hair.
"No! Please!” Shuddering sobs broke from Maryssa as she fought to regain her hold. Her fingers dug into the hard curve of her rescuer's shoulder, the faintly rough texture seeping through her terror as she pulled her body free of the water's grasping hands.
"You damn near drown us both, rake me with those infernal nails until I'm all but dead of blood loss, kick me in the—" Despite the seeming impatience of the words, they were tinted with an underlying humor that lightened their sting, the tone oddly musical as its Irish lilt softened into suppressed laughter. "By Saint Michael, I never had to fight this hard before to hold a woman in my arms."
A sudden awareness pierced Maryssa at the sound of his low, sensual voice, at the feel of the muscles beneath her fingertips rippling from barely contained amusement. He slid her down his body, her knees shaking and feet numbed as her sodden slippers touched the shore. His arms tightened about her waist as she stumbled against him, clinging as she tried to steady herself. Silvery rays of moonlight reached out to toy with an expanse of bronze male shoulder. She had thought it satin.
Bared by the bunched-up skirts, her legs brushed a silkier texture, warm and smooth. Perfectly honed muscle, sleek flesh, roughened by a light sprinkling of hair. Her gaze darted up to the face bending over hers. Arrogant, sensual, devastatingly male, the grin he flashed her sent a hundred sensations shooting through Maryssa, sparking, snapping, burning wherever he touched. The realization struck her with a force that drove the breath from her body in a single, strangled gasp.
Naked. The exquisitely formed male body pressed so intimately against her own was absolutely naked.
Chapter 3
"Everything meet with your approval?" Night-shadowed eyes danced with amusement, their light visible even in the dim glow of the moon. With a shriek of mingled indignation and disbelief Maryssa tried to break away, but her captor pulled her tighter against his chest, the broad muscled plane brushing against the delicate skin exposed by her décolletage. Shivers of an unnameable emotion tingled from her breasts to the pit of her stomach. She jumped, a shaft of fear striking through her as one large hand found her cheek. The hand stilled.
"Easy, now. I'm not going to hurt you." Callused fingertips smoothed the wet curls back from her cheeks, and Maryssa could feel him smile. “I never accost defenseless women the evening before confession. My knees are nearly worn to bone as it is."
The lulling tone drew Maryssa's eyes up to meet his. Even his admission that he was one of the papists she had been raised to fear failed to penetrate the security his words had evoked. The moonlight, in its shimmering trek from the water struck him full in the face.
Awareness such as she'd never felt rushed through her in that single instant, her gaze arrested by the most beautifully chiseled masculine features she had ever seen. Moon-glow sculpted a strong, clean-shaven jaw and a chin carved with hints of stubbornness and courage. The full, cleanly cut mouth was shaded with a subtle sensuality that made Maryssa fight the sudden urge to reach up and separate the lips to test their texture, to see them smile.
As though her wish had the power to make it happen, the corners of the man's mouth tipped up, the smile deepening with an aura of recklessness that reminded Maryssa of knights in the old romances she had read, of glea
ming armor, daring charges. Broken dreams.
Maryssa felt a tremor course through her. What in God's name had possessed her? The man was stark naked. Irish. Catholic.
"Let go of me!” There was the tiniest pause as she groped for his name, then an answering flicker in his eyes.
"Tade. My name is Tade Kilcannon." An inscrutable expression darted across his features as he seemed to search her face. "Look at me like that again, my water sprite, and I may never let you go." The hand binding her waist eased up, his thumb brushing the under curve of her breast. His deep voice thickened to an almost physical caress. "I swear by all the saints I'll make you wish I never would."
Maryssa flinched as the warmth of his fingertip burned through the thin silk of her bodice, panic sweeping through her, mingled with stirrings of anger. Complacent and bold, Tade Kilcannon stared down at her with the lazy arrogance of a man certain of his appeal to women and well accustomed to the liberties it allowed him.
And, Maryssa realized with a jab of self-disgust, she was gaping up at him with all the adulation of a dairymaid gawking at a crown prince.
"You . . . oh!" She stamped down hard on his foot, satisfaction tingling along her spine as she felt Tade's instep give just a little, her shoe biting into the tender flesh. His still-shadowed eyes widened in surprise and pain.
"Sweet Jes—" He cut off the curse, shoving her away from him, her unsteady legs pitching her backward as she struggled to regain her balance. Sick fear churned through her again as the shore seemed to give way beneath her, toppling her backward. Water splashed up around her as she broke the silver-sheened surface, but before the wetness could crash over her face, something solid and pebbly cracked into her rump. She started to struggle, stopped, arms braced in back of her. Even the tiny waves seemed to laugh at her as they darted in and out, barely tickling the crest of her elbows.
Her face flamed, despite the chill of the water. "It's shallow," she whispered in disbelief.
"If it were a thousand fathoms deep I'd be damned if I'd pull you out of it again!"
Her gaze snapped up. Tade stood at the edge of the shore, every line of his taut body etched with irritation, legs spread wide, hands planted on lean hips.
"Your feet were touching bottom the whole time. I could have—"
"Walked out of the lake by yourself? Aye. And saved me a world of pain and grief. But the way you were thrashing around, you would've drowned in a teacup. If you always treat people who try to help you with such incredible kindness it's a wonder you're still alive."
"You wouldn't let me go. No decent man would have—"
"One of your Sassenach fops would no doubt have released you at once and let you fall back into the water you were so afraid of. We barbaric Irish have a strange custom of trying to shield our women from what they fear, although you English with your civilized ways make it nearly impossible."
"Well, we civilized English have a strange custom of flitting about the countryside wearing an odd new invention called clothes." The words spilled from Maryssa's mouth before she knew she was saying them aloud, her eyes sliding of their own volition over glistening lean hips and long, muscled legs. For the barest instant her gaze locked on what lay nested at their apex. Her eyes snapped up, clashing with his glowering ones. Horrified, she suppressed the urge to bury her face in her hands.
"I was taking a bath," he bit out. "And I don't flit." Maryssa's own embarrassment faded just a little at the defensiveness in his voice. The massive shoulders seemed suddenly a bit too stiff, his stance not quite so arrogant. If it was possible to flee slowly, Tade Kilcannon did so, walking with a controlled stride to grab up a mound of pale cloth lying on a rock. The moonlight defined muscle and sinew—bronzed, tantalizing—as he slammed his legs into the breeches, yanking what she could now recognize as supple leather over the taut curves of his buttocks.
A sudden certainty washed through her. He was blushing. She, solemn plain Maryssa Wylder, had been sitting waist deep in a lake three feet away from a naked man she'd never seen before—an Irishman, for heaven’s sake—and they were bantering back and forth as though they were at a garden party and the hem of her petticoat was showing.
The total absurdity of the situation sang through her veins in waves of disbelief, fright, and amusement so strong they bordered on hysteria. Dear Lord, if Lady Dallywoulde could see her now! The picture of the skinny dowager's thin lips pursed into an expression of genteel horror, beady eyes popping from their sockets behind her quizzing glass, broke what little rein Maryssa held on her emotions. Laughter burst forth, rare, unrestrained laughter bubbling through her in exhilarating waves.
Tade turned toward her, dark brows meeting low over his eyes as his long fingers worked the brass buttons that fastened his breeches. "You find bathing amusing?" he asked stiffly.
"Bathing?" Maryssa gasped through her laughter. “O-Only when I tumble into someone else's bathtub."
"You do that often, do you?"
"No. This is my first time." Maryssa arched her head back, oddly reveling in the feel of her hip-length tresses floating upon the water, the strands wet and silken, like the dark wisps that had escaped the thong at the nape of Tade's neck to cling to the corded muscles of his throat.
"Next time you might wait until you're invited. I prefer my community baths planned." The disgruntled tone drew fresh giggles from Maryssa.
"I'll remember that next time I'm out riding." The unaccustomed merriment palled at the memory of her terrifying flight and the realization that her mount had disappeared, but she had little time to steady her trembling hands.
"Next time?" Tade exploded. "Whoever let you ride alone this time was a damned fool. These hills are alive with rogues belly-full of hate for the Sassenach. I could be a cutthroat, a highwayman, a renegade. A lone English lady is no small prize hereabouts. Just what do you think would have happened if you had fallen into—shall we say—less hospitable hands? They might have pulled you from the lake, but I doubt they would have released your ladyship upon command."
"The lady could hardly have found more hospitable hands to fall into than yours, Tade." The voice came from the night, the brogue not unlike Tade's, yet somehow softer around the edges.
Maryssa paled, scrambling to her feet.
"Who the hell—" She saw Tade spin to the side. The mouth that had been scowling at her a moment ago dropped open, then widened into an astonished grin as a shadow separated itself from a gray boulder.
"Careful, little brother. Best not say anything you'll regret in the morning."
"Dev? Devin!" Unabashed joy rang in the deep voice as Tade hurled himself toward the shadowy figure. The two men crashed together, wrestling like enthusiastic bear cubs, slapping shoulders, ruffling hair, dealing good-natured buffets to each other's ribs. Loneliness pierced Maryssa as she watched them.
Then Tade was forcing the other man away from him, hands still clamped on his arms, as though he were afraid the slender, blond man would vanish into the night. "Devin, how did you get here? When we couldn't trace the ship they put you on we were afraid—"
"That I had taken the penny road to heaven? It would take more than chains and hard work to keep me from tormenting you. A rum merchant smuggled me out on a cane ship from Barbados."
"But why the devil—"
"Did I come here?" Devin finished. The face Maryssa could see over Tade's shoulder grew serious and somber. "You know why, Tade. I'm needed."
"Needed? It's death if they find you. There'll be a price on your head the size of the Derryveagh mountains and the first place the cursed Sassenach will look is—Damn!" The rush of words died, and Maryssa saw Tade's long body go rigid. Her own muscles tensed in answering fear.
Sassenach... the blond Devin was obviously a fugitive, fleeing British law, and she . . . she was alone. A witness to his secret.
At the hissed string of oaths under Tade Kilcannon's breath, her throat constricted. The heart-stopping smile had vanished, the lines carved deep at the sides of h
is mouth sweeping away all vestiges of the amused rakehell who had pulled her from the water. The face slanting toward her now glittered with a thin veneer of danger, and something more. Fear? That was absurd. From the first she had sensed that Tade Kilcannon was a man who courted death, laughed at it. Then why. . .?
Her eyes flicked to the tall, slender figure beside him, a shiver going through her. Merciful God, of what horrible crime must this Devin be guilty, if he was being hunted so relentlessly? To what lengths would Tade go to protect him? Devin had called him brother. Was that bond of blood to be sealed with her own? Tade and Devin's great love for each other had been evident the moment the man had stepped from behind the boulder. Maryssa swallowed hard. If she had a brother who loved her like that—whom she loved—she would wield a knife herself to protect him.
Her gaze leaped to Tade's face, and she was suddenly aware that even the cries of the night birds had died.
A wind-gnarled branch sheltering a break in the underbrush beckoned her with mocking fingers, promising freedom, but taunting her with the image of Tade's long, muscular legs, legs that would no doubt be swift and sure, while her own were not. Her sopping wet skirts tangled tight around her ankles. The silk was so heavy. Every nerve in her body jumped and quivered as she tensed to run.
"Damn it, Dev, what are we going to—" Tade's face angled toward the other man for just an instant, giving Maryssa the chance she needed. The toe of her shoe bit into the turf, her skirts clutched her like the arms of a terrified child as she dashed for freedom. She had scarcely taken two steps before hands dug into her shoulders whipping her around to meet a face that was hard and ruthless, yet oddly more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Blood rushed to Maryssa's temples in a dizzying wave as her head snapped back, her face so close to Tade ’s rage-flushed features that his breath singed her skin.
"Please. Let me—"
"Let you? Aye, and I should let you, by God. Let you bolt into the woods so you can finish getting yourself killed. Then you couldn't . . ." Maryssa felt his fingers tighten, and pain shot through her shoulders, yet she sensed that there was more desperation than anger in Tade Kilcannon's big hands.
Black Falcon's Lady Page 3