Garrett reveled in the great
strength of the animal beneath him. It was exhilarating to allow the bay such
freedom after holding him tightly in check for most of the journey. The landscape
they passed blurred, melding into streaks of vibrant color: dark green heather,
brown earth, blue sky. The white manor house with its two adjoining wings drew
closer and closer . . .
Suddenly he veered sharply to the right as another
horse appeared on the left racing onto the road from a narrow path hidden
between two large trees, and bumped into his bay. Garrett swore loudly and
firmly grasped the reins, his experience and. the muscled power of his thighs
enabling him to stay in the saddle.
The other rider was not so lucky. He heard a short
high-pitched scream and the smaller horse whinnying in fright, then a crash as
the rider, a slim young woman, pitched headlong into a row of unkempt box
hedges at the foot of the drive leading to the manor house.
"Whoa, Samson, steady now!" he yelled,
pulling the bay hard about. The startled animal reared and bucked, fighting
him, but it gradually calmed enough to allow Garrett to jump to the ground. He
ran over to the hedges, dreading what he might find. It would be a miracle if
the wench survived such a fall.
Garrett spied a pair of leather shoes, snagged white
stockings, and the torn hem of a plain brown skirt poking out from the dense
thicket. He leaped over the hedges to the other side and knelt beside the woman.
Her face was turned away from him. Relief poured through him when he saw her
fingers move and heard a low moan breaking from her throat.
With great care he took her by the shoulders and pulled
her slowly from the bushes, then rolled her onto her back. Her rich chestnut
hair, glinting with strands of gold in the bright sunlight, fell across her
face and obscured her features.
Garrett quickly felt her slender limbs for broken
bones. There fortunately didn't seem to be any. Her breathing appeared normal,
her chest rising and falling evenly. He leaned over her and gently moved her
hair away from her face, his hand grazing her soft cheek. He felt a sudden
catch in his throat.
If anyone had been blessed with the legendary Scots
beauty he had heard so much about, it was this woman. She was stunning. This
was not the porcelain perfection he had seen during a brief stay in Edinburgh,
where the damsels mimicked Londoners in their use of rouge and lip stain. This
woman possessed a beauty kissed by nature, breathtaking and unspoiled, like the
wild Highlands about her.
Garrett could not resist tracing his finger along the
high curve of her cheekbone. He marveled at the silken texture of her skin and
its fresh hues of sun-warmed rose and cream. Her forehead was shapely, and slim
brows arched above closed eyelids fringed with lush, dark lashes. Her nose was
straight, almost patrician. Her lips were full, delicately curved, and as red
as ripe berries above her soft and rounded chin.
He had a strong urge to press his mouth against hers
and taste the inviting warmth of her lips, but he did not. Another soft moan
forced his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand. The woman had not yet
regained consciousness and needed care. She would do far better lying in a bed
than on the hard ground.
Perhaps he should take her to the manor house, Garrett
thought. She had been riding in that direction; she probably worked there as a
maidservant. Her simple, frayed gown and her scuffed shoes certainly attested
to such a post.
He bent down and scooped her into his arms, then rose
easily to his feet. He stepped over the hedges and turned onto the dirt drive,
striding toward the manor house. He could hear jingling harnesses and creaking
wagon wheels, indicating his men were not far away. He walked faster. He was
anxious to be done with this chore before they arrived. He was not in the mood
for any coarse jests.
As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more
at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white
strength of the animal beneath him. It was exhilarating to allow the bay such
freedom after holding him tightly in check for most of the journey. The landscape
they passed blurred, melding into streaks of vibrant color: dark green heather,
brown earth, blue sky. The white manor house with its two adjoining wings drew
closer and closer . . .
Suddenly he veered sharply to the right as another
horse appeared on the left racing onto the road from a narrow path hidden
between two large trees, and bumped into his bay. Garrett swore loudly and
firmly grasped the reins, his experience and. the muscled power of his thighs
enabling him to stay in the saddle.
The other rider was not so lucky. He heard a short
high-pitched scream and the smaller horse whinnying in fright, then a crash as
the rider, a slim young woman, pitched headlong into a row of unkempt box
hedges at the foot of the drive leading to the manor house.
"Whoa, Samson, steady now!" he yelled,
pulling the bay hard about. The startled animal reared and bucked, fighting
him, but it gradually calmed enough to allow Garrett to jump to the ground. He
ran over to the hedges, dreading what he might find. It would be a miracle if
the wench survived such a fall.
Garrett spied a pair of leather shoes, snagged white
stockings, and the torn hem of a plain brown skirt poking out from the dense
thicket. He leaped over the hedges to the other side and knelt beside the woman.
Her face was turned away from him. Relief poured through him when he saw her
fingers move and heard a low moan breaking from her throat.
With great care he took her by the shoulders and pulled
her slowly from the bushes, then rolled her onto her back. Her rich chestnut
hair, glinting with strands of gold in the bright sunlight, fell across her
face and obscured her features.
Garrett quickly felt her slender limbs for broken
bones. There fortunately didn't seem to be any. Her breathing appeared normal,
her chest rising and falling evenly. He leaned over her and gently moved her
hair away from her face, his hand grazing her soft cheek. He felt a sudden
catch in his throat.
If anyone had been blessed with the legendary Scots
beauty he had heard so much about, it was this woman. She was stunning. This
was not the porcelain perfection he had seen during a brief stay in Edinburgh,
where the damsels mimicked Londoners in their use of rouge and lip stain. This
woman possessed a beauty kissed by nature, breathtaking and unspoiled, like the
wild Highlands about her.
Garrett could not resist tracing his finger along the
high curve of her cheekbone. He marveled at the silken texture of her skin and
its fresh hues of sun-warmed rose and cream. Her forehead was shapely, and slim
brows arched above closed eyelids fringed with lush, dark lashes. Her nose was
straight, almost patrician. Her lips were full, delicately curved, and as red
as ripe berries above her soft and rounded chin.
He had a strong urge to press his mouth against hers
and taste the inviting warmth of her lips, but he did not. Another soft moan
forced his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand. The woman had not yet
regained consciousness and needed care. She would do far better lying in a bed
than on the hard ground.
Perhaps he should take her to the manor house, Garrett
thought. She had been riding in that direction; she probably worked there as a
maidservant. Her simple, frayed gown and her scuffed shoes certainly attested
to such a post.
He bent down and scooped her into his arms, then rose
easily to his feet. He stepped over the hedges and turned onto the dirt drive,
striding toward the manor house. He could hear jingling harnesses and creaking
wagon wheels, indicating his men were not far away. He walked faster. He was
anxious to be done with this chore before they arrived. He was not in the mood
for any coarse jests.
As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more
at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white
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