Read Online All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Tags: Historical
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She didn't stop to think—rational thought had no place in her brain. When a man looked at a woman like that, then charged at her, there was only one sane reaction.
A bridle path was closer than he was—she took it, plunging the bay onto the track. The chestnut swooped in behind them. She gave the bay his head. She could feel the thud of the chestnut's hooves over the reverberation of the bay's strides and the frantic pounding of her heart. A vise locked tight about her chest, squeezing her heart into her throat. The wind of her passing whipped her hair back, tossing her curls in a tangle behind her.
Clinging to the bay's saddle, she rocketed on. She couldn't risk a glance back—didn't dare—couldn't spare the instant. At this pace, she needed all her concentration for the track before her. It twisted and turned. She could feel Chillingworth's gaze locked on her back, hot as a flame. An icy tingle touched her nape, then slid down every nerve. Fear, but not a simple one. A primal one—
primitive—as primitive as the expression that had flowed across his face in the instant before he'd come for her. Twisted within the fear was a strand of heat, but it gave her no comfort; it only added another dimension to her panic—fear of the unknown.
Her only thought was to escape. The knot in her gut swelled; her senses unfurled, whispering of surrender.
She tried to think, to plan how to lose him. The bay and the chestnut seemed well matched, but the paths were too narrow for him to draw alongside. Soon, they'd reach the next glade. Luckily, he rode much heavier than she.
The trees thinned. She slowed the bay, then sprang him into the open glade, racing flat out, bent low to the horse's withers. The chestnut stayed with her. She flicked a glance back and to the side—and nearly swallowed her heart as her eyes locked with Chillingworth's, mere feet away. He was gaining steadily. He reached for her reins—
She swerved away. The opening of another path, to her side, closer than the one she'd been heading for, was her only possible route. She sent the bay racing down it; the chestnut thundered on his heels. What came next?
The answer appeared before she was ready, the trees ending abruptly at the edge of a narrow field. The terrain sloped down to a shallow brook, then rose steeply beyond it. Only one path led out of the glade—
its opening lay directly across the field.
She flung the bay at the brook. Its hooves clattered on the smooth stones in the watercourse, the chestnut's hooves sounding an instantaneous echo. The bay attacked the upward slope, back legs churning as it hauled its considerable weight up the rise.
The top of the rise was one bound away when the chestnut drew level.
A hand whipped across her and grabbed her reins.
Gasping, she wrenched them back—the bay staggered.
A steely arm wrapped around her; it locked her, shoulder to chest, against an even harder frame. Instinctively, she struggled. The reins were hauled from her grasp.
"Be still!"
The words thundered, lashed.
She quieted.
The horses jostled, then settled, held steady with an iron hand. They sidled onto the short stretch of level ground at the top of the rise. Separated only by his booted leg, bay and chestnut coats flickered, then both horses eased, expelled long horsey sighs, and lowered their heads.
The arm around her felt like a manacle; it didn't ease. Breathing raggedly, her pulse racing, Francesca looked up.
Gyles met her wide gaze—and felt primitive, possessive fury surge. His head was reeling, his heart racing. His breathing was as tortured as hers.
Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted. Her eyes, glittering green, fixed on his, flared with an awareness as old as time.
He took her lips in a searing kiss.
He gave no quarter. Even had she begged he would not have granted it—she was his. His to brand, his to seize, his to claim. He ravaged her mouth, demanded her surrender—when it came and she softened in his arm, he
A bridle path was closer than he was—she took it, plunging the bay onto the track. The chestnut swooped in behind them. She gave the bay his head. She could feel the thud of the chestnut's hooves over the reverberation of the bay's strides and the frantic pounding of her heart. A vise locked tight about her chest, squeezing her heart into her throat. The wind of her passing whipped her hair back, tossing her curls in a tangle behind her.
Clinging to the bay's saddle, she rocketed on. She couldn't risk a glance back—didn't dare—couldn't spare the instant. At this pace, she needed all her concentration for the track before her. It twisted and turned. She could feel Chillingworth's gaze locked on her back, hot as a flame. An icy tingle touched her nape, then slid down every nerve. Fear, but not a simple one. A primal one—
primitive—as primitive as the expression that had flowed across his face in the instant before he'd come for her. Twisted within the fear was a strand of heat, but it gave her no comfort; it only added another dimension to her panic—fear of the unknown.
Her only thought was to escape. The knot in her gut swelled; her senses unfurled, whispering of surrender.
She tried to think, to plan how to lose him. The bay and the chestnut seemed well matched, but the paths were too narrow for him to draw alongside. Soon, they'd reach the next glade. Luckily, he rode much heavier than she.
The trees thinned. She slowed the bay, then sprang him into the open glade, racing flat out, bent low to the horse's withers. The chestnut stayed with her. She flicked a glance back and to the side—and nearly swallowed her heart as her eyes locked with Chillingworth's, mere feet away. He was gaining steadily. He reached for her reins—
She swerved away. The opening of another path, to her side, closer than the one she'd been heading for, was her only possible route. She sent the bay racing down it; the chestnut thundered on his heels. What came next?
The answer appeared before she was ready, the trees ending abruptly at the edge of a narrow field. The terrain sloped down to a shallow brook, then rose steeply beyond it. Only one path led out of the glade—
its opening lay directly across the field.
She flung the bay at the brook. Its hooves clattered on the smooth stones in the watercourse, the chestnut's hooves sounding an instantaneous echo. The bay attacked the upward slope, back legs churning as it hauled its considerable weight up the rise.
The top of the rise was one bound away when the chestnut drew level.
A hand whipped across her and grabbed her reins.
Gasping, she wrenched them back—the bay staggered.
A steely arm wrapped around her; it locked her, shoulder to chest, against an even harder frame. Instinctively, she struggled. The reins were hauled from her grasp.
"Be still!"
The words thundered, lashed.
She quieted.
The horses jostled, then settled, held steady with an iron hand. They sidled onto the short stretch of level ground at the top of the rise. Separated only by his booted leg, bay and chestnut coats flickered, then both horses eased, expelled long horsey sighs, and lowered their heads.
The arm around her felt like a manacle; it didn't ease. Breathing raggedly, her pulse racing, Francesca looked up.
Gyles met her wide gaze—and felt primitive, possessive fury surge. His head was reeling, his heart racing. His breathing was as tortured as hers.
Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted. Her eyes, glittering green, fixed on his, flared with an awareness as old as time.
He took her lips in a searing kiss.
He gave no quarter. Even had she begged he would not have granted it—she was his. His to brand, his to seize, his to claim. He ravaged her mouth, demanded her surrender—when it came and she softened in his arm, he
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