considered—
But in that instant he noticed a dapper, redheaded fellow turn toward her. Saw the man straighten with interest, saw his eyebrows rise as he reined his mount toward her. She spotted him as well, and in that instant, in that one fractured prism of a second, Bain thought he saw uncertainty spark her earth-stone eyes.
It was naught but his imagination. He told himself as much, but it was no use, for he had already touched his spurs to Colt’s massive barrel.
There was no hesitation. No delay. Colt flexed his powerful neck, and like a gifted dancer shifted his mass from a standstill to a canter in a second’s time, cleaving a path through the crowd.
Reining to a halt between Red and the lady, Bain nodded a greeting, but for a moment he could think of nothing to say, for she was spellbinding. Yet it was neither her gilded beauty nor her polished veneer that held him speechless. It wassomething more vulnerable, something almost hidden but not quite.
The sun had risen only minutes before and shone now with new-world glory in her upturned eyes. They were the hue of river-washed agates, or maybe the color of the very stone he now wore about his neck. Deep russet flecked with shards of black and green and a dozen shades he could neither name nor consider. A palette of wonder no man could paint.
On some, the stiff riding habits of the elite appeared manly, but in the rosy light of dawn, wee Faerie Faye looked as delicate as a spring blossom. Her tawny face was small, her chin peaked above her white stock. Her shoulders were square but narrow, her leather-clad hands small and still, her waist so tiny he could have spanned it with his hands.
“You’ve come,” she said, and there was something about her soft siren’s voice that made his heart sing, for it almost seemed as if she was relieved, nay ecstatic, to find him there.
They stared at each other as he searched for some witticisms, some repartee. Nothing.
“So you’ve not changed your mind, then,” he said finally, and couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded as if it issued from the very center of the earth, as if it came from a being entirely unassociated with this woman’s lofty species.
“Why ever would I?” she asked, and raised a single brow. It was that expression that convincedhim he had entirely imagined the fear of only moments before. But that was good. He was no one’s protector. History had taught him that much.
“It has always seemed a strange sport,” he said. “This foxhunting.”
“Strange?” Beneath her, the bay pranced an intricate step. Her body swayed in perfect rhythm. “How so?”
Because the word “sport” implied there was some fairness involved. Some sport. “One fox,” he said, and scanned the rowdy assembly, the elegant horses, the hounds, just beginning to bay. “A host of well-mounted riders.”
She watched him in silence, head high, plum-plump lips pursed as she studied him, then; “Tell me, Mr. McBain, are all men of war so tenderhearted?”
He returned her gaze. She must be joking; his heart had become calloused years before her birth. “I merely spoke of fairness.”
“But the fox are vermin. Stealing chickens and the like from poor tenant farmers,” she said. “Surely we are doing a service.”
Did that opinion make her heartless or simply pragmatic? “You’ve no qualms about this day then?”
“Perhaps you have mistaken me for some wilting flower,” she said. “I assure you, I am not.” Glancing down, she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, plumping the ruffled train across the pommel horn where her right leg was hookedin the manner that made him cringe. How the hell did anyone ride perched atop a mount like a flighty tree finch? And why? “Indeed,” she continued, but just then a shout went up as two horses rose on their hinds, forelegs pummeling the air as they sparred. One hapless rider tumbled to the cobblestones amid jeers and cheers.
From the right, three more joined
But in that instant he noticed a dapper, redheaded fellow turn toward her. Saw the man straighten with interest, saw his eyebrows rise as he reined his mount toward her. She spotted him as well, and in that instant, in that one fractured prism of a second, Bain thought he saw uncertainty spark her earth-stone eyes.
It was naught but his imagination. He told himself as much, but it was no use, for he had already touched his spurs to Colt’s massive barrel.
There was no hesitation. No delay. Colt flexed his powerful neck, and like a gifted dancer shifted his mass from a standstill to a canter in a second’s time, cleaving a path through the crowd.
Reining to a halt between Red and the lady, Bain nodded a greeting, but for a moment he could think of nothing to say, for she was spellbinding. Yet it was neither her gilded beauty nor her polished veneer that held him speechless. It wassomething more vulnerable, something almost hidden but not quite.
The sun had risen only minutes before and shone now with new-world glory in her upturned eyes. They were the hue of river-washed agates, or maybe the color of the very stone he now wore about his neck. Deep russet flecked with shards of black and green and a dozen shades he could neither name nor consider. A palette of wonder no man could paint.
On some, the stiff riding habits of the elite appeared manly, but in the rosy light of dawn, wee Faerie Faye looked as delicate as a spring blossom. Her tawny face was small, her chin peaked above her white stock. Her shoulders were square but narrow, her leather-clad hands small and still, her waist so tiny he could have spanned it with his hands.
“You’ve come,” she said, and there was something about her soft siren’s voice that made his heart sing, for it almost seemed as if she was relieved, nay ecstatic, to find him there.
They stared at each other as he searched for some witticisms, some repartee. Nothing.
“So you’ve not changed your mind, then,” he said finally, and couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded as if it issued from the very center of the earth, as if it came from a being entirely unassociated with this woman’s lofty species.
“Why ever would I?” she asked, and raised a single brow. It was that expression that convincedhim he had entirely imagined the fear of only moments before. But that was good. He was no one’s protector. History had taught him that much.
“It has always seemed a strange sport,” he said. “This foxhunting.”
“Strange?” Beneath her, the bay pranced an intricate step. Her body swayed in perfect rhythm. “How so?”
Because the word “sport” implied there was some fairness involved. Some sport. “One fox,” he said, and scanned the rowdy assembly, the elegant horses, the hounds, just beginning to bay. “A host of well-mounted riders.”
She watched him in silence, head high, plum-plump lips pursed as she studied him, then; “Tell me, Mr. McBain, are all men of war so tenderhearted?”
He returned her gaze. She must be joking; his heart had become calloused years before her birth. “I merely spoke of fairness.”
“But the fox are vermin. Stealing chickens and the like from poor tenant farmers,” she said. “Surely we are doing a service.”
Did that opinion make her heartless or simply pragmatic? “You’ve no qualms about this day then?”
“Perhaps you have mistaken me for some wilting flower,” she said. “I assure you, I am not.” Glancing down, she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, plumping the ruffled train across the pommel horn where her right leg was hookedin the manner that made him cringe. How the hell did anyone ride perched atop a mount like a flighty tree finch? And why? “Indeed,” she continued, but just then a shout went up as two horses rose on their hinds, forelegs pummeling the air as they sparred. One hapless rider tumbled to the cobblestones amid jeers and cheers.
From the right, three more joined
Similar Books
