Read Online Midnight Rider by Kat Martin - Free Book Online Page A

silently into the flames. Sanchez had awakened and gone to the Spaniard’s side, but he refused the meal the old vaquero had tried to coax him to eat.
    As exhausted as Carly was, as frightened, as resentful of the Spaniard’s brutal treatment, some small part of her felt sorry for him. She’d had a sister once, a little girl named Mary, four years younger than she was. Mary had died of a fever when Carly was nine years old. She remembered her mother weeping, remembered the terrible, hollow ache she had felt that couldn’t be filled, the bitterness and sorrow of losing Mary. She could easily imagine the pain the don suffered from the loss of his brother.
    Carly leaned her head against the tree and closed her eyes. She had eaten the chunk of roasted meat Sanchez had brought her and accepted the blanket he gave her even as he bound one of her ankles to the tree. Snuggling deeper into the blanket’s warmth, she willed herself not to think of the don, not to think of her tired, aching muscles, scrapped shins, cut feet, or the darkening bruise on her cheek. Instead, she thought of her uncle, willing him to come, certain that he would, and finally she slid into a heavy trancelike sleep.
    She awoke before dawn, to the nicker of horses and the slap of leather as the men saddled up and prepared to break camp. The young vaquero named Ruiz brought her breakfast: warmed-up tortillas, some leftover meat, and a tin cup of steaming hot coffee that tasted better than any she could ever remember drinking. She still wasn’t hungry, though she forced herself to eat, and felt even more tired than she had the night before, every bone aching, every muscle sore. Her feet were blistered, scraped, and cut; her arms and legs were scratched, her lips dry and chaffed.
    She heard the old vaquero pleading her case to the don, but just as before he blindly turned away.
    At least she was still alive. There had been no rape, as she had feared, and except for the don, so far no one had been cruel to her. By now her uncle and his men would be hard in pursuit and she was certain he would find her.
    â€œIt is time to leave, senorita.” The words broke into her thoughts as the Spaniard strode up beside her. His features looked stark, barren. Faint purple smudges appeared beneath his cold dark eyes. He was ruthless, callous, unfeeling.
    She felt a shot of loathing. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”
    A grim smile curved his lips. “We travel far into the mountains. To Llano Mirada, a place that is sometimes my home.”
    â€œMy uncle will find you wherever you go. He won’t rest until he hunts you down like the animal you are.”
    â€œBetter men have tried. All of them have failed. Your uncle will be no different.”
    â€œWhat do you want of me? What do you intend to do?”
    His dark eyes raked her, bold, sensuous, unforgiving. “That remains to be seen, senorita.” He dropped the braided leather loop around her wrists and drew it snug, then led her to his horse and gracefully swung into the saddle. “In the meantime, we must leave.”
    Anger seethed through her. And bitterness and hatred. Ignoring her ragged state of dress, her tumbled hair, and the over-sized moccasins on her feet, she flashed him a cool, cultivated smile, as haughty as she could muster. “I’m ready when you are, Senor El Dragón.”
    The don’s face went taut and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Carly felt a jolt of satisfaction. He had meant to humble her, to see her whine and beg. He had been certain he could break her.
    But each time she looked at his tall broad-shouldered figure sitting astride his night-black horse, each time she noticed the arrogant tilt of his head, she thought of the other handsome man. The one she had dreamed about, the man who had given her the rose. Ruthlessly, she forced herself to remember the dark-skinned fantasy man whose smile had charmed her and made