Read Online Renegade Bride by Barbara Ankrum - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Ankrum
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something else altogether, she decided, glancing at the towering pines and rocky outcropping nearby.
Without a doubt, she'd made a critical error in judgment in not showing herself sooner. What if he was so far ahead she lost him entirely? She glanced at the ground, hoping to find some sign. But the ground was littered with rocks and pine needles. If Devereaux left hoofprints, they were beyond her ability to read them.
She was no tracker. That was his job. She'd depended solely on her good eyesight to follow him. Now there was no sign of him—anywhere.
Overhead, a huge black-crested bluejay scolded her, diving between the branches of the trees and the huge formation of rock just ahead. Oh, for a few moments with that silly bird's wings, so she could spot him—
"Hold it right there!"
Mariah's heart staggered in her chest as the booming command echoed off the rock wall ahead. The dark shape of a man whirled from behind the rock with a gun pointed directly at her.
Devereaux!
Her horse reared and whinnied in fright. A choked cry escaped her as she clawed at the mare's neck, searching in vain for the reins that Petunia had yanked from her hands.
It was no use. She somersaulted backward over the mare's sweaty rump and plunged in a tangle of skirts to the pinestraw-covered forest floor.
The ground met her with a breath-stealing thud. For a moment, all she could do was lie, gasping for air on the ground, while her whalebone stays dug into the sides of her ribs. Dimly, she heard the bounty hunter cursing as he caught and calmed her horse. But she was too stunned and angry to be grateful.
Braced on her throbbing, grass-stained elbows and knees, Mariah fought for oxygen with her head hung down between her splayed arms. Beneath her palms, she felt the low thud of footsteps on the ground as Devereaux stalked toward her. She coughed and regained the ability to breathe.
"Maudit, woman!" he shouted. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Devereaux's furious question held neither sympathy nor solicitation. Not that she should have expected any, she thought dazedly, staring at the tips of his brown leather boots planted only inches from her face. Reluctantly, her gaze traveled up the impossible length of his legs, past the muscular thighs and narrow hips, to see his fists balled angrily against his waist. His expression, when she had the nerve to look, was dangerously clouded.
Typical, she brooded, that he'd questioned the soundness of her mind and cared not one whit about the fact she'd just been thrown painfully from a horse. Cautiously, she pushed up off the ground, sat back on her heels, and shoved her hair from her eyes with the back of one wrist.
"Are you hurt, Miss Parsons?" she asked herself with mock sarcasm, swiping at the green stains on her white lace gloves. "Why, no, not very. Thank you for asking. Only my pride was bruised when some lunatic decided to point a gun at me."
"Lunatic? Le bon Dieu— you're lucky I didn't shoot you!" Devereaux shouted, towering over her.
"And I suppose I should thank you for your restraint."
"You ought to, oui!"
She let out a snort of laughter. "And you could offer me a hand up."
He folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "You've come this far without my help."
Setting her jaw, she replied, "So I have." She gathered her legs under her and stood, only to hear the tearing sound of one of her petticoats. Ignoring that, she slapped at the rumpled hem and beat it into submission.
"Well?" he fairly exploded.
Mariah flinched. Like some forbidding statue sculpted of granite, he stood waiting for her answer. It was an answer she'd rehearsed the whole morning. Perhaps it was the fall, but at the moment, her clever retorts eluded her completely. She gulped silently. "Well... what?"
His eyes were blazing with anger. "Don't be coy, Miss Parsons. What the hell are you doing following me?"
She clamped a hand over her aching elbow and met his glare head on. "I think you know."
"I
Without a doubt, she'd made a critical error in judgment in not showing herself sooner. What if he was so far ahead she lost him entirely? She glanced at the ground, hoping to find some sign. But the ground was littered with rocks and pine needles. If Devereaux left hoofprints, they were beyond her ability to read them.
She was no tracker. That was his job. She'd depended solely on her good eyesight to follow him. Now there was no sign of him—anywhere.
Overhead, a huge black-crested bluejay scolded her, diving between the branches of the trees and the huge formation of rock just ahead. Oh, for a few moments with that silly bird's wings, so she could spot him—
"Hold it right there!"
Mariah's heart staggered in her chest as the booming command echoed off the rock wall ahead. The dark shape of a man whirled from behind the rock with a gun pointed directly at her.
Devereaux!
Her horse reared and whinnied in fright. A choked cry escaped her as she clawed at the mare's neck, searching in vain for the reins that Petunia had yanked from her hands.
It was no use. She somersaulted backward over the mare's sweaty rump and plunged in a tangle of skirts to the pinestraw-covered forest floor.
The ground met her with a breath-stealing thud. For a moment, all she could do was lie, gasping for air on the ground, while her whalebone stays dug into the sides of her ribs. Dimly, she heard the bounty hunter cursing as he caught and calmed her horse. But she was too stunned and angry to be grateful.
Braced on her throbbing, grass-stained elbows and knees, Mariah fought for oxygen with her head hung down between her splayed arms. Beneath her palms, she felt the low thud of footsteps on the ground as Devereaux stalked toward her. She coughed and regained the ability to breathe.
"Maudit, woman!" he shouted. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Devereaux's furious question held neither sympathy nor solicitation. Not that she should have expected any, she thought dazedly, staring at the tips of his brown leather boots planted only inches from her face. Reluctantly, her gaze traveled up the impossible length of his legs, past the muscular thighs and narrow hips, to see his fists balled angrily against his waist. His expression, when she had the nerve to look, was dangerously clouded.
Typical, she brooded, that he'd questioned the soundness of her mind and cared not one whit about the fact she'd just been thrown painfully from a horse. Cautiously, she pushed up off the ground, sat back on her heels, and shoved her hair from her eyes with the back of one wrist.
"Are you hurt, Miss Parsons?" she asked herself with mock sarcasm, swiping at the green stains on her white lace gloves. "Why, no, not very. Thank you for asking. Only my pride was bruised when some lunatic decided to point a gun at me."
"Lunatic? Le bon Dieu— you're lucky I didn't shoot you!" Devereaux shouted, towering over her.
"And I suppose I should thank you for your restraint."
"You ought to, oui!"
She let out a snort of laughter. "And you could offer me a hand up."
He folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "You've come this far without my help."
Setting her jaw, she replied, "So I have." She gathered her legs under her and stood, only to hear the tearing sound of one of her petticoats. Ignoring that, she slapped at the rumpled hem and beat it into submission.
"Well?" he fairly exploded.
Mariah flinched. Like some forbidding statue sculpted of granite, he stood waiting for her answer. It was an answer she'd rehearsed the whole morning. Perhaps it was the fall, but at the moment, her clever retorts eluded her completely. She gulped silently. "Well... what?"
His eyes were blazing with anger. "Don't be coy, Miss Parsons. What the hell are you doing following me?"
She clamped a hand over her aching elbow and met his glare head on. "I think you know."
"I
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