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Authors: Brenda Joyce
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hired were making.
He headed for the house
with long strides, intending to take care of some correspondence before his
midday meal. He had only taken a few steps, however, when the sound of racing
hoofbeats made him pause, searching for its cause.
A magnificent blood bay
thoroughbred was emerging from the woods at the far side of the ill-tended
lawns, running all out. The stallion galloped across his lawn, his rider bent
low over his back, and seconds later the animal came to a plunging, rearing
halt beside him. The Duke was stunned at the sight of Nicole Shelton astride
him.
He had never seen a lady
astride a horse before, or any woman for that matter, and that was shocking
enough. The sight of her long legs, encased tightly in men's breeches,
powerfully gripping the horse, mesmerized him. Then he became aware of her
stark, savage beauty, her eyes blazing and silver, her hair loose and
windswept, flowing behind her. She was magnificent and he was frozen, both
shocked by her defiance of every dictum of convention that existed and gripped
in a barbarous desire.
Nicole leapt to the
ground and strode toward him, her long legs straining the fabric of her
breeches, leaving nothing of her form to his imagination. For another moment he
could not tear his gaze away from her limbs, and it occurred to him that any
woman who could ride a horse like that could certainly ride him equally well.
Distracted, he only saw her raise her crop at the last possible moment.
"Miserable
bastard," she hissed, swinging it furiously at his face.
Acting purely on reflex,
the Duke caught her wrist just as the braided end flicked his jaw, leaving a
stinging red welt. Anger quickly replaced his surprise. He took the crop from
her, snapping it abruptly in two, and tossed it aside. She screamed, the sound
one of pure rage, her hand flying up again, intent on striking him anew. He
caught her arm and whipped her around too quickly and her back slammed into the
barn. She dared to resist him, her other hand reaching for him, fingers curled,
nails poised like claws. He caught that one, too, and pinned her to the wall,
both of her wrists above her head, and in another scant moment he had closed
the last few inches between them, pressing his hard, aroused body against hers.
What had just occurred
was beyond belief, yet she continued to struggle wildly against him, like an
animal caught in a trap, crazed. Her every movement fanned the fires in him,
and he pressed more heavily against her, his manhood pulsing eagerly against
her softness as he instinctively sought to subdue her. "Release me,"
she screamed. "Release me, you rotten cur, so I can give you what you
deserve!"
Terribly graphic, sexual
images danced in his mind. "And just what is it I deserve?" His
breath fanned her lips, she went still. He knew it was that exact moment that
she became aware of him and his virility.
"Ten lashes, not
one!" she snarled.
"I do not think
that is why you have come back."
"I came back to
draw your blood!"
He trembled, both in
response to her real savagery and to the idea of his drawing her blood.
"Does spilling my blood excite you, Nicole?" he asked, very, very
low.
"Yes! Yes!
Yes!" She bucked wildly against him again, then froze, panting, when her
gyrations only served to increase the intimacy between them.
"Beware," he
said smokily, "if there is any more blood to be spilled today, it shall
not be mine." He looked her in the eye, throbbing so strongly against her
she could not possibly escape his meaning. Her eyes widened, and he was pleased
that she understood.
"You would
not."
"Right now, I
would. Isn't that why you have come back?"
For a moment she was too
stunned by his answer to respond; then she shrieked, twisting wildly and crying
out at the pain she caused herself in his iron, immoveable grip. "Now you
threaten me with rape?!"
"Threaten, no.
Warn, perhaps. Rape—never."
"I will fight you
until my last dying breath," she cried.
He saw her fighting
He headed for the house
with long strides, intending to take care of some correspondence before his
midday meal. He had only taken a few steps, however, when the sound of racing
hoofbeats made him pause, searching for its cause.
A magnificent blood bay
thoroughbred was emerging from the woods at the far side of the ill-tended
lawns, running all out. The stallion galloped across his lawn, his rider bent
low over his back, and seconds later the animal came to a plunging, rearing
halt beside him. The Duke was stunned at the sight of Nicole Shelton astride
him.
He had never seen a lady
astride a horse before, or any woman for that matter, and that was shocking
enough. The sight of her long legs, encased tightly in men's breeches,
powerfully gripping the horse, mesmerized him. Then he became aware of her
stark, savage beauty, her eyes blazing and silver, her hair loose and
windswept, flowing behind her. She was magnificent and he was frozen, both
shocked by her defiance of every dictum of convention that existed and gripped
in a barbarous desire.
Nicole leapt to the
ground and strode toward him, her long legs straining the fabric of her
breeches, leaving nothing of her form to his imagination. For another moment he
could not tear his gaze away from her limbs, and it occurred to him that any
woman who could ride a horse like that could certainly ride him equally well.
Distracted, he only saw her raise her crop at the last possible moment.
"Miserable
bastard," she hissed, swinging it furiously at his face.
Acting purely on reflex,
the Duke caught her wrist just as the braided end flicked his jaw, leaving a
stinging red welt. Anger quickly replaced his surprise. He took the crop from
her, snapping it abruptly in two, and tossed it aside. She screamed, the sound
one of pure rage, her hand flying up again, intent on striking him anew. He
caught her arm and whipped her around too quickly and her back slammed into the
barn. She dared to resist him, her other hand reaching for him, fingers curled,
nails poised like claws. He caught that one, too, and pinned her to the wall,
both of her wrists above her head, and in another scant moment he had closed
the last few inches between them, pressing his hard, aroused body against hers.
What had just occurred
was beyond belief, yet she continued to struggle wildly against him, like an
animal caught in a trap, crazed. Her every movement fanned the fires in him,
and he pressed more heavily against her, his manhood pulsing eagerly against
her softness as he instinctively sought to subdue her. "Release me,"
she screamed. "Release me, you rotten cur, so I can give you what you
deserve!"
Terribly graphic, sexual
images danced in his mind. "And just what is it I deserve?" His
breath fanned her lips, she went still. He knew it was that exact moment that
she became aware of him and his virility.
"Ten lashes, not
one!" she snarled.
"I do not think
that is why you have come back."
"I came back to
draw your blood!"
He trembled, both in
response to her real savagery and to the idea of his drawing her blood.
"Does spilling my blood excite you, Nicole?" he asked, very, very
low.
"Yes! Yes!
Yes!" She bucked wildly against him again, then froze, panting, when her
gyrations only served to increase the intimacy between them.
"Beware," he
said smokily, "if there is any more blood to be spilled today, it shall
not be mine." He looked her in the eye, throbbing so strongly against her
she could not possibly escape his meaning. Her eyes widened, and he was pleased
that she understood.
"You would
not."
"Right now, I
would. Isn't that why you have come back?"
For a moment she was too
stunned by his answer to respond; then she shrieked, twisting wildly and crying
out at the pain she caused herself in his iron, immoveable grip. "Now you
threaten me with rape?!"
"Threaten, no.
Warn, perhaps. Rape—never."
"I will fight you
until my last dying breath," she cried.
He saw her fighting
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