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Authors: Elaine Coffman
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fell halfway to his knees and a sword that was suspended by a bandolier of leather as dark as his boots.
He pushed back the hood of his byrnie. His hair was black as sin and deliciously long. Even in the brilliant sunlight, he was a dark adaptation of the desires of her mind, for everything about him was mysterious and hard as steel, with an edge that was as ruthless and dangerous as the trenchant sword he had wielded a moment earlier.
She had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t consider coming after her from that height, even if she were dipped in gold. Would he risk rescuing her? A moot thought, for he would never make it. He wouldn’t risk injury or death to him or his horse just to capture her.
Or would he?
With an expression as cold as a pagan’s philosophy, he put the spurs to the side of his horse and went over the side. Was he crazy? A whirlwind came out of nowhere and stirred the branches of trees and sent debris spiraling. She heard the faintest bubbling sound of laughter, or was it simply the wind? She gasped and held her breath, and everything fell silent.
In a lightning-quick moment of decision that would give Mars, the god of war, pause, she watched him begin a death-defying descent of man and beast, straight down the near-vertical drop. The slightest slip would mean instant death, and yet he gave the horse his head, and the two of them raced faster than a torrent on its way to the sea. She was spellbound, for everything moved in slow motion after that.
Everywhere lay clumps of fern and golden prickly gorse, shapeless and deformed. Stones flew, but the Highland pony’s foot was sure. Wiry, tough, and sturdy, he sailed over stumps and a fallen tree, his hooves striking fire from chips of granite strewn along the way.
For a moment, the crags in the distance echoed the thunder of his stride. Then, in what had to be the most terrifying and magical moment of her life, she watched that small, sturdy horse with fire in his eye, and the incredible, almost impossible daring horsemanship of his rider. For an instant, the rider loomed larger than life, dark and threatening as a master of the underworld. She wouldn’t have been surprised if both he and his horse had sprouted wings and flown right over her head and vanished into the stratosphere.
In a heartbeat, it was over, with no sign that it had happened at all, save the dust that began to settle into the fresh imprint of hooves and the rustle of the wind that stirred it.
Chapter 11
It’s true that heroes are inspiring,
but mustn’t they also do some rescuing
if they are to be worthy of their name?
— Independent
Jeanette Winterson (b. 1959)
British author
Idiots! The ride should have killed them both.
But it hadn’t. With a slow pace, the stallion came toward her, and she leaned back a little bit further with each step that brought him closer. A lump formed in her throat, choking her with fear. Transfixed, she stared at the rider as she imagined what he could do to her.
She was frozen, unable to do anything but watch and wait. He was handsome as the devil, yet she eyed him warily as he approached her. He stopped no more than three feet away, crossed his arms over the pommel, and leaned forward, his cold gaze going over her with slow ease. Well, she had to hand it to him. There was something sexy as hell about a man dressed for battle, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his hair damp. Never did a man wear a pair of over-the-knee boots the way he did, and she was from Texas.
Under the scrutiny of his piercing gaze, she felt like an iceberg melting from the inside out. His blue eyes were sharp and assessing, and there was a brutal strength to him that could easily snap her neck in two, if he were so inclined. His face was young with unlined features, yet she sensed an ancient wisdom, as if he had seen more than his share of the dark side of life. He was the definition of gorgeous with a chiseled, masculine face and devilishly black hair. Even his
He pushed back the hood of his byrnie. His hair was black as sin and deliciously long. Even in the brilliant sunlight, he was a dark adaptation of the desires of her mind, for everything about him was mysterious and hard as steel, with an edge that was as ruthless and dangerous as the trenchant sword he had wielded a moment earlier.
She had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t consider coming after her from that height, even if she were dipped in gold. Would he risk rescuing her? A moot thought, for he would never make it. He wouldn’t risk injury or death to him or his horse just to capture her.
Or would he?
With an expression as cold as a pagan’s philosophy, he put the spurs to the side of his horse and went over the side. Was he crazy? A whirlwind came out of nowhere and stirred the branches of trees and sent debris spiraling. She heard the faintest bubbling sound of laughter, or was it simply the wind? She gasped and held her breath, and everything fell silent.
In a lightning-quick moment of decision that would give Mars, the god of war, pause, she watched him begin a death-defying descent of man and beast, straight down the near-vertical drop. The slightest slip would mean instant death, and yet he gave the horse his head, and the two of them raced faster than a torrent on its way to the sea. She was spellbound, for everything moved in slow motion after that.
Everywhere lay clumps of fern and golden prickly gorse, shapeless and deformed. Stones flew, but the Highland pony’s foot was sure. Wiry, tough, and sturdy, he sailed over stumps and a fallen tree, his hooves striking fire from chips of granite strewn along the way.
For a moment, the crags in the distance echoed the thunder of his stride. Then, in what had to be the most terrifying and magical moment of her life, she watched that small, sturdy horse with fire in his eye, and the incredible, almost impossible daring horsemanship of his rider. For an instant, the rider loomed larger than life, dark and threatening as a master of the underworld. She wouldn’t have been surprised if both he and his horse had sprouted wings and flown right over her head and vanished into the stratosphere.
In a heartbeat, it was over, with no sign that it had happened at all, save the dust that began to settle into the fresh imprint of hooves and the rustle of the wind that stirred it.
Chapter 11
It’s true that heroes are inspiring,
but mustn’t they also do some rescuing
if they are to be worthy of their name?
— Independent
Jeanette Winterson (b. 1959)
British author
Idiots! The ride should have killed them both.
But it hadn’t. With a slow pace, the stallion came toward her, and she leaned back a little bit further with each step that brought him closer. A lump formed in her throat, choking her with fear. Transfixed, she stared at the rider as she imagined what he could do to her.
She was frozen, unable to do anything but watch and wait. He was handsome as the devil, yet she eyed him warily as he approached her. He stopped no more than three feet away, crossed his arms over the pommel, and leaned forward, his cold gaze going over her with slow ease. Well, she had to hand it to him. There was something sexy as hell about a man dressed for battle, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his hair damp. Never did a man wear a pair of over-the-knee boots the way he did, and she was from Texas.
Under the scrutiny of his piercing gaze, she felt like an iceberg melting from the inside out. His blue eyes were sharp and assessing, and there was a brutal strength to him that could easily snap her neck in two, if he were so inclined. His face was young with unlined features, yet she sensed an ancient wisdom, as if he had seen more than his share of the dark side of life. He was the definition of gorgeous with a chiseled, masculine face and devilishly black hair. Even his
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