courtesies from you that might make you redefine the meaning of the word.”
He could mean only one thing. Theo stared at him; her lips tingled abruptly with the memory of his kisses, and there were strange vibrations deep in her belly as her body of its own accord responded to the memory of his hardness pressed against her.
She swallowed, unconsciously absorbing his physique properly for the first time—the wide belt outlining the slender waist, slim hips, powerful thighs straining against the soft; buckskin of his riding britches. He was so large! The power in those broad shoulders, the muscles rippling in his bared arms, were downright intimidating. Only a fool would be convinced she could win a combat with such a figure…. She might … but it was no certainty.
And if she lost …? If she lost, he’d put his hands on her again in the way that set her body on fire; he’d put his mouth to hers…. Dear God, how could her body not know what her mind knew—that she loathed the man and everything he represented?
“Damn you to hell, Stoneridge!” She turned and leaped into the mare’s saddle.
Sylvester watched as she rode the animal straight into the waves lapping the curving shoreline. He shook his head, half in amusement, half in annoyance. What kind of marriage was he letting himself in for, with a wife who chose unarmed combat to settle a disagreement?
He bent to pick up her jacket and his own coat, shaking the sand off them and laying them on a flat rock. Then he sat down on another rocky outcrop, stretching his legs along the sand, squinting into the sun as he watched his combativeyoung cousin ride her mare in a mad gallop through the waves breaking gently on the shoreline.
When she turned the horse out toward the curious horseshoe-shaped rock formation at the entrance to the cove, he drew breath sharply. Surely she wasn’t going to swim the animal out to sea. He half rose from his rock about to yell at her and then saw that she’d reached a sandbar about twenty feet from the shore and was cantering along it in a fine mist of spray from Dulcie’s hooves.
Hotheaded gypsy! He sat back on his rock, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes, waiting for her to return.
Theo rode until some of her frustration had dissipated, become a part of the sea air and the salt spray. Dulcie moved beneath her with obvious enjoyment, kicking up her heels as the little waves slurped over the hard-packed ridged sand. Waves crashed with monotonous rhythm against the rocks protecting the entrance to the cove, but within their shelter the water was smooth as glass, and the sun was hot on her head and the back of her neck.
She glanced toward the beach. Sylvester Gilbraith was still there, and there was something about his posture that told her he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. She couldn’t stay in the middle of the cove indefinitely.
Turning Dulcie, she rode back to shore. Her habit was soaked to her knees, her boots sodden, her shirt sticking sweatily to her back. Her hairpins had loosened, and the two thick braids now looped on her shoulders.
She rode up the beach to where the Earl of Stoneridge in his shirtsleeves leaned back on his rock, hands linked behind his head.
“You are detestable,” she stated. “I loathe you.”
“Do you?” He opened his eyes and squinted indolently up at her through narrowed lids.
“Perhaps you’d be good enough to pass me my jacket,” she said with icy restraint.
He shook his head. “Come and get it, gypsy.”
“Damn you!” she threw at him, swung Dulcie round, and cantered off along the beach.
“This damning is becoming repetitious,” Sylvester murmured, mounting his horse and setting off after her. The black ate up the distance between them, even when Theo leaned low over Dulcie’s neck, urging her to increase her pace. The dapple stretched her neck in a gallant effort, but she hadn’t the chest of her pursuer, and Theo drew back on the reins, allowing her to
He could mean only one thing. Theo stared at him; her lips tingled abruptly with the memory of his kisses, and there were strange vibrations deep in her belly as her body of its own accord responded to the memory of his hardness pressed against her.
She swallowed, unconsciously absorbing his physique properly for the first time—the wide belt outlining the slender waist, slim hips, powerful thighs straining against the soft; buckskin of his riding britches. He was so large! The power in those broad shoulders, the muscles rippling in his bared arms, were downright intimidating. Only a fool would be convinced she could win a combat with such a figure…. She might … but it was no certainty.
And if she lost …? If she lost, he’d put his hands on her again in the way that set her body on fire; he’d put his mouth to hers…. Dear God, how could her body not know what her mind knew—that she loathed the man and everything he represented?
“Damn you to hell, Stoneridge!” She turned and leaped into the mare’s saddle.
Sylvester watched as she rode the animal straight into the waves lapping the curving shoreline. He shook his head, half in amusement, half in annoyance. What kind of marriage was he letting himself in for, with a wife who chose unarmed combat to settle a disagreement?
He bent to pick up her jacket and his own coat, shaking the sand off them and laying them on a flat rock. Then he sat down on another rocky outcrop, stretching his legs along the sand, squinting into the sun as he watched his combativeyoung cousin ride her mare in a mad gallop through the waves breaking gently on the shoreline.
When she turned the horse out toward the curious horseshoe-shaped rock formation at the entrance to the cove, he drew breath sharply. Surely she wasn’t going to swim the animal out to sea. He half rose from his rock about to yell at her and then saw that she’d reached a sandbar about twenty feet from the shore and was cantering along it in a fine mist of spray from Dulcie’s hooves.
Hotheaded gypsy! He sat back on his rock, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes, waiting for her to return.
Theo rode until some of her frustration had dissipated, become a part of the sea air and the salt spray. Dulcie moved beneath her with obvious enjoyment, kicking up her heels as the little waves slurped over the hard-packed ridged sand. Waves crashed with monotonous rhythm against the rocks protecting the entrance to the cove, but within their shelter the water was smooth as glass, and the sun was hot on her head and the back of her neck.
She glanced toward the beach. Sylvester Gilbraith was still there, and there was something about his posture that told her he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. She couldn’t stay in the middle of the cove indefinitely.
Turning Dulcie, she rode back to shore. Her habit was soaked to her knees, her boots sodden, her shirt sticking sweatily to her back. Her hairpins had loosened, and the two thick braids now looped on her shoulders.
She rode up the beach to where the Earl of Stoneridge in his shirtsleeves leaned back on his rock, hands linked behind his head.
“You are detestable,” she stated. “I loathe you.”
“Do you?” He opened his eyes and squinted indolently up at her through narrowed lids.
“Perhaps you’d be good enough to pass me my jacket,” she said with icy restraint.
He shook his head. “Come and get it, gypsy.”
“Damn you!” she threw at him, swung Dulcie round, and cantered off along the beach.
“This damning is becoming repetitious,” Sylvester murmured, mounting his horse and setting off after her. The black ate up the distance between them, even when Theo leaned low over Dulcie’s neck, urging her to increase her pace. The dapple stretched her neck in a gallant effort, but she hadn’t the chest of her pursuer, and Theo drew back on the reins, allowing her to
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