The Pride of Lions (2 page)

Black hair curled wetly down his neck, dripping on shoulders that were broad and gleamed like newly sculpted bronze. As Catherine watched, he raked his hands through his hair to remove a bright shower of excess droplets and leaned back on his heels with a long, refreshed sigh.

The question of why he had stopped was apparent; the question of how he had come to be there was quickly answered by a shrill whinny from the opposite side of the pool. An immense black stallion stood there, his ears pricked warily upright, his nostrils flaring taut as he caught the scent of the mare. Catherine had not seen the beast at first because of the hazed streamers of sunlight, but the animal had obviously seen her. And the man, hearing the snorted alarm from his horse, pivoted swiftly, his hand a blur of motion as it stretched out toward the pistol that lay hidden beneath the folds of his jacket. The sight of the gun and the speed with which he whirled, cocked, and aimed it startled a cry from Catherine’s lips. She dropped the hat and gloves she was carrying and sent her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

For a moment the two stared at each other without further sound or movement. His eyes commanded most of her attention; they were as black as the ebony mane of his hair, as dangerous as the barrel of the pistol he pointed unwaveringly at her breast. He blinked once, as if to confirm what he was seeing, then quickly lowered the gun.

“Has no one ever warned you against sneaking up on a man when his back is turned?” His voice was harsh with anger, startling enough to cause a similar sharpness in her own.

“Has no one told you, sir, that it is singularly unhealthy to trespass on private property?”

He blinked again and some of the wild, savage look went out of his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is private property,” she repeated tersely. “And you are trespassing. If I were a gamekeeper, or if I were armed, I would have been well within my right to shoot you out of hand.”

“Then I should count myself lucky that you are neither.” The dark eyes narrowed. “May I ask what
you
are doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“You may not. What you
may
do is gather your belongings and leave here at once. This land belongs to Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, a man who does not take kindly to trespassers … or
poachers
.”

The stranger studied her a moment longer, then slowly stood up, straightening to an impressive height of well over six feet.

“It has been a long time since anyone has accused me of poaching,”—he smiled faintly,—“and lived.”

Catherine’s temper flared. Her skin was still reacting to the boldness of his stare, but she had no hesitation in responding to his insolent humor. “There are forty men riding within the sound of my voice. A single scream and—”

“At least you have sense enough to be frightened,” he interrupted, his grin broadening. “I think you should have listened to your nanny years ago when she warned you against walking alone in the forest.”

Catherine’s eyes widened. “How did you know—”

“Doesn’t every abigail worth her vinegar warn her charge against the perils of venturing off on her own?” He leaned over to pluck his shirt off the ground. “In your case, you should consider yourself lucky you didn’t run across someone who possessed fewer scruples and had more time on his hands. Someone who might not be deterred by a sharp tongue and an equally sharp disposition.”

“Someone with fewer scruples? You flatter yourself, sir. And what do you mean by a sharp disposition? My disposition is perfectly fine.”

The calm, unnerving stare pinioned her again, holding
her without evasion, long enough for a flush to spread down her throat. His gaze followed, lingering on the parted edges of her collar before descending to where the fabric molded attractively over her breasts. As if that was not audacious enough, he showed his teeth again in another wolfish grin.

“My first guess tells me you might be related in some way to this Sir Alfred Ashbrooke?”

“I am his daughter,” she admitted with a small lift to her chin. “What of it?”

“His daughter.” The rogue’s voice purred around the word, and Catherine was aware of him taking several slow, measured steps closer. Neither her feet nor her pride would respond to an inner command to turn and run, but her horse sensed her sudden nervousness and snorted a warning. This, in turn, instantly challenged the enormous black stallion into thundering several paces across the clearing.

“Shadow! Stand!”

The stranger did not take his eyes away from Catherine’s face, but she was shocked enough to look past his shoulder and see the huge stallion skid to an immediate halt. It stood, sable head held erect, eyes smoldering like coals, and flanks trembling with the desire to attack. Her astonishment was complete when she realized the diversion had allowed the man to close to within arm’s reach; further, he was going so far as to extend a hand toward the velvet-soft muzzle of her roan.

“She’ll tear your fingers off,” Catherine cautioned.

The hand hesitated, but only fractionally before continuing toward the long, tapered nose. The mare’s nostrils quivered and her eyes widened with hostility, yet she made no overt move to avoid the stroking fingers. The stranger had donned his shirt, but it hung carelessly open, and Catherine, caught between him and her horse, had nowhere to look but at the immense wall of his chest, at the cloud of dark curling hairs that did little to
soften the hard planes and contours of the muscles beneath. She lifted her eyes slowly, settling first on the lean, square jaw and wide, sensual mouth. His voice was deep and cultured, betraying more education than his manners supported. Up close, his eyes still appeared to be obsidian, but a stray shaft of light revealed midnight blue depths that hinted at dark secrets and dangerous passions. Arched above were eyebrows the same ebony black as his hair, one of them slashed through with a thin white scar—a dueling scar?—to give his arrogant features an added saturnine twist.

His arm accidentally brushed against her shoulder as he stroked the roan, and Catherine flinched as if touched by fire.

“Excuse me,” she said tartly, “but this is my horse. It is, in effect, my clearing as well, so if you don’t mind I would prefer that you leave here at once.”

Amused, he raised an eyebrow. “And if I said I preferred to stay?”

She drew a slow breath. “I would say you were a nuisance and a trespasser, as impudent and lacking in scruples as any man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. And one who no doubt has had thoughts of poaching, even if he has not done so already.”

He edged closer, and Catherine felt the heat of the midnight eyes rake her again.

“Indeed, I am beginning to have thoughts, Mistress Ashbrooke,” he murmured. “But not of poaching.”

She stumbled back a step and came up hard against the roan’s warm flesh. The stranger moved with her, placing his hands on the horse’s neck, effectively trapping her between. He was near enough that she could smell the sunshine and sweat on his skin; she could see the beads of water glittering in his hair, dropping onto the white linen of his shirt and dampening it so that it clung to the broad shoulders in darker patches. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and she felt small and insignificant
and terribly vulnerable in the lee of his imposing frame.

“S-since you refuse to leave, sir, then I shall,” she stammered, shocked by her total lack of control over the situation. There was hardly a man in Derby who would dare accost her in such a way, nor was she accustomed to dealing with anyone not instantly overwhelmed by her position, wealth, and beauty. She was the daughter of a Member of Parliament, not some coltish serving wench to be waylaid and frightened into submission. No gentleman who laid any claim to the title whatsoever would dare speak to her the way this creature was speaking. Or presume to stand so close. Or stare so boldly.

And yet, a glance up into the dark eyes warned her that despite his fine clothes and implied gentility, he was not a man who would follow any rules other than those of his own making. There was something raw and primitive about him. Something reckless and sinful that made her heart pound within her chest and sent the blood singing through her veins.

She swallowed with difficulty. “If it is m-money you want, I’m afraid I have nothing of value on me.”

She saw the flash of strong white teeth above her and felt the heat of his breath on her temple.

“So, now I am a highwayman rather than a poacher? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“P-please, I—”

“As for you possessing nothing of value”—he shifted even closer, and Catherine’s heart throbbed up into her throat—“you underestimate the temptation of a silent forest, a bed of soft pine needles, and a fresh young minx sorely in need of a hard lesson in reality.”

“A lesson that you, of course, feel capable of delivering?”

The sarcasm in her rebuttal only brought forth another laugh and deepened the roguish cleft that divided his
chin. “My services are yours to command, Mistress Ashbrooke.”

A golden tendril of her hair stirred against her throat, and she realized with a start that his long fingers were toying with several shiny strands. She tried to pull away again, but his hand was suddenly cupping her chin, tilting her face abruptly up to his. His eyes held a shuttered watchfulness as he studied the play of sunlight on her skin and hair, and their midnight intensity, combined with the contact of his hand on her flesh, sent a shiver of cold fear trickling down into her limbs, numbing them.

The intense scrutiny drifted down to the opened collar of her blouse, and she felt as if the layers of silk, linen, and lace were being stripped away until there was nothing left to shield her from his burning gaze. She would not move, could not even close her eyes to escape the mortification, and with a growing sense of horror she realized she was entirely at his mercy. She could scream, but he could easily silence her. He could as easily rip off her clothes, throw her onto the forest floor, and use her until she had no more breath or strength left to fight him.

His hands descended to the narrow indent of her waist, and Catherine suffered a sickly wave of light-headedness. Her mouth went slack as he drew her slowly against him, crushing her close to his chest. The pressure from his hands increased and be began to lift her, making her shockingly aware of the friction of silk and lace against his heated skin. Her own hands were braced on the bunched muscles of his upper arms, and as he lifted her higher, her fists closed around the loose fabric of his shirt, nearly tearing it at the seams.

She drew a breath, tensed to scream, but instead of ravaging her, as she so fully expected him to do, he continued to lift her until she was suspended high above his shoulders. With a mocking twist to his lips, he plumped
her unceremoniously onto the roan’s saddle and bent to gather up the reins.

“I am truly sorry to have to disappoint you, but I am a little pressed for time today … and not really in the mood for disciplining children. Should we meet again, however, and should the circumstances be more … advantageous … I daresay I could rouse the inclination to oblige.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped. “Why, you arrogant, insolent—”

He laughed and slapped his hand across the roan’s flanks. Catherine jerked back in the saddle, her hair flying, her skirts whipping up in a froth of lace petticoats, blinding her until the mare had spirited her away from the clearing. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands trembling as she sought to grasp hold of the reins and slow the startled charge through the woods. She could hear the deep resonance of his laughter following her, and for the first time in many long years, her eyes flooded with tears of humiliation. Too late she remembered she had left her hat and gloves behind, but she was not about to turn around and go back. If she’d had a gun she might have been tempted. In fact, if she’d had any weapon more threatening than a short leather riding crop, she would surely have gone back and used it with the greatest of pleasure!

Catherine rode into the courtyard of Rosewood Hall, the roan’s hooves beating an angry tattoo on the cobblestones. A groom, alerted by the sound, came rushing out of the stables and arrived by her side in time to catch the tossed reins.

“See that she is given an extra rasher of oats,” Catherine ordered. “And walk her well: She has had a hard run.”

Still bristling over the encounter in the woods, she barely heard the groom’s muttered response as she strode toward the main house.

Catherine’s furious pace slowed as she followed one of the many garden paths around to the front of the house. Rosewood Hall was built in the Elizabethan style, a two-storey manor with white plastered cornices and pilasters accentuating the rows of tall, multipaned windows. Columns of ivy and lichen clung to the red brick walls and climbed as high as the steeply sloped gray slate roof. There was no porch or terrace fronting the main entrance, but the double doors were housed between two massive turrets consisting of floor-to-ceiling bow windows. The pediment over the doorway was engraved with the family crest, a testament to the noble lineage of the Ashbrooke name.

Catherine was feeling anything but noble as she neared the porticoed entrance. One of the carved oak doors swung open just as she was about to reach for the latch, and her brother stepped out into the dazzling sunlight, his lean form looking especially handsome in a chocolate-brown broadcloth coat and fawn breeches.

“Whoa up there. Has the hunt run the course and left you behind?”

“No, it has not. I simply decided it was not worth all the sweat and bother. The sound of braying dogs leaves me with a migraine, as does the sight of grown men cheering while a pack of blood-crazed hounds tears apart a cornered fox.”

“My sister the humanitarian,” he chided wryly. “The same one who goes quail hunting and shoots helpless little feathered creatures full of lead shot.”

“Those helpless little feathered creatures provide us with dinner, brother mine, while hapless little foxes only provide bloodthirsty men with a morning’s diversion. And why are
you
not in
your
scarlets? Has Harriet Chalmers had the good sense to snub you again?”