Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 16
“I shouldn’t have waited so long to see you,” she said, overcome with remorse. Clumsily she leaned to kiss the space between the horse’s eyes. She felt him nibble delicately at the shoulder of her dress, trying to groom her. A crooked grin twisted her lips. Pushing his head away, she scratched his satiny neck in the way she knew he liked. “I shouldn’t have left you alone, my poor boy.” Her fingers tangled in his white-blond mane.
She felt the weight of his head come to rest on her shoulder. The trusting gesture caused her throat to cinch around a quick breath. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “It was mine. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry —”
Her throat had cinched painfully tight. No matter how hard she swallowed, the sharp constriction wouldn’t dissolve. It was cutting off her breath. Her arms loosened from Asad’s neck, and she turned away. Wheezing, staggering, she crashed into the hard wall of Devon’s chest.
He gripped her elbows, steadying her. “What is it?” She could scarcely hear his voice over her frantic heartbeat.
She shook her head, struggling not to feel, not to give in.
“Tell me.” Devon gave her a soft, urgent shake.
No words would come. Only a raw breath that fractured into coughing sobs. The pressure in her throat released with startling suddenness, and her eyes filled with liquid fire. She shoved at Devon in blind desperation. God, no, please… She was losing control in the most humiliating circumstances imaginable, with the last person in the world she would ever want to witness it.
Devon’s arm clamped around her shoulders. Ignoring her efforts to twist away, he guided her past the stalls.
“Milor’?” Mr. Bloom asked in mild alarm. “Wha’ does the lass need?”
“Privacy,” Devon said curtly. “Where can I take her?”
“The saddle room,” the stable master said, pointing to the arched opening beyond the stalls.
Devon half pushed, half carried Kathleen into the windowless room lined with match-boarded walls. She grappled with him, flailing like a drowning woman. He said her name repeatedly, patiently, his arms tightening to contain her. The more she struggled, the more firmly he held her, until she was gathered against his chest in a nerveless bundle. Trying to swallow back the shuddering sounds that came from her throat only made them worse.
“You’re safe,” she heard him say. “Easy… you’re safe. I won’t let go.”
Dimly she realized that she was no longer trying to escape but fighting to press closer and hide against him. Her arms clutched around his neck, her face against his throat as she sobbed too hard to think or breathe. Emotion came in a deluge, impossible to separate into its parts. To feel so much all at once seemed a kind of madness.
Her corset was too tight, like a living thing intent on crushing her in its jaws. She went weak, her knees giving way. Her body folded in a slow collapse, and she felt herself being caught up and lifted in strong arms. There was no way to find her bearings, no way to control anything. She could only surrender, dissolving into the devouring shadows.
Chapter 4
After a measureless interval, awareness returned by slow degrees. Kathleen stirred, aware of a brief murmured conversation and retreating footsteps, and the relentless patter of rain on the roof. Irritably she turned her face away from the sounds, wanting to drowse a little longer. Something soft and warm touched the crest of her cheek, lingering gently, and the feel of it teased her senses awake.
Her limbs were heavy and relaxed, her head comfortably supported. She was held firmly against a solid surface that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. With every breath, she drew in a fragrance of horses and leather, and something fresh like vetiver. She had the confused impression that it was morning… but that didn’t seem quite right…
Recalling the storm, she stiffened.
A dark murmur tickled her ear. “You’re safe. Rest against me.”
Her eyes flew open. “What…” she faltered, blinking. “Where… oh.”
She found herself staring up into a pair of dark blue eyes. A little pang, not entirely unpleasant, pierced somewhere beneath her ribs at the discovery that Devon was holding her. They were on the floor of the saddle room, on a stack of folded horse blankets and rugs. It was the warmest, driest place in the stables, located close to the stalls for easy access. An overhead skylight illuminated the rows of saddle racks affixed to the white pine walls; rain streamed over the glass and sent dappled shadows downward.
Deciding that she wasn’t ready to confront the sheer awfulness of how she had just behaved, Kathleen shut her eyes again. Her lids felt itchy and swollen, and she fumbled to rub them.
Devon caught one of her wrists, easing it away. “Don’t, you’ll make them worse.” He pressed a soft cloth into her hand, one of the rags used for polishing tack. “It’s clean. The stable master brought it a few minutes ago.”
“Did he… that is, I hope I wasn’t… like this?” she asked, her voice thin and scuffed.
He sounded amused. “In my arms, you mean? I’m afraid so.”
A moan of distress trembled on her lips. “What he must have thought…”
“He thought nothing of it. In fact, he said it would benefit you to do a bit of ‘screetin,’ as he put it.”
The Yorkshire word for bawling like an infant.
Humiliated, Kathleen blotted her eyes and blew her nose.
Devon’s hand slid into her tumbled hair, his fingertips finding her scalp and stroking gently as if she were a cat. It was wildly improper for him to touch her in such a way, but it was so shockingly pleasant that Kathleen couldn’t quite bring herself to object.
She felt the weight of his head come to rest on her shoulder. The trusting gesture caused her throat to cinch around a quick breath. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “It was mine. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry —”
Her throat had cinched painfully tight. No matter how hard she swallowed, the sharp constriction wouldn’t dissolve. It was cutting off her breath. Her arms loosened from Asad’s neck, and she turned away. Wheezing, staggering, she crashed into the hard wall of Devon’s chest.
He gripped her elbows, steadying her. “What is it?” She could scarcely hear his voice over her frantic heartbeat.
She shook her head, struggling not to feel, not to give in.
“Tell me.” Devon gave her a soft, urgent shake.
No words would come. Only a raw breath that fractured into coughing sobs. The pressure in her throat released with startling suddenness, and her eyes filled with liquid fire. She shoved at Devon in blind desperation. God, no, please… She was losing control in the most humiliating circumstances imaginable, with the last person in the world she would ever want to witness it.
Devon’s arm clamped around her shoulders. Ignoring her efforts to twist away, he guided her past the stalls.
“Milor’?” Mr. Bloom asked in mild alarm. “Wha’ does the lass need?”
“Privacy,” Devon said curtly. “Where can I take her?”
“The saddle room,” the stable master said, pointing to the arched opening beyond the stalls.
Devon half pushed, half carried Kathleen into the windowless room lined with match-boarded walls. She grappled with him, flailing like a drowning woman. He said her name repeatedly, patiently, his arms tightening to contain her. The more she struggled, the more firmly he held her, until she was gathered against his chest in a nerveless bundle. Trying to swallow back the shuddering sounds that came from her throat only made them worse.
“You’re safe,” she heard him say. “Easy… you’re safe. I won’t let go.”
Dimly she realized that she was no longer trying to escape but fighting to press closer and hide against him. Her arms clutched around his neck, her face against his throat as she sobbed too hard to think or breathe. Emotion came in a deluge, impossible to separate into its parts. To feel so much all at once seemed a kind of madness.
Her corset was too tight, like a living thing intent on crushing her in its jaws. She went weak, her knees giving way. Her body folded in a slow collapse, and she felt herself being caught up and lifted in strong arms. There was no way to find her bearings, no way to control anything. She could only surrender, dissolving into the devouring shadows.
Chapter 4
After a measureless interval, awareness returned by slow degrees. Kathleen stirred, aware of a brief murmured conversation and retreating footsteps, and the relentless patter of rain on the roof. Irritably she turned her face away from the sounds, wanting to drowse a little longer. Something soft and warm touched the crest of her cheek, lingering gently, and the feel of it teased her senses awake.
Her limbs were heavy and relaxed, her head comfortably supported. She was held firmly against a solid surface that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. With every breath, she drew in a fragrance of horses and leather, and something fresh like vetiver. She had the confused impression that it was morning… but that didn’t seem quite right…
Recalling the storm, she stiffened.
A dark murmur tickled her ear. “You’re safe. Rest against me.”
Her eyes flew open. “What…” she faltered, blinking. “Where… oh.”
She found herself staring up into a pair of dark blue eyes. A little pang, not entirely unpleasant, pierced somewhere beneath her ribs at the discovery that Devon was holding her. They were on the floor of the saddle room, on a stack of folded horse blankets and rugs. It was the warmest, driest place in the stables, located close to the stalls for easy access. An overhead skylight illuminated the rows of saddle racks affixed to the white pine walls; rain streamed over the glass and sent dappled shadows downward.
Deciding that she wasn’t ready to confront the sheer awfulness of how she had just behaved, Kathleen shut her eyes again. Her lids felt itchy and swollen, and she fumbled to rub them.
Devon caught one of her wrists, easing it away. “Don’t, you’ll make them worse.” He pressed a soft cloth into her hand, one of the rags used for polishing tack. “It’s clean. The stable master brought it a few minutes ago.”
“Did he… that is, I hope I wasn’t… like this?” she asked, her voice thin and scuffed.
He sounded amused. “In my arms, you mean? I’m afraid so.”
A moan of distress trembled on her lips. “What he must have thought…”
“He thought nothing of it. In fact, he said it would benefit you to do a bit of ‘screetin,’ as he put it.”
The Yorkshire word for bawling like an infant.
Humiliated, Kathleen blotted her eyes and blew her nose.
Devon’s hand slid into her tumbled hair, his fingertips finding her scalp and stroking gently as if she were a cat. It was wildly improper for him to touch her in such a way, but it was so shockingly pleasant that Kathleen couldn’t quite bring herself to object.
