bodies rotting in the forest if he discovered their trickery. Gavenmore and his man presumably could not bear the sight of her.
Only Nathanael spared her a furtive glance, tapping the underside of his chin to remind her to tilt her face toward the remaining rays of the afternoon sun. He had assured her that all men found skin tinted by sunlight coarse and repugnant. Holly obediently tipped her head back. She was willing to do almost anything to avoid the future necessity of torturing her tender skin with nettles. She soaked up the unfamiliar sensation of warmth on her face with a surprising thirst.
As the sun sank and the moon rose, lacing the meadows with a filigree of dew, Holly’s exhaustion grew. The tingling of her rump had long ago subsided to numbness. Her bound breasts ached with every plodding step of her mount. Yet Gavenmore showed no sign of halting their party for the night. When her eyelids grew too heavy to support, she slumped over the pommel, unable to summon even a ghost of pride to care if she tumbled off on her cropped little head.
Gavenmore and the man she had heard him address as Carey had slowed until her horse’s nose was practically nudging their mounts’ rumps. She heard Carey’s mutter through a fog of stupor.
“God’s blood, Austyn, are we going to ride all night?”
Her husband’s answer was lower pitched, mercifully inaudible.
“. . . best to throw up her skirts and have done with it.” Holly knew his man’s grim reply should have caused her alarm, but was too weary to remember why. “. . . all women . . . the same in the dark . . .”
“That’s where you’re wrong, lad. I know at least one woman I would never mistake for another. Not in a thousand years. Not even if I were blind.”
Holly sighed, the unrequited hunger in her husband’s voice stirring her own melancholy. Her papa had raised her to be little more than an exquisite trophy, not the sort of woman who could inspire ardor in a man like Gavenmore. As she nodded her way back into fitful sleep, she felt a reluctant pang of envy for the woman bold enough to lay claim to her husband’s volatile heart.
A rueful smile touched Austyn’s lips as he gazed up at his sleeping bride in the moonlight. Although her mount had been rooting beneath the bracken for nearly a half hour, she still slumped over the pommel, the shriveled chaplet of bluebells drooping over the tip of her nose.
A combination of admiration and guilt assailed him. She had warned him that she did not ride, yet sheer determination had kept her seated during the punishing trek he’d forced upon them all. Twas not even her frailty that had prompted him to call a halt, but the fear her aged maidservant might teeter off her mount and break a bone.
He reached up to pry her stiff fingers from the reins. Perhaps it wasn’t determination that had sealed her grip, he thought ruefully, but fear. Perhaps she dreaded sharing his tent as much as he dreaded sharing hers. Ah, well, there was little help for that now. While Austyn had tended the other horses, Carey had pitched the tent in the heart of the pine copse, then retreated a discreet distance to make camp with her servants.
As Austyn drew her limp body from the saddle, he noted with amusement that somewhere along the grueling journey she had chosen to straddle the horse, proving herself not only determined, but sensible. Perhaps his homely little bride had more to commend her than he realized. God knew his superstitious folk could use a hearty dose of common sense.
He folded her into the cup of his outstretched arms, marveling once again at her scant weight The spongy breadth of her hips and bottom did not encumber him as it should have. As he started for the tent, she nuzzled her cheek into the hollow beneath his chin. Austyn scowled to find himself seized once again by that inexplicable urge to protect, to shelter, and defend what was his own.
His grip tightened from protective to possessive as the cowled
Only Nathanael spared her a furtive glance, tapping the underside of his chin to remind her to tilt her face toward the remaining rays of the afternoon sun. He had assured her that all men found skin tinted by sunlight coarse and repugnant. Holly obediently tipped her head back. She was willing to do almost anything to avoid the future necessity of torturing her tender skin with nettles. She soaked up the unfamiliar sensation of warmth on her face with a surprising thirst.
As the sun sank and the moon rose, lacing the meadows with a filigree of dew, Holly’s exhaustion grew. The tingling of her rump had long ago subsided to numbness. Her bound breasts ached with every plodding step of her mount. Yet Gavenmore showed no sign of halting their party for the night. When her eyelids grew too heavy to support, she slumped over the pommel, unable to summon even a ghost of pride to care if she tumbled off on her cropped little head.
Gavenmore and the man she had heard him address as Carey had slowed until her horse’s nose was practically nudging their mounts’ rumps. She heard Carey’s mutter through a fog of stupor.
“God’s blood, Austyn, are we going to ride all night?”
Her husband’s answer was lower pitched, mercifully inaudible.
“. . . best to throw up her skirts and have done with it.” Holly knew his man’s grim reply should have caused her alarm, but was too weary to remember why. “. . . all women . . . the same in the dark . . .”
“That’s where you’re wrong, lad. I know at least one woman I would never mistake for another. Not in a thousand years. Not even if I were blind.”
Holly sighed, the unrequited hunger in her husband’s voice stirring her own melancholy. Her papa had raised her to be little more than an exquisite trophy, not the sort of woman who could inspire ardor in a man like Gavenmore. As she nodded her way back into fitful sleep, she felt a reluctant pang of envy for the woman bold enough to lay claim to her husband’s volatile heart.
A rueful smile touched Austyn’s lips as he gazed up at his sleeping bride in the moonlight. Although her mount had been rooting beneath the bracken for nearly a half hour, she still slumped over the pommel, the shriveled chaplet of bluebells drooping over the tip of her nose.
A combination of admiration and guilt assailed him. She had warned him that she did not ride, yet sheer determination had kept her seated during the punishing trek he’d forced upon them all. Twas not even her frailty that had prompted him to call a halt, but the fear her aged maidservant might teeter off her mount and break a bone.
He reached up to pry her stiff fingers from the reins. Perhaps it wasn’t determination that had sealed her grip, he thought ruefully, but fear. Perhaps she dreaded sharing his tent as much as he dreaded sharing hers. Ah, well, there was little help for that now. While Austyn had tended the other horses, Carey had pitched the tent in the heart of the pine copse, then retreated a discreet distance to make camp with her servants.
As Austyn drew her limp body from the saddle, he noted with amusement that somewhere along the grueling journey she had chosen to straddle the horse, proving herself not only determined, but sensible. Perhaps his homely little bride had more to commend her than he realized. God knew his superstitious folk could use a hearty dose of common sense.
He folded her into the cup of his outstretched arms, marveling once again at her scant weight The spongy breadth of her hips and bottom did not encumber him as it should have. As he started for the tent, she nuzzled her cheek into the hollow beneath his chin. Austyn scowled to find himself seized once again by that inexplicable urge to protect, to shelter, and defend what was his own.
His grip tightened from protective to possessive as the cowled
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