face,” a voice from the back jovially declared.
A ripple of laughter ran through the ranks of armed men.
“Sassenach hospitality’s improved,” Adam Carre said.
“Or Hamilton’s letter eased his stay,” Johnnie quietly added. The Duke of Hamilton, suspected by many of closer relations with the English than he admitted, had been persuaded to write to Godfrey on Robbie’s behalf.
“Like you eased Hamilton’s debts.”
“We were fortunate he always has need of money.”
Then Robbie waved, an ebullient, unrestrained gesture, the lady’s favor tied round his arm fluttering in the breeze, and a wide smile instantly altered the gravity of Johnnie’s expression.
There was no resemblance at all, Elizabeth swiftly observed, as Robbie Carre came more closely into view, between the brothers. No younger version of the huge, dark man at her side rode at her father’s flank. Instead, Robbie Carre had brilliant rust-red hair favoring curls, the whipcord-lean body of youth, a restless, unrestrained energy even visible from a distance, and the face of a troubadour. Refined rather than starkly modeled like his older brother, with enormous dark eyes, his features reminded her of a Renaissance prince. All subtlety and elegance.
Then he smiled.
And Johnnie’s smile shone on his face … exactly.
“Are you ready?” Johnnie said, not to her but to his lieutenants.
“The muskets are behind the tree line. We’re at your back.” Kinmont’s voice was no more than a murmur.
And with a minute nod of acknowledgment Johnnie urged his black forward, drawing Elizabeth’s mount along with a sudden jerk of her reins, their legs suddenly brushing as he pulled her closely to his side.
He seemed not to notice; Elizabeth felt the hard strength of his booted leg and thought instantly of the muscled feel of his body. He was warm, her errant mind reminisced, so hot-blooded and heated, her hands felt cool on his skin. And he moved with infinite grace, she recalled, his muscles rippling and coiling beneath her palms with tensile strength. The night she’d spent in his arms would stay forever in her memory—his passion,his power, his teasing smile and eyes, the pleasure he gave so generously. She glanced at him as if to preserve a final image in her mind.
And was struck by his splendid, stark beauty: the gleam of his long black hair, his perfect profile etched against the ashen sky, his potent power evident in the width of his broad shoulders, the bulging muscles of his thigh, his strapping arm beneath the fine burgundy wool of his shirt, the sheer brawn of his wrist visible between his cuff and the rolled edge of his glove—an overwhelming display of brute force.
But she was struck as well by his utter remoteness. He had displaced her already from his life.
As previously arranged in the weeklong negotiations, Godfrey and Johnnie rode forward alone with the hostages.
The English Warden of Harbottle Castle, a large, fair-complexioned, handsome man, now past fifty, was remarkably fit for his age. Thanks in part to London’s best armorer, the corpulence of thirty years’ dissipation was partially concealed beneath the well-cut leather and elegant bossing of his silver-studded jack. Although a man of commanding presence, he had a mean and selfish soul, completely without honesty or resolution. False and cruel, covetous and imperious, altogether destitute of the sacred ties of honor, loyalty, justice, and gratitude, for three decades he had functioned perfectly as an agent of the Court.
Unarmed, as they all were, without jack or helmet, Robbie sat his mount with a casual indolence, easily keeping pace with Godfrey’s Yorkshire-bred chestnut, his youthful good spirits in marked contrast to the Earl of Brusisson’s lowering scowl.
Rarely bested in a long life of ruthless acquisition and cunning maneuvering for advantage, Harold Godfrey had been forced to acknowledge the rash success of the Carre chieftain at thwarting him. Not
A ripple of laughter ran through the ranks of armed men.
“Sassenach hospitality’s improved,” Adam Carre said.
“Or Hamilton’s letter eased his stay,” Johnnie quietly added. The Duke of Hamilton, suspected by many of closer relations with the English than he admitted, had been persuaded to write to Godfrey on Robbie’s behalf.
“Like you eased Hamilton’s debts.”
“We were fortunate he always has need of money.”
Then Robbie waved, an ebullient, unrestrained gesture, the lady’s favor tied round his arm fluttering in the breeze, and a wide smile instantly altered the gravity of Johnnie’s expression.
There was no resemblance at all, Elizabeth swiftly observed, as Robbie Carre came more closely into view, between the brothers. No younger version of the huge, dark man at her side rode at her father’s flank. Instead, Robbie Carre had brilliant rust-red hair favoring curls, the whipcord-lean body of youth, a restless, unrestrained energy even visible from a distance, and the face of a troubadour. Refined rather than starkly modeled like his older brother, with enormous dark eyes, his features reminded her of a Renaissance prince. All subtlety and elegance.
Then he smiled.
And Johnnie’s smile shone on his face … exactly.
“Are you ready?” Johnnie said, not to her but to his lieutenants.
“The muskets are behind the tree line. We’re at your back.” Kinmont’s voice was no more than a murmur.
And with a minute nod of acknowledgment Johnnie urged his black forward, drawing Elizabeth’s mount along with a sudden jerk of her reins, their legs suddenly brushing as he pulled her closely to his side.
He seemed not to notice; Elizabeth felt the hard strength of his booted leg and thought instantly of the muscled feel of his body. He was warm, her errant mind reminisced, so hot-blooded and heated, her hands felt cool on his skin. And he moved with infinite grace, she recalled, his muscles rippling and coiling beneath her palms with tensile strength. The night she’d spent in his arms would stay forever in her memory—his passion,his power, his teasing smile and eyes, the pleasure he gave so generously. She glanced at him as if to preserve a final image in her mind.
And was struck by his splendid, stark beauty: the gleam of his long black hair, his perfect profile etched against the ashen sky, his potent power evident in the width of his broad shoulders, the bulging muscles of his thigh, his strapping arm beneath the fine burgundy wool of his shirt, the sheer brawn of his wrist visible between his cuff and the rolled edge of his glove—an overwhelming display of brute force.
But she was struck as well by his utter remoteness. He had displaced her already from his life.
As previously arranged in the weeklong negotiations, Godfrey and Johnnie rode forward alone with the hostages.
The English Warden of Harbottle Castle, a large, fair-complexioned, handsome man, now past fifty, was remarkably fit for his age. Thanks in part to London’s best armorer, the corpulence of thirty years’ dissipation was partially concealed beneath the well-cut leather and elegant bossing of his silver-studded jack. Although a man of commanding presence, he had a mean and selfish soul, completely without honesty or resolution. False and cruel, covetous and imperious, altogether destitute of the sacred ties of honor, loyalty, justice, and gratitude, for three decades he had functioned perfectly as an agent of the Court.
Unarmed, as they all were, without jack or helmet, Robbie sat his mount with a casual indolence, easily keeping pace with Godfrey’s Yorkshire-bred chestnut, his youthful good spirits in marked contrast to the Earl of Brusisson’s lowering scowl.
Rarely bested in a long life of ruthless acquisition and cunning maneuvering for advantage, Harold Godfrey had been forced to acknowledge the rash success of the Carre chieftain at thwarting him. Not
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