nothing. She had to use her wits to get herself out of this. Fingering a thin rope slung bandoleer-style around one of his shoulders, the warrior urged his horse a step toward her.
Sally scrambled to the back edge of her stony perch. "Don't come any closer, " she called out, holding up a hand to show what she meant.
Silently, the warrior's dark eyes raked over her body, pausing at her upheld hand, then drilled into hers. Her blood thundered in her ears as she returned his frank stare.
He sat tall and proud on the colorfully woven blanket that served as his saddle. His broad chest gleamed smooth and bronze under a peculiar covering designed of pipe-beads and quills. The thighs that hugged his painted horse's sides were powerful, every corded muscle emphasized by the supple leather leggings covering them. A long knife was sheathed at his hip. She shivered, instinctively reacting to the man's raw virility, and her own vulnerability.
She tried to reason with him. "There's a wagon train just over there, " she bluffed in a shaky voice, "and they'll hear me if I scream. They'll kill you if they find you this close. Go away and I won't say a thing about seeing you here. "
Her courage flagged badly when it occurred to her that, even if he understood what she was saying, he no doubt knew exactly where the wagon train was, and that there was no way in hell anyone would hear her if she screamed. Her courage failed completely when he holstered his rifle, slid lithely from the horse and started moving toward her.
His graceful, wolf-like gait, and the exotically sensual angles of his handsome face momentarily captivated her. There was a feral, predatory look in his eyes. And he was coming straight for her.
She screamed and jumped off the rock, slogging as fast as she could across the stream. She couldn't let him take her! She'd heard tales of what women were forced to endure at the hands of these renegades.
Sure-footed steps splashed right behind her as she lurched and tripped over the river cobbles, desperate to reach the other bank of the stream. He caught her by the hair and yanked her to a stop in the middle of the whirling current.
"No!" she shouted. She turned and pounded at him with her fists. Her head jerked back and she felt his hand winding 'round and 'round in her long hair, reeling her in like a fish on a line. He tugged at her again, bringing her tight against his chest, and grabbed one of her wrists in mid-punch.
"Let me go!"
She pummeled his thick biceps with her free hand until she was bruised and exhausted. He just stared down at her, holding her by the hair and wrist, crushing her to him with an arm on her back. She hadn't a prayer of escape. He would take her. She knew it.
Panting and close to tears, she stopped fighting. "Please, let me go. "
She drew in a deep gulp of air to steady herself and was assailed by the scent of him. He smelled purely male -- of musk and leather and horse, a hint of berries and sweetgrass, and something she couldn't identify. An earthy, erotic smell that spoke to her of forbidden acts and desires.
He shifted against her.
Her body pressed firmly into his solid frame. Strong fingers circled her wrist securely. Her other hand rested on smooth, warm, slightly damp skin. Her bare breasts were squashed to his chest plate, her naked thighs surrounded by the powerful columns of his legs as he braced himself against her attack. She felt the bulge between them grow long and thick against her belly.
An irrational, unwanted flutter of arousal skated from the tips of her breasts down her abdomen and straight to the moist center between her legs.
She met his eyes, and knew that he knew.
Her face heated in horror at her reaction. She had to get away! But her renewed struggles were as ineffectual as a daisy fighting a hurricane.
"Stop, " he quietly ordered.
Startled by his utterance, she froze. "You speak
Sally scrambled to the back edge of her stony perch. "Don't come any closer, " she called out, holding up a hand to show what she meant.
Silently, the warrior's dark eyes raked over her body, pausing at her upheld hand, then drilled into hers. Her blood thundered in her ears as she returned his frank stare.
He sat tall and proud on the colorfully woven blanket that served as his saddle. His broad chest gleamed smooth and bronze under a peculiar covering designed of pipe-beads and quills. The thighs that hugged his painted horse's sides were powerful, every corded muscle emphasized by the supple leather leggings covering them. A long knife was sheathed at his hip. She shivered, instinctively reacting to the man's raw virility, and her own vulnerability.
She tried to reason with him. "There's a wagon train just over there, " she bluffed in a shaky voice, "and they'll hear me if I scream. They'll kill you if they find you this close. Go away and I won't say a thing about seeing you here. "
Her courage flagged badly when it occurred to her that, even if he understood what she was saying, he no doubt knew exactly where the wagon train was, and that there was no way in hell anyone would hear her if she screamed. Her courage failed completely when he holstered his rifle, slid lithely from the horse and started moving toward her.
His graceful, wolf-like gait, and the exotically sensual angles of his handsome face momentarily captivated her. There was a feral, predatory look in his eyes. And he was coming straight for her.
She screamed and jumped off the rock, slogging as fast as she could across the stream. She couldn't let him take her! She'd heard tales of what women were forced to endure at the hands of these renegades.
Sure-footed steps splashed right behind her as she lurched and tripped over the river cobbles, desperate to reach the other bank of the stream. He caught her by the hair and yanked her to a stop in the middle of the whirling current.
"No!" she shouted. She turned and pounded at him with her fists. Her head jerked back and she felt his hand winding 'round and 'round in her long hair, reeling her in like a fish on a line. He tugged at her again, bringing her tight against his chest, and grabbed one of her wrists in mid-punch.
"Let me go!"
She pummeled his thick biceps with her free hand until she was bruised and exhausted. He just stared down at her, holding her by the hair and wrist, crushing her to him with an arm on her back. She hadn't a prayer of escape. He would take her. She knew it.
Panting and close to tears, she stopped fighting. "Please, let me go. "
She drew in a deep gulp of air to steady herself and was assailed by the scent of him. He smelled purely male -- of musk and leather and horse, a hint of berries and sweetgrass, and something she couldn't identify. An earthy, erotic smell that spoke to her of forbidden acts and desires.
He shifted against her.
Her body pressed firmly into his solid frame. Strong fingers circled her wrist securely. Her other hand rested on smooth, warm, slightly damp skin. Her bare breasts were squashed to his chest plate, her naked thighs surrounded by the powerful columns of his legs as he braced himself against her attack. She felt the bulge between them grow long and thick against her belly.
An irrational, unwanted flutter of arousal skated from the tips of her breasts down her abdomen and straight to the moist center between her legs.
She met his eyes, and knew that he knew.
Her face heated in horror at her reaction. She had to get away! But her renewed struggles were as ineffectual as a daisy fighting a hurricane.
"Stop, " he quietly ordered.
Startled by his utterance, she froze. "You speak
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