Wild Angel by Miriam Minger

I think walking and riding is exactly what you long to be doing,
not sitting here all alone." As tears glistened in Maire’s eyes, Triona
felt something swimming in her own as she bent down to help Maire to rise. "Come
on, now. We’ll start slow, and work at it every day if we can. The riding might
have to wait until we can show Ronan you’re making some progress—aye, and what
we’re doing will have to be a secret."
    "Our secret," Maire murmured, gritting her
teeth as she stood shakily.
     
     

 
    Chapter 9

     
    IT WAS LATE afternoon when Ronan entered the stable,
his instincts telling him where Triona might be found. But he didn’t see her
readily, at least not until he heard spirited humming—a hunting tune—coming
from a middle stall. And then he spied only the top of her head and the
vigorous stroke of her arm above the wooden siding as she brushed her tall
stallion Laeg’s back.
    "I could swear that’s not the same voice I heard
the other night," he said dryly, not surprised when the singing stopped.
He heard a low curse, then Triona was peering at him
over the stall, clearly standing on tiptoes.
    "That’s because it always sounds better when it’s
not so loud."
    "Ah, I see."
    "Truly! If you’d like I could show you the
difference—"
    "Spare my ears, Triona." At once he saw her
eyes narrow, and he realized he had probably spoken too sternly. Reminding
himself of his new mission, Ronan moved to the stall entrance, adding in a more
pleasant tone, "Why don’t you come out? Laeg looks well groomed enough for
three horses."
    He fell silent, presented for the second time that day
with the enticing sight of Triona’s bare legs as she obligingly left the
stall—her apricot-colored gown tucked up between her thighs like trousers.
    "I hope you don’t mind, but it was impossible for
me to move about until I raised the skirt."
    Pleased as much by her handiwork as with the tightening
of Ronan’s jaw, Triona hooked her thumbs on the belt she’d fashioned from rope
to hold everything up. She’d been imagining this moment, ever since she’d come
to the stable. She could see that Ronan was trying to hold onto his patience,
and she hoped she didn’t appear too smug. Aye, spiting him was going to be such
fun!
    "I do mind, but I suppose I can see the purpose in
it," came his careful answer, his voice not quite as agreeable as a moment
before.
    "Well, you can see I’m still wearing a gown, and
that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?"
    He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her again. Except
this time his appraisal took longer, much longer, until Triona began to grow
uncomfortable. His expression had changed, too, from displeasure to something .
. . something else. From the way he was staring at her, one would think he’d
never seen a woman’s legs before!
    "Is it warts you’re searching for, O’Byrne? If so,
I don’t have any, or hairy moles, or any blemish for that matter!"
    "Actually" —his slate gray eyes lifted to
hers— "I was going to say your legs are very lovely."
    She gaped at him, completely taken by surprise. "You—you
were?"
    "Aye. Slim and lithe . . .
    "Lithe?" Triona’s heart began to pound, Ronan’s
gaze wandering down her thighs again as if to emphasize his every word.
    "Very lithe. And sleek. Like the silk of your
gown, I would imagine, soft to the touch—"
    "Touch?" The spell shattered, Triona took a
stumbling step backward, her eyes narrowing at Ronan. "Don’t you even dare
think of touching me, O’Byrne! Don’t you even dare! "
    "I thought no such thing," Ronan lied, trying
to tell that to the heat blazing in his loins. His sudden decision to test
Niall’s advice had succeeded more than he could have imagined possible,
painfully so for him. As for Triona, he’d swear she had been no more thinking
of defying him a moment ago than running away. By God, had no man ever
complimented her before? From the startled look she’d given him, he doubted any
had.
    "If anyone touches you, Triona, it