Wild Angel by Miriam Minger Page A

will be your
husband," he continued as she began to wrench the skirt from the
improvised belt at her waist, appearing almost frantic to cover herself. "Yet
you can hardly blame me if I commented on what you so freely displayed."
    "I wasn’t displaying anything!" Triona’s
temper flared as hot as her face. "Least of all to you, Ronan O’Byrne!"
Yanking her wrinkled gown over her legs, she straightened to find that same
unsettling glint of amusement in his eyes. "If you’ve found something
funny in this—this latest outrage, I can tell you that I have not!"
    "I’m only wondering how you’re going to mount your
horse. It might have been easier before . . ." Glancing at the rope belt
she’d flung atop a pile of hay, he shrugged. "I’m sure you’ll manage. I
came here to ask if you might like to join me on a ride—’
    "A ride?" Instantly, Triona knew she had
found the perfect way to retaliate. "Across the glen?"
    "If you wish."
    Still unused to his acquiescence, Triona turned her
back on him and seized Laeg’s bridle from a peg. "You’re damned right I’ll
manage. Watch me."
    He was watching her, too. She could feel it, and she
hoped he couldn’t see that her fingers were trembling. They hadn’t stopped
since he’d said her legs were . . . Oh, begorra, why was she wasting time
thinking about it?
    "I could help you with that bit."
    "I don’t need your help," she snapped,
although Laeg didn’t seem to agree. The stallion was bobbing his finely
sculpted head as if to tell her to mind what she was doing. "Easy, Laeg, I’ll
get it right," she assured him as she settled the bit in his mouth and
then backed him from the stall.
    "We’ve some sidesaddles the other women use."
    "Ha! That’s the last thing I need," Triona
scoffed. "Just like you, O’Byrne, and most Irishmen worthy of the name, I’ve
never used a saddle in my life— any kind of saddle." She grabbed onto Laeg’s thick black mane and pulled
herself onto his back. Except then she was stuck, like a plank of wood across
his back, unable to sit astride him. She swore she would burn the gown to
cinders as soon as she had the chance. "Mayhap if we rode together, I
could hold—"
    "You’ve your own blessed horse to ride!" she
cut in, knowing she must look awkward as she balanced precariously on one hip
and then flopped over, raising herself to a sitting position. A position that
to her fury had both her legs dangling over one side, something she hadn’t had
to endure since childhood.
    "Well done."
    She turned to find Ronan already astride his huge black
stallion, the muscular animal snorting belligerently at Laeg as if offering a
challenge, its glossy neck arched and its nostrils flared. But she and Laeg
could never hope to win any race with her barely able to keep from sliding off .
. .
    That thought decided the matter. Her scowl daring Ronan
to say a word, Triona pulled up her gown as modestly as possible and threw her
bare leg over Laeg’s neck. With a toss of her head, she was out the stable door
and heading to the gates, not caring in the least if Ronan was following her.
    He was, only a few paces separating them.
    "Easy, man," he told himself, tempted to haul
her back to the stable and command she ride in a more maidenlike fashion. He
didn’t appreciate the stares she was drawing, her creamy thighs hugging her
mount a sight to leave any man agog. But at least she was still wearing a gown.
One concession might soon lead to others if he managed to keep his mission in
mind.
    "What’s wrong with your men, O’Byrne? Why won’t
they open the gates?" she demanded as he drew alongside her. "Surely
they can see that I’m not trying to ride out alone."
    "Too busy gawking," Ronan muttered to
himself, throwing a dark look at the guards manning the gates.
    Immediately the way was opened, Ronan not surprised
when the same thing happened at the two outer gates. But the last set had no
more than swung open when Triona kicked her steed into a full gallop.