Dark of the Moon Read Free

no exception.
    Once the constables were out of sight, Caitlyn jerked violently against the hand that still shackled her, hoping that the surprise of it might make her captor's grip loosen so that she could escape. His grip remained as unbreakable as ever, but he did slacken his pace and look around at her. The sheer size of the man was intimidating, it was irue, but if Caitlyn O'Malley had ever feared man or beast, none had known it. She glared at him. Despite the fact that he had not turned her over to the constables, her hatred for him had not lessened. If anything, it had grown.
    She hated to be bested, and this powdered and primped Englishman had undeniably gotten the best of her.
    "Bloody Sassenach," she hissed at him. Those devil's eyes narrowed on her face. He was easily double her weight, and head and shoulders above her in height, but discretion had never been one of her virtues.
    "I'll thank you for my purse," he said, stopping and turning back to face her, holding out his free hand. Passersby on either side of them looked on curiously. He paid them no mind.
    "Take it, then! I've little doubt 'tis filled with coins stolen from the Irish, just like your bleedin' countrymen have stolen our land!" Flushed with outrage and chagrin, shamed at her public downfall, knowing that angering him was the stupidest thing she could possibly do under the circumstances, she tried to do it anyway. She could no more stop the fierce flow of her Irish temper than she could hold back the fog that was beginning to thicken along the river.
    He said nothing, just held out that narrow, long-fingered hand implacably. Glaring at him, teeth bared, she had no choice but to dig into the capacious pocket of her overlarge coat and produce his purse. She passed it to him ungraciously. He accepted it from her with a cool nod, then dropped it back into his own pocket with scarcely a glance. Without speaking, he considered her. She stared back at him defiantly, forcing herself to meet those strange light eyes without cringing. It would not do to think of devils and conjurers while she was concentrating on standing her ground. . . . His eyes narrowed as they ran over her dirty, hunger-pinched face and scrawny, shabbily dressed form.
    "So I've caught myself an Irish thief." His drawling words flicked her to the raw. She glared at him.

    "Lowest of all steals from the Irish!" It was a rash retort, but her blood was up. Her pride had been badly flayed, she was frightened and off balance, and to top it off she was at the mercy of a bloody painted Sassenach with an iron grip and evil eyes.
    He shook his head at her. "Hotheaded like all the Irish, I see," he said placidly. "That trait will get you killed faster than pinching purses, my lad. At the rate you're going, you won't live to shave your first whisker. Or bed your first colleen."
    "And what in bloody hell would you be knowin' about it? Damned lily-livered English dog!"
    "Mind your mouth, now. I've taken about all the sass I care to from a half-pint stripling who tried to rob me blind." His brows came together in a fierce V as he scowled at her. Glaring ferociously back at him, both pleased and alarmed by the anger she had at last managed to incite, Caitlyn was quickly reduced to mortification by the loud rumble that came without warning from her in- sides.
    "Hungry, are you?" His frown cleared. "Do you suppose if I feed you, you can keep a civil tongue in your head?"
    "I wouldn't break bread with the likes of you if I was starvin', which I ain't. I just ate," she lied, pride stung again. "Fresh bread and butter, boiled potatoes and fish. . . ."
    "And I'm St. Patrick," he answered amiably. She blinked, frowning in surprise at the unexpectedness of his answer. Before she could respond he set off down the street again with her in unwilling tow. Just past the stone arches of Christchurch, he stopped and cocked his head in the direction of a public house across the way. A sign above it, creaking in the