The Pride of Lions Read Free

pound within her chest and sent the blood singing through her veins.
    She swallowed with difficulty. “If it is m-money you want, I’m afraid I have nothing of value on me.”
    She saw the flash of strong white teeth above her and felt the heat of his breath on her temple.
    “So, now I am a highwayman rather than a poacher? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”
    “P-please, I—”
    “As for you possessing nothing of value”—he shifted even closer, and Catherine’s heart throbbed up into her throat—“you underestimate the temptation of a silent forest, a bed of soft pine needles, and a fresh young minx sorely in need of a hard lesson in reality.”
    “A lesson that you, of course, feel capable of delivering?”
    The sarcasm in her rebuttal only brought forth another laugh and deepened the roguish cleft that divided hischin. “My services are yours to command, Mistress Ashbrooke.”
    A golden tendril of her hair stirred against her throat, and she realized with a start that his long fingers were toying with several shiny strands. She tried to pull away again, but his hand was suddenly cupping her chin, tilting her face abruptly up to his. His eyes held a shuttered watchfulness as he studied the play of sunlight on her skin and hair, and their midnight intensity, combined with the contact of his hand on her flesh, sent a shiver of cold fear trickling down into her limbs, numbing them.
    The intense scrutiny drifted down to the opened collar of her blouse, and she felt as if the layers of silk, linen, and lace were being stripped away until there was nothing left to shield her from his burning gaze. She would not move, could not even close her eyes to escape the mortification, and with a growing sense of horror she realized she was entirely at his mercy. She could scream, but he could easily silence her. He could as easily rip off her clothes, throw her onto the forest floor, and use her until she had no more breath or strength left to fight him.
    His hands descended to the narrow indent of her waist, and Catherine suffered a sickly wave of light-headedness. Her mouth went slack as he drew her slowly against him, crushing her close to his chest. The pressure from his hands increased and be began to lift her, making her shockingly aware of the friction of silk and lace against his heated skin. Her own hands were braced on the bunched muscles of his upper arms, and as he lifted her higher, her fists closed around the loose fabric of his shirt, nearly tearing it at the seams.
    She drew a breath, tensed to scream, but instead of ravaging her, as she so fully expected him to do, he continued to lift her until she was suspended high above his shoulders. With a mocking twist to his lips, he plumpedher unceremoniously onto the roan’s saddle and bent to gather up the reins.
    “I am truly sorry to have to disappoint you, but I am a little pressed for time today … and not really in the mood for disciplining children. Should we meet again, however, and should the circumstances be more … advantageous … I daresay I could rouse the inclination to oblige.”
    Catherine’s jaw dropped. “Why, you arrogant, insolent—”
    He laughed and slapped his hand across the roan’s flanks. Catherine jerked back in the saddle, her hair flying, her skirts whipping up in a froth of lace petticoats, blinding her until the mare had spirited her away from the clearing. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands trembling as she sought to grasp hold of the reins and slow the startled charge through the woods. She could hear the deep resonance of his laughter following her, and for the first time in many long years, her eyes flooded with tears of humiliation. Too late she remembered she had left her hat and gloves behind, but she was not about to turn around and go back. If she’d had a gun she might have been tempted. In fact, if she’d had any weapon more threatening than a short leather riding crop, she would surely