Beyond the Highland Myst(32)

"Never say never. It only makes you feel more foolish when you end up taking it back. I wouldn't want you to feel too foolish, lass."

"Never," she said more firmly. "And I never say never unless I'm absolutely one hundred percent certain I will never change my mind."

"There are a lot of nevers in there, my heart. Be careful."

"Your heart is a wrinkled prune. And I mean every blasted one of those nevers."

"Mean them as you will, lass. 'Twill only make it that much more pleasurable to break you to my bit."

"I am not a mare to be broken to ride!"

"Ah, but there are many similarities, wouldn't you say? You need a strong hand, Adrienne. A confident rider, one not dismayed by your strong will. You need a man who can handle your bucking and enjoy your run. I won't break you to ride. Nay. I will break you to the feel of my hand and mine alone. A mare broken to ride allows many riders, but a wild horse broken to the bit of one hand—she loses none of her fire, yet permits none but her true master to mount her."

"No man has ever been my master, and none ever will. Get that straight in your head, Douglas." Adrienne gritted her teeth as she struggled to pull herself upright. It was hard trying to hold her ground in a conversation while lying flat on her back feeling ridiculously weak, looking up at this goliath of a man. "And as to mounting me…"

To her chagrin and the Hawk's vast amusement, she slipped back into healing slumber without completing the thought.

Unknown to him, she more than completed it in her dreams. Never! her dreaming-within-the-dream mind seethed, even as she was drawn to the great black charger with fire in his eyes.




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CHAPTER 11




"it's not me someone's trying to kill," adreanne repeated.

She was buried in mounds of plush pillows and woolen throws and felt helplessly swallowed by a mountain of feathers. Every time she moved the dratted bed moved with her. It was wearing her out, like being cocooned in a down straitjacket. "I want to get up, Hawk. Now." Too bad her voice didn't come off sounding as firm as she'd intended. It would have—it should have—except being in a bed while trying to argue with this particular man scattered her thoughts like leaves to a windstorm, into a jumble of passionate images; bronzed skin against pale, ebony eyes and hot kisses.

The Hawk smiled, and she had to bite down the overwhelming urge just to smile blankly back, like some dim-witted idiot. He was beautiful when somber, but when he smiled she was in grave danger of forgetting that he was the enemy. And she must never forget that. So she put a lot of frustration to good use, and dredged up an impressive scowl.

His smile faded. "Lass, it's been you both times. When are you going to face the facts? You must be guarded. You'll get used to it. In time you'll scarce notice them." He gestured at the dozen brawny men standing outside the Green Lady's room.

She shot a withering glance at her "elite guard" as he called them. They stood legs wide, arms folded across thin broad chests. Implacable, stony faces, and all of them with physiques that would make Atlas consider shrugging half his weight over. Where do they breed these kind of men? The Bonny and Braw Beefcake Farm? She snorted her disgust. "What you don't understand is that if you're so busy protecting me, the assassin is going to get whoever they're really after. Because it's not me!"

"Do they call you 'Mad Janet' because you refuse to accept reality?" he wondered. "Reality is that someone wishes you dead. Reality is that I am only trying to protect you. Reality is that you are my wife and I will always keep you safe from harm." He was leaning closer as he spoke, punctuating the phrase reality is with a sharp stab at the air directly in front of her. Adrienne compensated by shrinking deeper into her haven of feathers each time he stabbed.

"It is my duty, my honor, and my pleasure," he continued. His eyes swept her upturned face and darkened with desire. "Reality… ah… reality is that you are exquisitely beautiful, my heart," he said in a voice suddenly roughened.

His voice conjured images of sweet cream blended with fine Scotch, tossed over melting ice cubes. Smooth and rough at the same time. It unnerved her, flatly shattering what little composure she'd been hugging tightly around her. When he wet his full lower lip with his tongue her mouth went dry as a desert. And his dark eyes flecked with gold were a smoldering promise of endless passion. His eyes that were locked on her lips and oh, but he was going to kiss her and she would do anything to prevent that!

"It's time you know the truth. I am not Mad Janet," she snapped, saying something, anything, whatever came to mind to keep his lips from claiming hers in that intoxicating pleasure. "And for the umpteenth time—I am not your blasted heart!"