Читать книгу Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal - Robyn Donald - Страница 7

THREE weeks later and several thousand kilometres further south, standing on a deck that overlooked a sweep of sand and a cooler Pacific Ocean than she was accustomed to, Hani scanned the faces of the five children in front of her. Though they ranged from a dark-haired, dark-eyed, copper-skinned beauty of about fourteen to a blond little boy slathered with so much sunscreen that his white skin glistened, their features showed they were closely related.

What would it be like to have a family—children of her own?

Her heart twisted and she repressed the thought. Not going to happen, ever.

It was the small blond boy who asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hannah,’ she said automatically.

Her accent must have confused them, because the older girl said, ‘Honey? That’s a nice name.’

And the little boy nodded. ‘Your skin’s the same colour as honey. Is that why your mum called you that?’

In Tukuulu she’d been Hannah; she liked Honey better. Stifling the hard-won caution that told her it might also confuse anyone too curious, she said cheerfully, ‘Actually, it’s Hannah, but you can call me Honey if you want to. Now I’ve told you my name, you’d better tell me yours.’

They all blurted them out together, of course, but six years of teaching infants had instilled a few skills and she soon sorted them out. Hani asked the older girl, ‘Kura, where do you live?’

‘At Kiwinui,’ she said importantly, clearly expecting everyone to know where Kiwinui was. When she realised it meant nothing to Hani, she added, ‘It’s in the next bay, but we’re allowed to walk over the hill and come down here to play if we ask nicely. So we’re asking.’

It would take a harder heart than Hani’s to withstand the impact of five pairs of expectant eyes. ‘I need to know first how good you are at swimming.’

‘We’re not going to swim because we have to have a grown-up with us when we do that,’ Kura told her. ‘Mum said so, and The Duke told us off when he caught us only paddling here, and the water only came up to our ankles.’

The Duke? Her tone invested the nickname with capitals and indicated that nobody messed with the man, whoever he was.

Curious, Hani asked, ‘Who is the duke?’

They looked almost shocked. Kura explained, ‘That’s like being a prince or something. His nan wears a crown and when she dies his brother will be a duke too and he’ll live in a big stone castle on a hill.’ She turned and pointed to the headland behind them. ‘He lives up there behind the pohutukawa trees.’

The Duke’s brother, or The Duke? Hani repressed a smile. ‘I’m happy for you to play here. Just come and tell me when you’re going home again.’

With a whoop they set off, except for the small blond boy, whose name was Jamie. ‘Why have you got green eyes?’ he asked, staring at her.

‘Because my mother had green eyes.’ Hani repressed a familiar pang of pain. She and her brother had both inherited those eyes; every time she looked in the mirror she thought of Rafiq.

Surely she should be reconciled to never seeing him again by now!

Jamie nodded. ‘They’re nice. Why are you staying here?’

‘I’m on holiday.’ The day after her last attack of fever the principal had told her that if she didn’t take up the offer to go to New Zealand—‘long enough to get this fever out of your system’—the charity that ran the school couldn’t accept responsibility for her welfare. Her air fares would be paid, and the beach house where she’d convalesce was rent-free.

Without exactly stating that they’d terminate her employment if she didn’t go, he’d implied it so strongly she’d been persuaded to reluctantly leave the safety of Tukuulu.

Curiosity satisfied, Jamie said nonchalantly, ‘See you later,’ and scampered off to join the others.

Hani sat back down in the comfortable wicker chair on the deck. Airy and casually luxurious, the beach house was surprisingly big, with glass doors in every room opening out onto a wide wooden deck that overlooked the cove. Her landlord, an elderly man, had met her flight the previous night and driven her here to what he’d called a bach.

Remembering his very English accent, she smiled. No doubt those cut-glass vowels were why the children had decided he must be some sort of aristocrat.

After introducing himself very formally as Arthur Wellington, he’d said, ‘The refrigerator and the pantry have been stocked with staples. If you need anything else, do ring the number on the calendar beside the telephone.’

Hani thanked him for that, but realised now that she’d missed telling him how much she appreciated being given the opportunity to stay here.

She’d do that when she paid him for the groceries he’d supplied.

On a long, soft sigh she took her gaze away from the children long enough to examine the cove. Sand like amber suede curved against the kingfisher expanse of water. Squinting against the bright sky, Hani eyed the headland where the landlord lived. Its steep slopes were hidden by more of the dark-leafed trees that lined the beach, their massive limbs swooping down over the sand.

A formal house to match her landlord’s formal manner? She hoped not. It would look incongruous in this pristinely beautiful scene.

Loud shrieks from the beach dragged her attention back to the game taking place in front of the bach, one that involved much yelling, more laughter, and some frenzied racing around. For the first time in months she felt a stirring of energy.

Smiling, checking that little Jamie didn’t get too close to the water, she failed to notice an intruder until he was almost at the cottage. The soft clink of harness alerting her, she swivelled around and saw a horse—a fine bay, strong enough to take its tall, powerfully built rider without effort.

Her startled gaze took in the rider. He sat easily on his mount—but that wasn’t why her pulses revved into overdrive.

For a second—just long enough to terrify and delight her—he reminded her of her brother. Rafiq had the same coiled grace of strength and litheness, the same relaxed control of his mount.

The same air of authority.

Then she recalled when she’d seen this man before, and an odd, baseless panic froze the breath in her throat. In spite of the bout of fever she’d been suffering when she met him on Tukuulu, those hard-hewn features and hooded eyes were sharply etched into her memory.

As was the feel of his arms around her…And the knowledge that he’d stripped her saturated clothes from her and somehow managed to get her into the loose shift she wore at night.

What the hell was he doing here?

He swung down, looped the reins over a fencepost and opened the gate to come towards her. Subliminally intimidated by the arrogant angle of his head and the smooth, lethal grace of his stride, Hani forced herself to her feet, stiffening her spine and her knees.

Although tall for a woman, she couldn’t match him. Her chin came up; unsmiling, breath locking in her throat, she watched him approach while a feverish awareness lifted the invisible hairs on the back of her neck.

He was—well, gorgeous was the only word she could come up with. Except that gorgeous made her think of male models, and this man looked like no male model she’d ever seen. That effortless, inborn air of command hardened his already bold features into an intimidating mask of force and power, emphasised by a cold steel-blue gaze and a thinning of his subtly sensuous mouth.

He was handsome enough to make any woman’s heart shake—even one as frozen as hers—but something uncompromising and formidable about him set off alarms in every nerve.

He had to be The Duke. A swift stab of apprehension screwed her nerves even tighter. Felipe, the man she’d once thought she loved, had called himself a French count.

It was stupid of her, but the children’s innocent misconception seemed somehow ominous.

Hani knew she should be relieved when he looked at her with a total lack of male interest. Scarily, she wasn’t.

OK, so the last thing she wanted was a man to see her as a sexual being, but…On Tukuulu he’d noticed her as a woman; now he looked at her with complete indifference.

And that stung.

Trying to keep this meeting on a sensible basis, she said warily, ‘Hello. I didn’t realise that you owned this place. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.’

‘I hoped to see you looking a bit better,’ he said curtly.

‘I am much better.’ Yes, her voice was fine—crisp, just as cool and impersonal as his, a far cry from her slurred tone that night at the ceremony. Meeting his merciless survey with an assumption of confidence, she hid her uncertainty with a shrug. ‘Another thing I have to thank you for is your rescue of me.’

One black brow lifted. ‘It was nothing; I happened to be the closest person around.’

Heat tinged her skin. Trying to sound professional and assured, she said crisply, ‘It was very kind of you. I don’t remember much—’ only the sound of his voice, calm and reassuring, and the wonderful comfort of his arms when he’d held her until the shivering stopped ‘—but I know I didn’t change myself.’

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Once the fever had broken I went back to the school dance floor, but everyone had gone by then. It didn’t seem a good idea for you to sleep in wet clothes, so I removed your dress.’ In a coldly formidable tone, he finished, ‘I behaved as a brother might have.’

Colour burned into her skin. Hoping her words mingled the right blend of gratitude and distance, she said, ‘Yes—well, I thought as much.’ And then, changing the subject without finesse, ‘Thanks again for being generous enough to let me stay in this lovely place.’

‘You’ve thanked me enough,’ he said a little curtly, adding with a faint smile, ‘I went to school with your principal. When he asked if his teachers could use this bach I agreed. It’s not used very often, and it seems a waste to have it sit here empty. You’re the third teacher to come here, and I expect there will be others.’

So that was the connection. And he was making sure she didn’t think she was special.

She said with cool assurance, ‘I’m grateful. But to make things very clear, I was neither drunk nor drugged that night in Tukuulu.’

One straight black brow lifted. ‘I wondered if you’d remember that. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions—it didn’t take me long to realise you were ill.’

For some reason she wasn’t prepared to explore, she didn’t want his apology. ‘I sent you a letter thanking you for your help.’

‘Yes, your principal passed it on.’

He hadn’t answered. Well, for heaven’s sake, she hadn’t expected him to.

Without inflection, he said, ‘I’m glad I was there when you needed someone. I’m Kelt Crysander-Gillan—although I don’t use the first part of my surname—and I live just up the hill.’

Nothing about being some sort of aristocrat, she noted. Clearly The Duke was just a nickname, perhaps because of the double-barrelled name. They mightn’t be common in New Zealand.

And he looked like a duke, someone of importance, his very presence a statement of authority. A very sexy duke, sexier than any other duke she’d ever met…

One who’d taken her clothes off and seen her naked…

Firmly she tamped down a sizzle of adrenalin. ‘And of course you know that I’m Han-Hannah Court.’

Oh, he’d really unnerved her! For the first time in years she’d almost given him her real name, catching it back only just in time. Startled, she automatically held out her hand.

‘Welcome to New Zealand,’ he said gravely, and his long, lean fingers closed around hers.

Her heart picked up speed. Cool it, she commanded her runaway pulse fiercely while he shook hands.

There was no reason for the swift sizzle of sensation that shocked her every nerve. Acting on pure blind instinct, Hani jerked her hand free.

Kelt Gillan’s brows met for a taut second above his blade of a nose, but he turned when the children chose that moment to surge up from the beach, their shouted greetings a melee of sound.

He silenced them with a crisp, ‘All right, calm down, you lot.’

She expected them to shuffle their feet, but although they obediently stayed silent their wide smiles told her he was popular with them.

Amazing, she thought, watching as he said something to each of them. And again she remembered Felipe, her first and only lover. He’d had no time for children; there was no profit to be made from them…

Kelt Gillan said, ‘Miss Court has been ill and needs a lot of rest, so I want you to play on the homestead beach until she’s better.’

Their attention swivelled back to her.

Into the silence Jamie said earnestly, ‘I was sick too, Honey. I had mumps and my throat was sore and I couldn’t eat anything ’cept ice cream and jelly and scrambled eggs.’

‘And soup,’ the lovely Kura reminded him officiously.

He pulled a face. ‘And some soup.’

‘I’m getting much better now,’ Hani said, smiling at him. ‘And I’m lucky—I can eat anything I like.’

‘Honey?’ Kelt said on an upward inflection, that taunting brow lifting again as his cool gaze inspected her face. ‘I thought your name was Hannah?’

‘I’ll have to learn to talk like a New Zealander,’ she said lightly, irritated by the colour that heated her cheekbones. In the last six years she’d worked hard to banish any vestige of the soft cadences of her birth country.

‘Actually, it suits you,’ he said, a sardonic note colouring his deep voice. He turned back to the children. ‘All right, off you go.’

They turned obediently, all but Jamie. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked Hani.

Nowhere…‘On a hot little island called Tukuulu a long way over the sea from here.’

An older girl, Jamie’s, sister—cousin?—turned. ‘Come on, Jamie,’ she commanded importantly, and the boy gave Hani a swift grin and scampered off.

‘What charming children. Are they siblings?’ she asked into the suddenly oppressive silence.

‘Siblings and cousins. In New Zealand the term whanau is used to denote the extended family,’ the man beside her said.

‘You didn’t need to warn them off,’ she told him. ‘I like children.’

Kelt Gillan said succinctly, ‘Honey or Hannah or whoever you are, you’re here to convalesce, and it’s no part of that healing process to act as unpaid babysitter. Your principal asked me to make sure you didn’t overexert yourself.’

His words set off a flicker of memory. The night he’d unhooked her from the coconut palm and carried her home he’d spoken in exactly that controlled, uncompromising tone. As though she were an idiot, she thought angrily.

She didn’t care what Kelt thought, but it wasn’t fair to spoil the children’s pleasure. ‘Both you and he are very thoughtful, but I’m quite capable of making decisions like that for myself. Believe me, it didn’t hurt me or tire me or worry me to sit in the sun and watch them. I enjoyed it.’

‘Perhaps so,’ he said inflexibly, ‘but that’s not the point. You’re here to rest and regain your strength. I’ll make sure their parents understand that they stay in Homestead Bay. Don’t fret about curtailing their fun—they’ll play quite happily there.’

Behind him his horse lifted its head from lipping the grass and took a step sideways, its powerful muscles fluid beneath satiny skin.

In Moraze, her homeland, herds of wild horses roamed the grassy plateau country that surrounded the central volcanic peaks. Descended from Arabian steeds, they’d been brought there by her ancestor, a renegade French aristocrat who’d settled the island with a rag-tag train of soldiers and a beautiful Arabian wife.

Hani’s parents had given her one of those horses for her third birthday…

Long dead, her parents and that first gentle mount, and it was years since she’d ridden.

Hani was ambushed by a pang of homesickness, an aching sense of loss so fierce it must have shown in her face.

‘Sit down!’ Kelt said sharply, unable to stop himself from taking a step towards her.

One hand came up, warning him off. Apart from that abrupt gesture she didn’t move, and the flash of something tight and almost desperate in her expression disappeared. Her black hair swirled around her shoulders in a cloud of fiery highlights as she angled her chin at him.

Looking him straight in the eye, she said in a gentle voice with a distinct edge to it, ‘Mr Gillan, I’m neither an invalid nor a child. I make my own decisions and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

He examined her closely, but her lovely face was shut against him, that moment of despair—if that was what it had been—replaced by aloof self-assurance.

Kelt chose to live in New Zealand for his own good reasons, one of them being that Kiwinui had been in his grandfather’s family for over a hundred years, and he felt a deep emotional link to the place. But as a scion of the royal family of Carathia he’d been born to command. Backed by their grandmother, the Grand Duchess, he and his brother had turned their backs on tradition and gone into business together as soon as he’d left university. Between them they’d built up a hugely successful enterprise, a leader in its field that had made them both billionaires.

Women had chased him mercilessly since he’d left school. Although none had touched his heart, he treated his mistresses with courtesy, and had somehow acquired a legendary status as a lover.

Women were an open book to him.

Until now. One part of him wanted to tell Hannah Court that while she was on Kiwinui she was under his protection; the other wanted to sweep that elegant body into his arms and kiss her perfect mouth into submission.

Instead, he said crisply, ‘And I’ll do what I consider to be best for the situation. If you need anything, there’s a contact number by the telephone.’

Hani looked at him with cool, unreadable green eyes, the colour of New Zealand’s most precious greenstone. ‘Thank you; Mr Wellington told me about that.’

Kelt shrugged. ‘Arthur works for me.’

Her head inclined almost regally. ‘I see.’

‘Tell me if another bout of fever hits you.’

‘It’s not necessary—I have medication to deal with it.’ Another hint of soft apricot tinged her exotic cheekbones when she continued, ‘As you found out, it works very quickly.’

Clearly, she had no intention of giving an inch. He wondered how old she was—mid-twenties, he guessed, but something in her bearing and the direct glance of those amazing eyes reminded him of his grandmother, the autocratic Grand Duchess who’d kept her small realm safe through wars and threats for over fifty years.

Dismissing such a ridiculous thought, he said, ‘Do you drive?’

‘Of course.’ Again that hint of appraisal in her tone, in her gaze.

‘Any idea of New Zealand’s road rules?’ he asked, making no attempt to hide the ironic note in his voice.

‘I’m a quick learner. But how far is it to the nearest village? If it’s close enough I can walk there when I need anything.’

‘It’s about five kilometres—too far for you to walk in the summer heat.’

Warily wondering if he’d given up any idea of looking after her—because he seemed like a man with an over-developed protective streak and a strong will—she pointed out, ‘I’m used to heat.’

‘If that were true, you wouldn’t be convalescing here.’ And while she was absorbing that dig, he went on, ‘And somehow I doubt very much that you’re accustomed to walking five kilometres while carrying groceries.’

Uneasily aware of the unsettling glint in his cold blue eyes, Hani shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Gillan. I won’t be a bother to anyone.’

A single black brow climbed, but all he said was, ‘Call me Kelt. Most New Zealanders are very informal.’

She most emphatically didn’t want to call him anything! However, she’d already established her independence, so, hiding her reluctance, she returned courteously, ‘Then you must call me Hannah.’

He lifted one black brow. ‘You know, I think I prefer Honey. Hannah is—very Victorian. And you’re not.’

The slight—very slight—pause before he said Victorian made her wonder if he’d been going to say virginal.

If so, he couldn’t be more wrong.

Far from virginal, far from Victorian, she thought with an aching regret. ‘I’d prefer Hannah, thank you.’

His smile was tinged by irony. ‘Hannah it shall be. If you feel up to it, I’d like you to come to dinner tomorrow night.’

Caution warned her to prevaricate, fudge the truth a little and say she wasn’t well enough to socialise, but she’d already cut off that avenue of escape when she’d made it clear she didn’t need to be looked after by—well, by anyone, she thought sturdily.

Especially not this man, whose unyielding maleness affected her so strongly she could feel his impact on every cell. Even politely setting limits as she’d just done had energised her, set her senses tingling, and every time she looked into that hard, handsome face she felt a hot, swift tug of—of lust, she reminded herself bitterly.

And she knew—only too well—what that could lead to.

However, he was her landlord. She owed him for several things; his impersonal care on Tukuulu, the refrigerator full of groceries.

Changing her wet clothes…

Ignoring the deep-seated pulse of awareness, she said, ‘That’s very kind of you. What time would you like me to be there?’

‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ he told her with another keen glance. ‘Until then, take things slowly.’

His long-legged strides across the lawn presented her with a disturbing view of broad shoulders and narrow hips above lean, heavily muscled thighs. He dressed well too—his trousers had been tailored for him, and she’d almost bet his shirt had too.

Very sexy, she thought frivolously, quelling the liquid heat that consumed her. Some lucky men were born with that it factor, a compelling masculinity that attracted every female eye.

And she’d bet the subject of her letting someone know if she had another attack of fever would come up again.

A few paces away he swivelled, catching her intent, fascinated look. A challenge flared in his narrowed eyes; he understood exactly what effect he was having on her.

Hot with shame, she wanted to turn away, but Kelt held her gaze for a second, his own enigmatic and opaque.

However, when he spoke his voice was crisp and aloof. ‘If you need anything, let me know.’

It sounded like a classical double entendre; if he’d been Felipe it would have been.

It was time she stopped judging men by Felipe’s standards. The years in Tukuulu had shown her that most men were not like him, and there was no reason to believe that Kelt Gillan wasn’t a perfectly decent farmer with a face like one of the more arrogant gods, an overdeveloped protective instinct and more than his share of formidable male presence.

‘Thank you—I will,’ she said remotely.

And produced a smile she held until he’d swung up onto his horse and guided it away.

Her face felt frozen when she took refuge in the cottage and stood listening as the sound of hooves dwindled into the warm, sea-scented air. She shivered, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over her prickling skin.

Again? she thought in mindless panic. The unbidden, unwanted surge of sensual appetite humiliated her. Why on earth was she attracted to dangerous men?

Not that she’d realised Felipe was dangerous when she first met him. And for some unfounded and quite illogical reason she couldn’t believe Kelt would turn out to be like Felipe.

As well, the heady clamour Kelt Gillan summoned in her was different—more earthy and primal, nothing like the fascinated excitement she’d felt when Felipe had pursued her. He’d seemed such a glamorous, fascinating man, with his French title and his famous friends. At eighteen she’d been so green she’d run headlong into peril without a second thought.

Six years older, and much better able to look after herself, she sensed a different danger in Kelt Gillan—a more elemental attraction without the calculation that had marked Felipe’s seduction.

Desperate to take her mind off her enigmatic landlord and his unnerving effect on her, she went across to the kitchen and put on the electric kettle.

‘Displacement activity,’ she said aloud, a mirthless smile curling her mouth as she spooned coffee into the plunger.

Wrapping her attraction to Felipe in a romantic haze had got her into deep trouble; this time she’d face her inconvenient response to Kelt Gillan squarely. Coffee mug in hand, she walked out onto the deck and stood looking out over the sea.

No emotions, no fooling herself that this was love, no silly claptrap about soulmates. She’d already been down that track and it had led to humiliation and heartbreak and terror. Felipe had played on her naivety, setting himself out to charm her into submission.

And succeeding utterly, so that she’d gradually been manipulated into an affair without fully realising where she was heading. When she’d realised what sort of man he was she’d tried to break away, only to have him bind her to him with the cruellest, most degrading chains. To free herself she’d had to sacrifice everything—self-respect, love for her brother, her very future.

Closing her eyes against the dazzling shimmer of the sun on the bay, she thought wearily that she hadn’t planned for her sacrifice to last the rest of her life.

In fact, she hadn’t planned on any further life.

Well, a Mediterranean fisherman with smuggling as a sideline had seen to it that she’d survived. She shivered, and for a foolish few seconds wondered if Kelt Gillan had brought on another attack of fever.

No, her chill was due to memories she wished she could banish.

Only right now she needed them to remind her that no person could ever see into the heart of another, especially when they were blinded by lust.

Ruthlessly she dragged her mind back to the present, and concentrated on the problem at hand—her feelings for Kelt Gillan.

‘Just think rationally,’ she told herself.

What she felt when she looked at Kelt was a powerful physical attraction for a man both formidable and enormously attractive—a primal arousal with a scientific basis. Humans instinctively recognised the people they’d make superb babies with.

Logic played no part in it, nor did common sense. But both could be used as weapons against it, and if she’d learned anything these past six years it was that any relationship between lovers needed much more than desire to be a success.

And there would be no babies for her, ever.

So she’d have dinner with Kelt and then she’d stay well away from him.

Hani missed the children the next day, and not for the first time wondered what on earth she was going to do for three months. Too many empty weeks stretched before her, leaving her far too much time to think, to remember. Without the steady routine of school she faced more than simple boredom; she’d have to deal with emptiness.

At least the cottage had a set of bookshelves stuffed with books of all ages and quite a few magazines. After a brief walk along the beach that reminded her again how unfit she was, she sank into a chair on the deck with a cup of tea and a volume on New Zealand that looked interesting.

She flicked it open and saw a bookplate. Kelt Crysander-Gillan, it stated.

‘Unusual,’ she said aloud. There was an inscription too, but she turned the page on that, feeling as though she was prying.

With a name like that, and if Kelt’s air of forceful authority had led to a nickname like The Duke, imaginative children could well come up with a crown-wearing grandmother somewhere in Europe.

At precisely seven o’clock he arrived to collect her as the sun was dipping behind the forest-covered mountains that ran down the central spine of Northland’s long, narrow peninsula. He drove a large, luxurious four-wheel-drive, which gave Hani a moment of heart-sickness; her brother used to drive the same make…

Hani pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Rafiq thought she was dead, and that was the way she had to stay.

And then Kelt got out, lithe and long-legged, powerfully magnetic and urbane in a short-sleeved shirt that echoed the steely colour of his eyes, and casually elegant trousers, and the bitter, heart-sick memories vanished, replaced by a reckless excitement.

When he opened the gate she went hastily out into the serene evening. The bach might be his, but she didn’t want to sense his dominating presence whenever she walked into the living room.

She knew she looked good. For an hour that afternoon she’d pored over her scanty wardrobe, startled to find herself wistfully remembering her favourites amongst the designer clothes she’d worn in her old life.

In the end she’d chosen a modest dress she’d found in a shop in Tukuulu’s small capital city. Although it was a little too loose on her, the clear salmon hue burnished the gold of her skin and the warm highlights in her dark hair.

Tempted to go without make-up, she decided after a critical survey of her reflection that a naked face might make her look conspicuous, and her security depended on blending in. So she compromised on lipstick a slightly deeper shade than her dress, and pinned her badly cut hair off her face with two frangipani clips made from the moonbeam shimmer of pearl shell.

Kelt waited for her beside the gate. Her shoulders held a little stiffly to hide an absurd self-consciousness, she walked towards him, sensing a darker, more elemental level beneath his coolly sophisticated exterior. Trying to ignore the smouldering need in the pit of her stomach, she saw him as a warrior, riding his big bay gelding into battle…

Not, she thought with an inner shiver, a man to cross swords with.

With a carefully neutral smile she met his gaze, and in a charged moment her wilful memory sabotaged the fragile veneer of her composure by supplying a repeat of how it had felt when he’d carried her—the powerful litheness of his gait, the subtle flexion of his body as he’d lifted her, his controlled strength…