The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(22)
Seeing the large wooden gate surrounded by a waist-high stone wall to hedge in the lavender fields, she could not resist one last jump. In the dimming light, Beatrice did not see the ground on the other side was covered in soft, waterlogged moss. The moment Athena cleared the fence she stumbled, throwing Beatrice to the ground. Landing in a bed of lavender bushes, she was spared any real injury. Before she could get her bearings Beatrice felt a tug on her skirt. It was still looped to her stirrup. The mare, having regained her footing, was fleeing in fright.
“Athena, no!” cried out Beatrice as the horse started to drag her through the lavender. She could hear the thunder of galloping hooves approaching. Before she could even cry for help, a hulking figure flew off his horse to run alongside Athena, grabbing the horse’s bridle before it had gotten up to a full gallop.
With darkness already setting in, Beatrice could not make out the man’s features…only that he was powerfully built. Pulling a knife from his boot, Rhys grabbed hold of her trapped ankle.
Beatrice let out a small squeak of maidenly protest. Blushing hotly at his intimate touch. Her riding trousers saved her from some embarrassment, as they are intended, but that did not quell the fact a strange man was touching her limb!
Rhys clenched his jaw as he threw an agitated look over his shoulder at the woman, before easily cutting through the leather loop which secured her skirt to the saddle.
Beatrice scrambled to her feet. Brushing the small purple blossoms from her skirt, she said with a slight embarrassed fluster, “Thank you kindly, sir. I do not know what I would have…”
“Damn, foolish woman, I ought to lift your skirts and tan your hide right here and now in this field,” snarled Rhys as he angrily flipped his knife closed, returning it to the cuff of his boot.
“I beg your pardon?” scoffed an affronted Beatrice. No one spoke to her in that manner. No one.
“Oh, you would beg but it would do you no good,” came his dark retort.
Rhys had set out on his stallion moments after seeing Beatrice alight her horse astride. He didn’t like the adventurous look in her eye or the fact she was heading out into the countryside without a groom as an escort for protection. Determined to watch her closely, he saddled up and gave chase. The only problem being, the vixen was nowhere to be seen. She had escaped into the open countryside pastures within moments of leaving the stable. Rhys had no idea in which direction which only angered him further. She was now out riding scandalously astride, unescorted, at an unwise speed. Being unfamiliar with the area and terrain it had taken him far longer than he would have liked to find her. Rhys spotted her right as she was urging her chestnut mare into a full gallop to take on the high gate. A dangerous maneuver even in bright sunlight with dry ground, neither of which was the case at the moment. He was forced to watch her horse sail over the gate, then stumble on the soft terrain. Far across the adjoining field, he felt helpless. Rhys didn’t like feeling helpless, it was an emotion to which he was completely unaccustomed.
Her warm amber eyes were lit a burnished gold as she prepared to confront the insubordinate servant. “I suggest you hold your tongue, sirrah, before I have you beaten for speaking to me thus,” she hotly ordered.
Rhys shifted around her mare’s flank and slowly approached her. Beatrice smothered a gasp. Still cloaked in gray shadows from the encroaching dusk, the man loomed intimidatingly large as he stalked forward. His features slowly coming into focus the closer he stepped. A great hulking beast…the beast.
The man standing before her was the human embodiment of the beast from her dreams. Tall and powerfully built with a chest rounded with thick muscle. The dark brown leather jerkin only emphasizing its broad expanse compared to his narrow hips and strong thighs encased in tight, buff riding breeches. His thick, raven black hair rested on his shoulders like a fierce animal’s mane. His emerald green eyes shone bright with anger. It was his eyes which alarmed her the most. They had the same mesmerizing affect as the beast’s from her dream. Intense and focused, as if your slightest movement or breath would not escape his gaze.
Instinctively grasping the carved bone handle of her riding crop, Beatrice took a step back as she swiped the crop from under her arm to hold it protectively in front of her skirts. The movement did not go unnoticed. His icy green eyes alighted on her crop and then returned to her face, a bemused expression crossing his lips.
Using her free hand to pull at the velvet frog clasp at her throat, Beatrice raised her voice in a feeble attempt to mask her shocked reaction to his presence. “I demand to know who you are.”
“The stable master,” came the terse response. His hooded gaze never leaving her own. His response, with the seductive emphasis on the word master, sent a shiver of awareness up her spine.
“Where is what’s-his-name, the old man? The actual stable mas…master,” she asked tentatively, having a difficult time repeating the word master, as if by doing so she would be bowing to his authority.
In truth, she didn’t give a damn where what’s-his-name was at the moment. She needed time to think…to plan. Everything about this man screamed danger and like a bird trapped in a predator’s grasp, she was determined to flee.
Rhys took a step forward to match her retreating one in a move that could only be interpreted as threatening.
“Douglas,” he said, emphasizing the name of the man who had been in her father’s employ for two years, “is in Suffolk, England, for the Newmarket races looking over new breeding stock.”