Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(2)

“Enough of this,” Portia announced, arranging her bonnet and repositioning her hatpin through the straw with a determined twist.

“Where you off to?”

“To find help.” Portia grasped the latch and pushed the door open. Like an animal lying in wait, the wind attacked the door, whipping it inward again. She caught it with the palm of her hand and pushed, grunting. “Someone must. We can’t rely on John.” Gathering her skirts in one hand, she added, “You’re welcome to come. A brisk walk might energize you.”

“I’ll be staying here where it’s warm and dry, thank you very much.” With a sniff, Nettie curled up on the squabs, heedless of arranging her skirts to cover her plump, milk-white legs.

Glancing at the wild, windswept landscape surrounding them, skies darkening with every passing moment, she experienced a flash of misgiving. Suppressing the feeling, she dropped to the ground, her feet sinking like two stones in water. A wave of mud rolled its way inside her boots.

Clutching her skirts high, she wrinkled her nose at the disgusting feel of sludge squishing between her toes. The wind buffeted her, whipping her cloak open and exposing her to the ravaging cold.

“S-splendid,” she bit out through chattering teeth, dragging one foot, then the other, through the body-sucking muck. She could ill afford to ruin a good pair of boots. The shops on Bond Street had politely but firmly ceased extending credit to her family. New boots weren’t in her near future.

“At this rate you should reach the village tomorrow,” Nettie called cheerfully from the carriage window.

Shooting a glare over her shoulder, Portia increased her pace, leaving the carriage and her vexing maid behind.

Suck, drag. Suck, drag. Her lungs expanded, aching from the frigid air filling them. The thought of returning to the shelter of the carriage, to dryness, to a modicum of warmth, tempted her. Yet she did not relish spending the rest of her days trapped in a musty carriage with Nettie. And John—the wretched sot—more than likely lay facedown in a ditch somewhere. With that looming likelihood, she pulled her lips between her teeth and trudged along.



Her cloak’s hem dragged behind her, slowing her already crawling pace. Lightning lit the horizon. Portia jerked to a stop. Tilting her head back, she scowled at the sky. A fat raindrop splattered on her cheek.

“Of course,” she grumbled. Abandoned. Stranded. Cold. A storm was utterly foreseeable.

Then the clouds opened up.

Rain sluiced her face, obscuring her vision. Icy trails trickled down her neck and beneath her gown, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Too caught up in her misery, she assumed the sudden pounding in the air to be more thunder.

Too late, she realized the air did not shake from thunder. No, the very earth shook. Uneasiness rolled over her as icy as the rain that drenched her. She looked down at her feet as they absorbed the ground’s subtle vibration.

“What the—”

Looking up, her words died in her throat.

A horse and rider rounded the bend, emerging through the gray curtain of rain. Portia opened her mouth to scream. To cry out. But she couldn’t so much as squeak. She merely stood frozen, dumb-struck, watching as death charged her.

Blood rushed to her head in a dizzying roar, mingling with the rain’s furious tempo. With a choked cry, she flung her hands up—a feeble attempt to protect herself. She jerked sideways, but the mud held fast, manacles at her ankles. Unbalanced, she toppled over in a graceless heap.

Drowning in mud and rain, her gaze swept up, riveted on the massive hooves pawing the air above her. Voice trapped somewhere between her lips and her chest, she clawed fistfuls of wet earth and hauled herself backward, vaguely registering the rider’s curses, his wild movements, as he pulled frantically on the horse’s reins.

The horse crashed down, its deadly hooves landing inches from her, spraying her with mud.

Gasping, she blinked dirty eyelashes and fixed her mud-blurred gaze on the beast’s trembling legs, praying they stayed put.

The rider dismounted with a curse that lit fire to her cheeks. Lean, boot-encased legs stopped before her, braced apart as if he stood at the prow of a ship.

Her gaze slowly slid upward, assessing. Muscled thighs. Narrow hips. A broad chest that stretched on forever. Gray eyes as stormy as the sky flashing above.

Gradually, she realized his lips were moving. He was shouting. At her. As if she had been the one in error. As if she were to blame for his wild, reckless riding, for his total disregard for human life.



His dark slashing brows dipped into a frown. “What’s wrong with you?” he thundered. “Are you dim-witted? Did you not hear me approach?”

She closed her sagging mouth with a snap. Looking at his lean, ruthless face, her temper flared.

The utter gall. Not an ounce of accountability. Not a hint of contrition or apology. Not even a hand to help her to her feet. He was a primitive—a snarling beast. Totally out of control.

She eyed his clothing: buff trousers, wool brown waistcoat, black Hessians. Decent quality. Wet but clean. Mud-free. The heavy black cloak swirling about him looked deliciously warm. He twitched a riding crop against a very solid looking thigh and she couldn’t help thinking he wished to use it on her.

“Come now,” he coaxed with a breeziness that his storm-cloud eyes belied. “Can you not speak, little Miss Mud Pie?”