Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(49)

Tracks could not be found in this weather, so he scoured the countryside, pushing Iago hard, oblivious to the cold, to the rain that chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. As the minutes rolled into an hour, fear wormed its way into his heart.

If she gave her horse its lead, it should know its way back. His fear heightened. Unless she had lost her horse, had been thrown—like their first meeting. She could be on foot—or worse, lying unconscious somewhere.

Words shuddered from his mouth, from lips that had long gone numb. Gradually, they began to take meaning in his head. God, let her be safe. Let her be safe. Don’t take her, too.

For the first time since boyhood, he prayed to God for intervention. The same God that had cursed his family with a blight that haunted their every day, a specter from which he could never escape.

His horse plunged down a steep incline, and Heath stopped at the bottom, realizing he was near the lodge. His retreat. The sanctuary he had fled lately, preferring it to the dower house and the questions he would undoubtedly find in Della’s gaze when he could not bring himself to touch her.

Hope burned low in his gut, hot and hungry as he thundered into the yard, pulling up hard at sight of the stable door swinging in the wind. Digging in his heels, he rode into the barn, discovering a mount from his stables snuffling the ground for hay in one of the stalls.

A hiss of breath escaped him. Portia was here. Safe. He dismounted and made short work of unsaddling Iago and securing him in a stall next to the sorrel. Tension knotted his shoulders, winding a path up the back of his neck. He stalked through the yard, his relief dissolving in place of anger. Anger at her. Anger at himself for the fear that had gripped him.

He halted at the door, hand poised over the latch. Was this another trick? Another device to force him alone with her? He scowled, recalling his grandmother’s satisfied expression as she looked down on him from the top of the stairs.

Constance had warned him. And he had not listened. He had, instead, let fathomless blue eyes gull him. He stared at the door, watching rain sluice down its plane, knowing to go inside would mean utter isolation with a woman he craved with every fiber of his being. Last time Constance had interrupted. His sister would not arrive to save him this time. No one would. He had only his will-power on which to rely.

Inhaling deeply, he flung open the door, telling himself he could resist one marriage-minded female.

He truly must be mad to have allowed things to come this far. To let his heart soften toward any woman. Soft hearts bled, and in their pain they caused grief and havoc. His parents had proved that.

Yet he could set things right. Starting now. He would do what he should have done from the beginning. Whether she wanted to or not, Portia’s holiday was at an end.

Like a moth to the flame, his gaze found her—asleep on the lambskin before the fire. He approached, blood rushing to his groin as he eyed breasts so pert his hands itched to palm them, to take the tight, pebble-sized nipples into his mouth.

If he had any doubts, they fled in an instant. Lady Portia Derring would do what ever it took to get him to the altar.

Portia whimpered at the sensation of cool air crawling over her breasts, shriveling her nipples and stroking her belly with icy hands. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared in confusion at the murky room. Firelight flickered over the walls like demons writhing and twisting in some kind of primeval dance. With a shiver, she closed her eyes again and pulled the blanket back over her nakedness, grasping at the fleeing scraps of her dream.

She had been standing beneath a warm Athens sun—the gleaming columns of the Parthenon stretching to a sky so blue her eyes ached to look at it. Her mother stood beside her, her face glowing as she talked. The sun beat down on Portia’s bare head until her scalp tingled. A breeze, fragrant and balmy, kissed her face. For a brief moment, in the sanctuary of her dream, Portia had everything she ever wanted.

Closing her eyes tightly, she breathed through her nostrils and concentrated, trying to recapture the scent of sweet, honeyed air, trying to glimpse marble columns gleaming in the afternoon sun.

All to no avail. It was gone. Lost. A frown tugged at her lips.

A drop of water fell on her forehead, cold and irritating. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. Another followed, as cold and irritating as the last, and she opened her eyes, hoping that the roof didn’t have a leak.

No leak, she registered with a strange sense of detachment as she gazed up at the shadowy figure of a man, immense and looming above her. A scream lodged in her throat. Clutching the blanket to her chin, she sank deeper into her bed of wool.



“Get up,” he growled.

“Heath?”

“On your feet,” he demanded, the force behind each word a gouge to her heart.

Tucking the blanket beneath her armpits, she rose, bringing herself flush against him. She attempted to step back but his hand clamped down, quick and brutal on her arm.

Filling her lungs with a fortifying breath, she attempted to speak, “How did you—”

“Was this part of the plan?” His gaze scraped her like a freshly sharpened blade. Eyes she knew to be gray were now black as night. Deadly as a viper’s stare. “Waiting for me naked and sleep-warmed?”

She looked down at herself, at his hand on her arm, at her blanket-swathed body, and had a pretty good idea of how he saw her. A woman lying in wait, a predator primed to seduce.

The fire at her naked back felt almost too warm. No doubt her skin glowed pink, flushed. Her eyes sleep clouded. Her hair—she didn’t want to imagine its condition. It must look a mess. She dragged a hand through the snarled mass, tucking several loose strands behind both ears in a feeble effort to restore it to order.