Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(6)

“Yes, several miles from here,” he bit out.

“Oh, brilliant,” she exclaimed. “Splendid horse you have there!”

“Nothing is wrong with Iago.”

“No?” she countered, feeling herself start to shake with rage. “He abandoned us.”

“With a shrieking witch on his back, I can hardly blame him.”

“What kind of horse can’t withstand a little noise? A first-rate mount can ride into battle with cannons firing—”

“A cannon, he could tolerate. A loud-mouthed shrew is another matter.”

Chest heaving, she shoved at the big body covering hers. The action forced her deeper into the wet, yielding earth. “Care to get off me?”

“With plea sure,” he spit out, pushing to his feet.

It was with some satisfaction that she saw he was as filthy as she. He speared her one last fulminating look before turning and stalking away.

“Where are you going?” she shouted, struggling gracelessly to her feet—nearly falling back down when her right ankle collapsed under her weight. Her mouth opened wide on a silent cry.

She quickly shifted the bulk of her weight to her left ankle and hopped until she steadied herself.



“The blacksmith can loan me a horse,” he called over his shoulder without breaking stride.

Lifting her impossibly heavy skirts, she drew a deep breath and stepped forward—or rather, limped—determined to keep up and not humiliate herself by falling again. Not an easy task.

Especially with her ankle throbbing inside her boot.

Wincing, she stifled her pain and worked hard to keep up. Her breath fell hard and fast as she moved her legs. The throb in her ankle intensified, each footfall a bolt of agony.

His figure grew farther and farther away. He was leaving me.

Her eyes burned. A deep sob welled up in her chest and she fought to keep up. She gulped air, determined to swallow back the tears. I will not cry. I will not cry.

And in that moment, she felt crushed, beaten by life—her family, the mother whose letters were rare and few between, the cloud of poverty that perpetually hung over her, shadowing her every move and breath. And now him. A brute that didn’t care if he left her to drown in mud and rain.

The sting in her eyes intensified. Yet she’d be damned if she cried. If she succumbed to weakness. She stopped abruptly. Tilting her face to the sky, she let the deluge of rain wash over her, cooling her burning emotions.

“Keep up,” he called.

She dropped her head to glare at his back, wanting to lash out. To hurt. To weep uncontrollably.

And that, she absolutely refused to do.

Instead, she dropped where she stood in the middle of the road like a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of a riverbed. Uncaring of her muddied gloves—what part of her wasn’t covered in filth?—she buried her face in her hands.

And laughed.

Brittle, shaky laughter rose from deep in her chest. Laughter that she knew could change at any given moment and swing into humiliating tears if she weren’t careful. Busy on keeping those tears at bay, she did not hear him approach. Through parted fingers, she saw his boots stop in front of her. Her chest stilled, all laughter gone. With an odd sort of detachment, she studied the rivulets of water running down the gleaming length of his boots.

Dropping her hands, she scanned the long length of his body, her eyes stopping at his face, expecting to see condemnation there—unforgiving reproof for being weak and lagging so far behind.

He gazed down at her blankly, not a flicker of emotion on his stone-carved face. Sighing heavily, he leaned down and reached for her arm.



She slapped at his hand.

Frowning, he went for her arm again.

Again she slapped at his offending hand—this time with more force.

“I can make my own way,” she grumbled, determined to accept nothing from him. “Go on without me.”

His nostrils flared, his lips flattening into an unrelenting line. A warning she had no time to heed.

In one swift, fluid motion, he bent, slid an arm under her knees, and swept her up into his arms as if she weighed a feather. Shocked, she didn’t even struggle as he cradled her close to his chest.

His long-legged strides cut through the road with seeming ease.

“I can walk,” she muttered, holding her arms awkwardly in front of her, wondering where to put them.

“Of course you can,” he returned, not looking at her, simply staring ahead, unblinking against the steady fall of rain.

Giving up, she slid one arm around his broad shoulder, her fingers resting lightly at his nape, beneath the too-long strands of hair. His dark hair fell over her fingers and she fought the urge to stroke the rain-slicked strands. Her other hand relaxed against his chest, where the steady thud of his heart beat against her palm.

She studied his profile for a moment, her anger fading as he carried her forth so stalwartly.

Suddenly he looked down, his eyes locking with hers. This close she could see the dark ring of blue surrounding his gray irises. Something strange and foreign swelled to life in her chest, trapping her breath deep in her lungs like a bird caged—just as those intense eyes of his trapped her.

Perhaps he wasn’t such a brute. A brute would have left her behind instead of sweeping her into his arms like some kind of hero from Arthurian legend.