Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(79)

Clambering to the driver’s perch, she snatched up the reins and flicked her wrists.

The horses didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” she begged, flicking her wrists again. One horse looked at her, ears flattening with displeasure before resuming his feast.

At that moment, Simon burst from the line of trees, the driver behind him. Her stomach plummeted and a small whimper escaped her lips. Simon’s face, mottled several shades of red, turned deadly when he spotted her atop the driver’s perch. He charged the carriage with a bellow, spooking the placid beasts from their leisure.

She snatched the crop from the seat and whipped the horses. Under normal circumstances, she would never strike a horse so hard, but the sour taste of fear coating her mouth banished any reservations.

The crop served its purpose. The horses bolted, the force flinging Portia back on the hard seat.

“Stop,” Simon shouted, waving his arms as the carriage barreled toward him. The horses didn’t slacken their pace—and she wasn’t about to move left or right to avoid the blackguard.

At the last moment, he dove clear.

She glanced over her shoulder to see him submerged in mud. He clutched one boot close to his chest, and his strained expression told her he had not dodged the carriage unscathed. Served him right.

Facing front again, she squinted against the slashing rain and tried to gain control of the animals and slow their breakneck pace. She rounded a corner, pulling on the reins fiercely.

Wincing at the sudden bite of wind and rain on her cheeks, she averted her face. And didn’t see the horse and rider. Not until it was too late.

He materialized from the gray curtain of rain like a phantom, a specter magically brought to life.

Rider and stallion both black as night.



She jerked on the rains, her scream trapped in her throat as her fingers yanked and twisted on the slick leather.

The horses’ screams filled the air, shrill and eerily human. Blood roared to her head. Her heart plunged to her stomach as the carriage careened to one side, balancing precariously on its wheels. She kept a death grip on the reins, her lifeline, the only thing keeping her atop the carriage as her body lifted from the seat.

Her eyes met and connected with the oncoming rider for a single heartbeat. Recognition flashed in eyes as gray as the sky. Her heart leapt to her throat.

“Heath!” Her cry reverberated through the air, strange and faraway—as if someone else cried out.

Then her hands were empty, groping for reins, a handhold. Something. There was nothing.

Nothing but wind.

She flew, toppling through the air as if her body were boneless, weightless. Trees and sky rushed past in a blur. The earth rose up to meet her in a dizzying whirl, a vast maw ready to swallow her whole.

Heath swung from Iago’s back before the horse even came to a full stop. He skirted the capsized carriage, sparing only a glance for the shrieking horses that fought to be free of their restraints.

Bitter fear swept through him, flooding his mouth, burning his nostrils. “Portia,” he called brokenly as he looked for her along the road. “Portia!” Terror seized his heart, wringing tightly.

Then he saw her, buried in mud, her crumpled form so small and lifeless at the edge of the road.

He ran. It took only a moment, but he thought he’d never reach her. Never have her in his arms again. Never have the chance to say what his heart had known from the start. He loved her. Even when he had no business loving her, he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

His hands shook, suspended over her for the barest moment before he touched her, grasped her shoulders and gently folded her into his arms, praying that God could not be so cruel as to place her in his life only to take her from him so quickly.

Rain pelted her ashen face as he stared down at her.

“Portia?” He brushed a hand over her cheek, relieved to feel its warmth. His fingers slid to her throat, to the pulse point that beat steady and strong.

“Portia,” he said again, her name a sigh, a benediction.

Her eyes opened, blinking, looking up at him in confusion. “Heath?”



“Are you hurt?” he demanded, eyes raking her as if he could ascertain her injuries for himself.

“I’m fine, but I think I may have run Simon over with the carriage.”

He laughed then, his heart loosening, expanding inside his chest. “I won’t lose any sleep over that.”

Her face crumpled. “You came?” she choked, a sob lifting her chest. “How did you know—”

He cupped her face. “Astrid told me everything. But that’s not important.” He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. “We’ve wasted enough time. I’ve wasted years,” his voice faded and he shook his head determinedly. “But I’m not going to waste another moment with you.”

Her eyes devoured him, the blue brilliant and vivid through her glimmer of tears.

“I love you, Portia,” he said, feeling an immense relief in uttering words he had thought himself incapable. Words that had been caged inside him for a lifetime, waiting to be freed, waiting for this woman to free them. “Marry me. Not because of duty, or because we should. Marry me because I love you.” He stared into her wide, unblinking eyes and added in a growl, “Marry me, damn it or I will go mad.”

Her sob fell then, loud and deep, and he felt it lodge in his heart. She flung her arms around his neck and pulled him close, burying her face in his throat.