Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(31)

Bloody hell, she was fast. And she had a lengthy lead on him. He lost sight of her as she dove into thick trees. He followed, cringing inwardly, imagining he was going to have to peel her off one of the ancient oaks and carry her corpse back to the house. The thought spurred him on to a dangerous, breakneck pace, and he soon caught sight of her again. She flashed in and out of the trees ahead, a rich burgundy blur.

Her hair whipped in the air like a wild banner.

He shouted for her, but the sound was swallowed in the wind. The fierce air tore at his face and eyes, blurring his vision.

Icy wind stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly and hunkered low over his mount’s neck. The hooves of his stallion pounded the earth, and he felt the wet spray of snow and earth all the way up to his thighs as he careened down an incline, at last drawing abreast with her.

That’s when she saw him.

Her eyes flared wide in her expressive face. In that split instant he noted that the freckles on her nose seemed darker against her pale skin. She opened her mouth and shouted something indecipherable over the screech of wind and thundering of hooves.

She clutched her reins in her gloved hands and he quickly surmised that he wouldn’t be able to wrestle them from her grasp. She was undoubtedly too panicked to release that lifeline.

He could do only one thing, rash as it seemed. There was no other choice.

Releasing his own reins, he dove from his mount and across the air separating them. He snatched her up, mindful to wrap his arms around her. He managed to twist in the air, turning to take the brunt of the fall.

He hit the snow-covered earth with a jar. Stunned, he lay there for a moment, registering little beyond the thundering hooves vibrating the ground and fading away into the distance.

A sharp jab to the shoulder forced him to peel his head off the ground and look up—stare into the flushed face of a furious Miss Hadley.

“Holy hellfire!” She blew at several strands of auburn hair dangling riotously before her eyes. “What’s wrong with you? Are you mad? Is it your custom to go about tackling women down from their mounts?”

He gawked at her as she pushed back the wild fall of hair from her face and glared down at him, abruptly, achingly aware that every soft inch of her was draped over him. His mouth suddenly grew dry.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck—my neck!” she hotly corrected.

With a groan, he dropped his head back down on the earth, mindless of the icy-wet. The hat he wore was lost in his frenzied ride. “Is this the thanks I get for saving you?”

“Saving me? From what?”

Was she dim-witted? Had the fall knocked something loose in her head? “Your horse ran away with you.”

“What on earth makes you think that?”

He lifted his head back up to stare at her. “I saw you racing out of control—”

She made a disgusted sound and scrambled off him as if he were somehow contagious. “Don’t tell me you’re so antiquated you’ve never seen a woman ride before?”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Indeed, I’ve not seen a woman ride sidesaddle at such a foolish speed.”

She smirked down at him, propped her hands on her hips. “You should see me ride astride then. I daresay you would be quiet impressed.”

Arrogant chit. He tried not to smile at her utter gall, reminding himself that he had nearly broken their necks while under a misapprehension, however reasonable a misapprehension it might have been.

Her smile slipped a bit when he unfolded himself to loom over her.

“You . . . ride astride?” No proper lady would do such a thing. It was too incredible.

At her nod, he blew out a deep breath. Was there no end to her astoundingly unseemly ways?

“I loathe the constraints of a riding habit,” she returned blithely. “When I ride, it’s usually astride. I only conceded this time having no wish to offend the duchess’s sensibilities.” She gestured at her figure to illustrate her very proper riding habit. He deliberately tried not to focus on how her riding habit hugged her curves. The mere notion of her in trousers sent a surge of heat in his blood. He scowled. As he couldn’t bed her and he most certainly couldn’t wed her, his attraction to such an unacceptable female was really becoming a nuisance.

“You’re quite the hoyden.”

Color flooded her already windburned cheeks. “Because I eschew the constraints imposed by men on ladies of Society?” She gave a small stamp of her booted foot, as if this were a sore subject with her. “Because I enjoy living and not being stuck indoors browsing fashion plates and working on needlepoint?” With a growl of what he assumed was frustration, she whirled in a circle, scanning the countryside. “Holy hellfire! Thanks to you our mounts are probably already back in the stables.”

“Again, I’m struggling to see how this is my fault.”

Without another word or glance for him, she started marching away with long, sure strides.

He stood still for some moments, amazed as he watched her retreat. She was without a doubt the most singular female he had ever encountered. She wasn’t impressed by him or daunted. Most females tittered in his presence, in awe of either his title or his form. He towered over most gentlemen with their lily-white hands and soft, fleshy bodies. Years of combat had given him a muscled physique. He was accustomed to inspiring admiration or at the very least deference in the fairer sex.