A massive black stallion screamed and reared over her, iron-tipped hooves flailing within inches of her head. On the beast's back sat a man to match the horse, black-clad shoulders blocking out the twilight, dark mane wild, features harsh-satanic.
The stallion's hooves thudded to the ground, missing her by a bare foot. Furious, snorting, eyes showing white, the beast hauled at the reins. It tried to swing its huge head toward her; denied, it attempted to rear again.
Muscles bunched in the rider's arms, in the long thighs pressed to the stallion's flanks. For one eternal minute, man and beast did battle. Then all went still, the stallion acknowledging defeat in a long, shuddering, horsy sigh.
Her heart in her throat, Honoria lifted her gaze to the rider's face-and met his eyes. Even in the dimness, she was sure of their color. Pale, lucent green, they seemed ancient, all-seeing. Large, set deep under strongly arched black brows, they were the dominant feature in an impressively strong face. Their glance was penetrating, mesmerizing-unearthly. In that instant, Honoria was sure that the devil had come to claim one of his own. And her, too. Then the air about her turned blue.
Chapter 2
What in devil's own name are you about, woman?"
Ending a string of decidedly inventive curses, that question, delivered with enough force to hold back the storm itself, jerked Honoria's wits into place. She focused on the commanding
figure atop the restless stallion, then, with haughty dignity, stepped back, gesturing to the body on the verge. "I came upon him a few minutes ago-he's been shot, and I can't stop the bleeding."
The rider's eyes came to rest on the still figure. Satisfied, Honoria turned and headed back to the injured man, then realized the rider hadn't moved. She looked back, and saw the broad chest beneath what she now recognized as a dark hacking jacket expand-and expand-as the rider drew in an impossibly deep breath.
His gaze switched to her. "Press down on that pad-hard."
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he swung down from his horse, the movement so eloquent of harnessed power, Honoria felt giddy again. She hurriedly returned to her patient. "That's precisely what I was doing," she muttered, dropping to her knees and placing both hands on the pad.
The rider, busy tying the stallion's reins about a tree, glanced her way. "Lean over him-use all your weight."
Honoria frowned but shuffled closer and did as he said. There was a note in the deep voice that suggested he expected to be obeyed. Given that she was counting on him to help her deal with the wounded man, now, she decided, was not the time to take umbrage. She heard him approach, footsteps firm on the packed earth. Then the footfalls slowed, became hesitant, then stopped altogether. She was about to glance up when he started forward again.
He came to the other side of the wounded man, avoiding the large pool of blood. Hunkering down, he gazed at the youth.
From beneath her lashes, Honoria gazed at him. At closer range, the effect of his face diminished not one whit-if anything, the impact of strong, angular planes, decidedly patrician nose, and lips that were long, thin, and provocatively mobile was even more pronounced. His hair was indeed midnight black, thick and wavy enough to form large locks; his eyes, fixed on their common charge, were hooded. As for the rest of him, Honoria decided it was wiser not to notice-she needed all her wits for helping the wounded man.
"Let me see the wound."
Was that a quaver she heard running through that dark voice, so deep it half resonated through her? Honoria glanced swiftly at her rescuer. His expression was impassive, showing no hint of any emotion-no, she'd imagined the quaver. She lifted the sodden wad; he bent closer, angling his shoulders to let light reach the wound. He grunted, then nodded, rocking back on his heels as she replaced the pad.
Looking up, Honoria saw him frown. Then his heavy lids lifted and he met her gaze. Again she was struck by his curious eyes, transfixed by their omniscient quality.
Thunder rolled; the echoes were still reverberating when lightning lit up the world.
Honoria flinched, struggling to control her breathing. She refocused on her rescuer; his gaze hadn't left her. Raindrops pattered on the leaves and spattered the dust of the lane. He looked up. "We'll have to get him-and ourselves-under cover. The storm's nearly here."
He rose, smoothly straightening his long legs. Still kneeling, Honoria was forced to let her eyes travel upward, over top boots and long, powerfully muscled thighs, past lean hips and a narrow waist, all the way over the wide acreage of his chest to find his face. He was tall, large, lean, loose-limbed yet well muscled-a supremely powerful figure.
Finding her mouth suddenly dry, she felt her temper stir. "To where, precisely? We're miles from anywhere." Her rescuer looked down, his disturbing gaze fixing on her face. Honoria's confidence faltered. "Aren't we?"
He looked into the trees. "There's a woodsman's cottage nearby. A track leads off a little way along the lane."
So he was a local; Honoria was relieved. "How will we move him?"
"I'll carry him." He didn't add the "of course," but she heard it. Then he grimaced. "But we should pack the wound better before shifting him."
With that, he shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over a nearby branch, and proceeded to strip off his shirt. Abruptly, Honoria transferred her gaze to the wounded man. Seconds later, a fine linen shirt dangled before her face, suspended from long, tanned fingers.
"Fold the body of the shirt and use the arms to tie it about him."
Honoria frowned at the shirt. Lifting one hand, she took it, then looked up, directly into his face, studiously ignoring the tanned expanse of his bare chest and the crisply curling black hair that adorned it. "If you can take over here and keep your eyes on the wound, I'll donate my petticoat. We'll need more fabric to bind against the hole."
His black brows flew up, then he nodded and hunkered down, placing long strong fingers on the pad. Honoria withdrew her hand and stood.
Briskly, trying not to think about what she was doing, she crossed to the other side of the lane. Facing the trees, she lifted the front of her skirt and tugged at the drawstring securing her lawn petticoat.