These Haunted Hearts

“Does that mean you will help me?” This time, she didn’t bother correcting his deliberate misremembering of her suitor’s name.

She was lucky he didn’t call the toad Habakkuk and skewer his kidneys with a rapier. Alicia was his. Kinvarra had known that from the first moment he saw her, slender, unsure, but full of a wild vitality that still beckoned

him, whatever else divided them. No other damned rapscallion was going to steal her away. Especially a rapscallion who lacked the spine to fight for her.

Kinvarra strode across to his bay mare and snatched up the reins. “If you ask nicely.”

To his surprise, Alicia laughed. “Devil take you, Kinvarra.”

He swung into the saddle and urged the horse nearer to his wife. “Indubitably, my dear.”

Her suddenly cavalier attitude made it easier to deal with her, but it puzzled him. Her lover’s desertion hadn’t cast her down. If she didn’t care for the fellow, why in Hades accept his advances? Yet again, Kinvarra realized how far he remained from understanding the complicated creature he’d wed with such high hopes eleven years ago.

He extended one leather-gloved hand and noted her hesitation before she accepted his assistance. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d left him and even through two layers of leather, he felt the burning shock of contact. She stiffened as though she too felt that unwelcome surge of response.

He’d always wanted her. That was part of the problem, God help them. He’d often asked himself if time would erode the attraction.

Just one touch of her hand on a snowy night and he received his unequivocal answer.

She swung onto the horse behind him and paused again before looping her arms around his waist. He’d always been hellish aware of her reactions and he couldn’t help but note her reluctance to touch him.

Good God, what was wrong with the woman? She’d been ready enough to do more than touch rabbit-hearted Fenton. Surely her long-suffering husband deserved a little friendliness after coming to her rescue. With damned little encouragement, too, he might add.

Compared to the cold night, she felt warm and soft against his back. His lunatic heart dipped at her nearness, even as he told himself that the warmth and softness were lies. Alicia Sinclair was made of stone. Or at least she was when it came to her husband. If he forgot that, she’d drag his soul through the razor-sharp thorns of hell again.

But the warning fell on deaf ears. When she touched him, he could think of little else but how long it was since he’d held her in his arms and shown her how strongly she inflamed his unruly passions.

The mare curveted under the double weight, but Kinvarra settled her with a curt word. He never had trouble with horses. It was his wife he couldn’t control.

“What about my belongings?” she asked, calm as you please. The lady should demonstrate proper shame at being caught with a lover. But of course, that wasn’t Alicia. She held her head high whatever destiny threw at her.

It was one of the things he loved about her.

He quashed the unwelcome insight. “There’s an inn a few miles ahead. I’ll get them to send someone for your baggage.”

He clicked his tongue to the horse and cantered in the opposite direction to the one Fenton had taken. Which was lucky for the weasel. If Kinvarra caught up with Fenton now, he’d be inclined to reach for his horsewhip. What right had that bastard to interfere with other men’s wives then scuttle away leaving the lady stranded?

Alicia settled herself more comfortably, pressing her lovely, lush body into his back. She hadn’t been this close to him in years. He was scoundrel enough to enjoy the contact, however reluctantly she granted it.

Maybe after all, he should be grateful to old Harold. He might even send the poltroon a case of port and a note of appreciation.

Well, that might go too far.

“Is that where we’re heading?” She tightened her arms. He wished it was because she wanted to touch him and not just because she sought a more secure seat. He also wished that when she said “we”, his belly didn’t cramp with longing for the word to be true.

Damn Alicia. She’d always held magic for him and she always would. Ten long years without her had taught him that grim lesson.

The reminder of the dance she’d led him made him respond in a clipped tone. “No, we’re going to Heseltine Hall near Whitby.”

“But you can leave me at the inn, can’t you?”

“It’s a poor place. I couldn’t abandon a woman there without protection.” He tried, he really did, to keep the satisfaction from his voice, but he must have failed. He felt her tense against his back, although she couldn’t pull too far away without risking a fall.

“And who’s going to protect me from you?” she muttered, almost as if to herself.

“I mean you no harm.” For all their difficult interactions, he’d only ever wished her well. “You didn’t come all the way from London in that spindly carriage, did you?”

“It’s inappropriate to discuss my arrangement with Lord Harold,” she said coldly.