Chapter Sixteen
IAN leaned low over the horse, sheltering Lyssa with his body, his legs wrapped around hers, as they headed out of the stable yard toward freedom.
He paid no attention to the cries of alarm being shouted. He was off to London and no one was going to stop him. His arm around Lyssa’s waist and his other hand holding reins and mane, he sent the animal flying like the wind.
Ramsey hadn’t been making false claims about the stallion. He was true to his breeding, a mighty animal with the heart to run forever. His legs were strong, his lungs healthy, and he loved to race.
All Ian had to do was hold on and keep Lyssa safe.
His poor, brave Cailín. She was shaking but she needn’t be afraid.
He’d let no one harm her now. When he’d been tied up in the stables, he’d known she would come.
He’d willed it—and she’d answered his call as clearly as if he had reached out and touched her.
Something lay between them, something rare. And he would protect her with his life.
They came to a fork in the road and he guided the stallion east, but he didn’t stay on the road long. Instead, he turned off, slowing the pace, and rode over newly plowed fields and across hedge fences, guided by the stars and his own dogged sense of self preservation.
His hand holding the pistol rested beneath Lyssa’s breast. He could feel the pounding of her heart and knew she was frightened. He eased up so she could sit upright, resting back against his chest.
“That was faster than I ever traveled before in my life,” she admitted.
Her skirts were all the way up to the top of her thighs.
He let his hand slip down to rest there.
He couldn’t help himself. Her garters and hose were bunched around her ankles and the tips of his fingers touched bare skin.
Her red curls covered his shoulder and if he turned his head, he could kiss her ear—and Ian felt powerful.
Having this woman and this horse made all right with the world.
He was like the great Finn mac Cumhail, the legendary Irish warrior who fought against the forces of darkness and won. Like Finn, he’d taken what he’d wanted—and no one would wrest them from him. He was invincible. He was brave, courageous. At long last, a whole man. He had won.
And he was in love.
Ian kicked the stallion into a trot.
“Are they behind us?” she whispered.
His lips close to her ear, he soothed, “Don’t worry, Cailín. I’ll let no harm come to you.”
“Ramsey was going to marry me for my money and then kill both of us. He was going to tell everyone we were runaway lovers. Ian, I was so afraid.”
He slowed the horse, dropping the reins, and put both of his arms around her, wanting to hold her forever.
Her body went still. Slowly she turned to face him. Feeling the change in their body position, the stallion came to a stop in the middle of the plowed field.
The moon high in the sky was reflected in Lyssa’s eyes. “You kissed me,” she said, “when I cut your ropes.”
Ian smiled, his heart fuller than he had ever anticipated. “I was so proud of you, Cailín.”
“My mother sent me to you. I was in her room. I—I could feel her presence.”
“Cailín,” he said gently. “There is no such thing as ghosties. ‘Twas myself calling you.”
She stared at him a moment in disbelief. He nodded. “I pictured you in your room, waiting, and called your name in my mind.”
“You were telling me you needed me.”
“Aye.”
“And is that why you kissed me?”
He dropped his gaze to her lips, to those very kissable lips. “Because I was thankful?”
She nodded, a troubled line between her brows.
“Don’t be foolish.” And to prove his words, he kissed her again.
Only this kiss was different from his earlier one. Then, he’d been exuberant that she had come, that she had heard him.
Now, he attempted to explain the depth of what he felt, an emotion he did not fully understand yet himself. Their lips fit together perfectly. Everything about them fit together perfectly.
She made a soft mew of surprise, pulled back. He refused to let her escape—and she capitulated, turning more fully in his arms to receive him.
Ian had kissed more than his share of women, but none was as sweet and tempting as this one.
Deep within there rose a need for fulfillment like nothing he’d experienced before. All his life he’d been in search of what she was offering, in search of what she alone could give, and now here she was offering herself with such sweetness—
The pounding of hooves across the ground were his only warning. A heartbeat later, a party of four men and horses charged into the field. Ramsey Davidson was at their lead followed closely by another man in a low brimmed hat.
“It’s Fielder,” Lyssa said, identifying the second man.
Ian kicked the stallion and the chase was on. He drove the horse toward a midnight dark line of trees. He trusted this horse. He was smart and surefooted and Ian sensed he wanted to escape Davidson as much as they did.
Bracing her against him, Ian half-cocked the pistol, preparing to fire if necessary.
They reached the woods. Through the dark forest they ran. The stallion chose his own path, weaving in and out through the trees. Behind them, Ian heard their pursuers fall behind. At least two riders were unseated, their bodies crashing to the ground.
Someone fired off a pistol shot. It went wide and Ian grinned. Only a fool would waste a shot in a chase like this. He would beat them. He had no doubt.
They came out into another pasture. The stallion’s hooves threw up clods of newly turned earth. A hedgerow loomed ahead and without breaking stride, the horse jumped—
A second shot was fired.
Midair, the stallion squealed, kicking out and twisting in alarm. His front hooves hit the ground. He stumbled, coming down to his knees.
The horse had been hit.
He struggled to his feet and then, with a frightened squeal, reared in fear. Ian had to make a choice between Lyssa and the pistol which he let fall to the ground. Anger the likes he’d never felt before surged through him.
Ramsey Davidson shouted, the sound a screech in the night, “Damn you, Fielder, you shot my horse!”
Ian slid off, bringing Lyssa with him. “Run,” he ordered. “Head for the trees.”
“What about you?”
“I have a score to settle.” He gave her a push in the direction he wanted her to go and turned to face his attackers.
However, Davidson was no longer interested in him. He’d reined his horse in and confronted Fielder, “You shot my horse, you fool!”
“I wanted to stop them and I have!” Fielder flashed back. He was almost upon the hedgerow where Ian stood waiting. A man on foot could have an advantage over a rider, if he was cagey. Ian pulled the knife out of his knapsack and dropped the leather bag to the ground.
Fielder’s teeth flashed in a grin of anticipation as he approached the hedge, but then a shot rang out. Fielder stiffened just as his horse started the jump. His eyes widened in surprise and he went tumbling off the back, his hat flying through the air.
Davidson had shot Fielder.
Ian stepped out of the way of the riderless horse. The animal had jumped in fear to escape what he didn’t understand and now galloped over to the stallion for protection.
Lyssa gave a small scream and Ian didn’t need to look in her direction to know that she had, once again, not followed his orders.
Davidson rode up and looked down on the man lying in the tilled soil. Fielder groaned. Davidson pulled a second pistol from his saddle horse’s holsters and shot the man again.
The gun spent, he shoved it back in its holster. “Bloody bastard.” He looked up at Ian, standing on the other side of the hedge. “We’re not done yet,” he promised and pulled a sword from the scabbard at his waist. He kicked his horse.
Now, Davidson was fighting Ian’s sort of battle, one he’d learned against the French. Ian dashed out into the field, not wanting to be trapped by the hedgerow. He turned to confront his attacker.
Davidson rode like a Hussar, the sword high in the air. He cleared the hedgerow and bore down on Ian. The moon glinted off the dangerous blade. As Davidson drew by, he swiped the air with the sword. Ian ducked, hearing the blade whistle past, inches from his shoulder.
Lyssa made a move as if to come join him. “Stay back,” Ian yelled. “If you must do something, run!”
This time, she obeyed him, obviously realizing he couldn’t worry about Davidson and her at the same time. She took off running.
Her cousin had brought his horse up short, ready to make another pass at Ian when he noticed her racing toward the trees. He looked to Ian, then back to Lyssa—and grinned.
“Davidson, come get me!” Ian shouted, wanting to distract the bastard from Lyssa, but it was too late.
With a cocky salute of his sword in Ian’s direction, Davidson urged his horse after Lyssa.
Now, Ian was afraid. He shouted a warning and ran for Fielder’s horse.
The animal spooked but Ian caught the saddle in time and pulled himself up even while racing after Davidson.
Again, the dangerous sword was raised. Davidson was so intent on his prey, he didn’t noticed Ian riding up hard behind him. Ian slid the knife into his boot. He drove the horse hard, pushing it alongside Davidson’s animal and then he jumped, hitting Davidson with the full force of his body.
Both of them went flying through the air. Their bodies hit the soft earth heavily and they rolled over and over each other until at last they stopped.
Ian scrambled to his feet, his heart beating in his ears, his fists raised, ready to strike—but Davidson did not move. He lay on his back, partially buried in the newly turned earth, his head at an odd angle.
Cautious, Ian lowered his fist. Lyssa stood a distance away, watching as he waved his hand back and forth in front of Davidson’s sightless eyes.
Ramsey Davidson had broken his neck. He’d fallen off at such an angle, he’d hit the ground head first and met his Maker.
Ian was glad to be done with him.
He released his breath and fell back to the ground, spent. “It’s over,” he said.