Keira
I’ve sat on these bales, all alone, all day. I guess not having to see Saint’s face again has been the only blessing in this mess.
A heavy downpour batters the roof, and gale-force winds have the timber frame groaning.
Lying on my side, knees tucked to my chest, I think about Paris, the sunshine, and my time with Lucien.
Truth was, I knew the guy was a player. I understood exactly who he was. That didn’t stop me from pursuing a fun fling, until it wasn’t fun anymore.
However, during those months I was just Keira. And that suited me fine.
Now, I’m back to being a Harrington and enduring all that comes with the title.
My scalp prickles when I hear the ladders moving into position. A man appears, his upper half drenched and poking through the hatch, feet braced on the rungs.
Rain has plastered his wavy dark hair to his forehead, the wet tips grazing his thick black lashes. With his fine features and emerald eyes, he’d be pretty if it weren’t for the thick unshaven hairs on his jaw.
He doesn’t climb all the way in. Rather, he thuds a bowl on the loft floor and pushes it toward me.
His gaze lands on the sherpa jacket I’m huddled into. “You’re wearing Saint’s jacket.”
“Do you always state the obvious?” I say, tightening the collar.
The guy’s eyes narrow, and my nerves pulse.
“You’ve got a smart mouth, Harrington.”
I lift my chin. “And you are…?”
“Dane.”
“Right,” I say, keeping eye contact. “Another Tallon brother.”
“Do you always state the obvious?” he bites back, and I can’t tell if there’s humor there. “If Saint hadn’t said to feed ya, you’d be going without. None of us want a Harrington close. And you wearing my brother’s jacket is too fucking close.”
He holds my stare for a beat, then lowers out of sight.
My stomach aches from hunger, the smell of beef and potatoes better than any Michelin star meal. I scurry across the loft, snatch the bowl, and return to the bales, nursing the fading heat of it to my chest.
The fork scrapes against the bottom of the bowl as I dig in, sitting primly on the hay, eating mouthful after mouthful.
Saint’s jacket traps a layer of warmth along my back, the only thing stopping me from turning into a human ice pop.
I guess I’d be a tiny bit grateful if the damn thing didn’t stink of his distracting cologne, reminding me of the moment his arm slid around me and his lips stole mine.
I let out a frustrated sigh, roll my eyes at the memory, and stab a chunk of potato right through the middle.
Chewing the last of the stew, I lower the bowl beside me and study the metal fork.
I turn it between my fingers, watching the prongs in what little light there is now. They could puncture, scratch, or maybe even gouge.
A flurry of wind slips inside, and the hairs at my nape lift. Another wintry howl follows, and it rattles the loft doors like someone’s trying to get in.
Below, a horse snorts and stamps, hooves scuffing in a restless rhythm.
I slip the fork into the inner pocket of the jacket, thinking it might come in handy. The fleece folds over it, hiding the outline against my ribs.
Shivering, I pull the Sherpa tighter around myself and listen to the blustery storm take hold.
Outside an engine rumbles. For something to do, I move to the loading doors and try to shunt the old bolt sideways.
It sticks for a bit, so I jiggle it a few times until it unleashes a high-pitched squeal and judders across.
Holding a knotted rope attached to the handle, I let the wind tug the door open a few inches, letting in the late evening with its dark sky.
From up here, I make out two men leading skittish geldings out of the barn below and onto the ramp of a horse transporter.
Saint appears next, rain dripping off the brim of a baseball cap, his broad shoulders kissed by the yard floodlight. The driver hands him a zipped-up duffel bag and they shake hands.
When my father does deals, the money moves through accounts, not bags passed between men in the rain.
Whatever that man just delivered to Saint, it isn’t cash. Not the kind banks recognize.
The stud is only the respectable part of what he runs.
As if he senses eyes on him, Saint’s chin lifts, and his gaze snaps straight to mine. For three hard heartbeats neither of us looks away.
He knows I’m watching him.
A jolt of awareness hits, quickly morphing into a flare of panic and surge of heat.
God no.
This man put a bag over my head and dragged me here, and yet my insides are remembering the warmth of his mouth and how my pulse went wild.
I stumble back, furious he caught me spying on him and mortified at how my body is tingling in places it shouldn’t.
I file the reaction under things Paris clearly failed to cure me of and continue to wrench the door inward, doing my best to waggle the rusty bolt home.
It doesn’t move all the way in, but it’s secured.
Taking a deep breath, I scrape my wind-blown hair away from my flushed face, even though I’m far from warm.
By the time I reach the makeshift bed, I’m questioning my sanity. No woman in her right mind would have a single flutter for a man like him.
It shouldn’t matter that his kiss sent my pulse rocketing or left my core aching. It was an act, nothing more. A dirty tactic of charm and seduction with a singular plan of dumping me here.
Another gust slams into the barn, harder this time.
I almost laugh at the rattling bolt and whining hinges. That’s the sound of ridicule. A sign for me to ignore the silly rush I get when Saint looks at me.
He’s a lowlife criminal and I’m his prisoner.
Even if the situation was different, I want more in this life than a man holding a grudge and a blinkered desire to stay in Black Heath forever.
While I’m lost in thought, the loading doors burst open. Cold air swoops inside. Hay scatters, lifting up in a wild spiral.
The lengths of my hair slap across my face, sticking to my lashes as rain blows in.
I scramble toward the doors. The rope tied to the left panel whips like a loose rein, flapping just beyond my reach.
Beneath my bare feet the planks are rain slick now and the strong wind is making it hard to catch a breath.
I teeter on the edge, fingers stretched, almost grabbing the rope when a gust hits, and the balls of my feet slip.
In a blur, I’ve lost my balance, and I’m falling forward.
My hand closes on the knot as the loft drops away beneath me. The rope snaps taut. Dangling over the yard, my legs thrash in the air, desperate for a foothold that isn’t there.
“Hold on!”
A rough, deep voice cuts through the blood pulsing in my skull.
Saint’s face breaks through the darkness from above, eyes narrowed against the lashing rain. I always thought the devil lived in the underworld, but tonight he’s cursed Black Heath.
The baseball cap catches in the wind, rips off his head and disappears.
On one knee, he reaches down and wraps a hand around my forearm at the very moment my grip slips.
Suspended in the air, Saint holds me.
With a grunt, he hauls me upward and drags me inside. Somehow, I end up sprawled over his chest as he lands backward on the floorboards.
His chest expands and contracts under me in uneven breaths. For a few stunned heartbeats we both stay tangled, staring at each other as the wind howls around us.
Then he exhales a heavy sigh and shoves me off him.
“You’re more damn trouble than you’re worth,” he says, voice flat, as if saving me was an inconvenience. “I don’t have time to babysit a brat.”
Asshole.
I push myself upright, legs straddling his hips, breath tight in my chest. The jacket shifts with me, and the fork digs into my ribs.
Stuffing my hand inside, my fist closes around it before I’ve fully decided what I’m doing.
Saint’s eyes follow the movement when I pull it out and swing.
He catches my hand midair, fingers squeezing around my fist. The two of us roll in scattered hay, panting as we wrestle.
The fork clatters to the boards, and he rolls me onto my back, his body pinning me in place.
One of his hands cuffs both of my wrists above my head. The other braces on the floor beside me, caging me beneath him.
Leaning over, his mouth hovers close to mine. Water trails down the line of his jaw and drips off his nose.
“You were allowed one mistake, Harrington,” he murmurs. “And you just used it. Next time, I’ll leave ya in the Heath.”
The wind continues to hammer at the open doors. Icy air rushes over my bare feet. His muscles tense as if he’s become the storm, ready to destroy me. Despite that, he doesn’t.
While we stare at each other, all heavy breaths and body heat, my traitorous veins sing under the weight of him.
“You really think ya can go head-to-head with me?” he shouts over the howling wind. “That you’d win?”
“It was worth a shot,” I yell back. “Did you really think I wouldn’t try?”
“A fucking fork won’t take me out…or a Harrington.”
He rises to his full height and looms over me, his dark mood framed by rain as if he summoned it himself.
His warm breath fogs in the cold air before he bends, grabs my arm, and hauls me to my feet.
“Move,” he says. “Don’t make me regret saving ya.”
My legs wobble from the fall and the fight, but he’s already stalking toward the ladder fully expecting me to follow. He climbs down without checking over his shoulder, knowing I have no other choice than to do what he says.
“Hurry up,” he calls up.
I grit my teeth and lower myself onto the top rung. The ladder wobbles as I descend, though he puts his boot to the bottom step and secures it.
When my bare feet settle on the gritty concrete floor, coldness punches up through my soles.
Saint’s gaze flicks lower for half a second, brow creased as he takes in painted toenails covered in a wet dust.
His jaw tightens and rather than offer me a spare pair of boots from the tack room, he turns away.
“Walk.”
“Where?” I ask, raking wet strands of hair off my face and shivering.
When he doesn’t answer, I fold my arms and straighten my spine. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me where you’re taking me.”
He exhales through his nose, and I can tell I’m testing his patience. His hand slips behind him and when it comes back into view, he’s holding a gun.
“Follow me,” he says, keeping the barrel pointed to the floor, close to his side, “or the only place you’re going is in the dirt.”
My mouth goes dry and I put one foot in front of the other.
Joining him, he holsters the gun, and a slow, slight grin dimples his stubbled cheek. “If only all Harringtons were that obedient.”