any noise as they rode on, higher and higher, the animal more
mountain goat than horse. The baby was sleeping against the man's chest, and
Mary Grace O'Reilly was waiting to see what would happen next.
The
rocking motion of the horse was lulling her into a dazed trance when the man
spoke again, startling her.
"You
got a name?" he asked. The effort of turning to look at what kind of idiot
would ask a question like that seemed too great. She stayed where she was.
"Want
me to guess? I'd bet from that red hair and that pretty little way you had of
screaming at me that it's Colleen. I think that means pretty girl in Irish,
don't it? Yup, Colleen is my guess."
He
paused for some reaction from her, but she gave him none. What way of
screaming? She'd hardly gotten a word out before he'd clamped his hand over her
mouth and shut her up. And she didn't care how many of her relatives had said
it. She didn't sound anything like her mother when she was angry.
"No?
Not Colleen? Then how 'bout Mary something? Mary Margaret? Mary Ann? Mary
Francis? You Irish always have more than one name."
She
grimaced, as much from the pain as from listening to the stranger who straddled
the horse behind her. Her skin tingled where the firmness of his thighs rubbed
against her side, despite the layers of clothing she wore. The gentle resting
of his rein hand against her buttocks was an added indignity. If it weren't for
his incessant chatter distracting her, she thought she might have gone mad.
"Well,
if it ain't Mary something, it's something Mary, right? Close enough. So, Mary
love, which Tate is it?"
She
wrenched herself sideways and probably would have fallen right off the horse if
he hadn't pulled her firmly against him. She had a choice: the saddle pommel,
or the inside of his thighs and what lay between them. Talk about being caught
between a rock and a hard place. If she hadn't been so frightened about what
their captor had in mind for her and the baby, she might have found the thought
amusing.
"Whoa
there," he ordered, and she was unsure whether he was directing his
command to his horse or to her. He secured her squirming form, tucking the
skirt she had borrowed from Emily beneath his leg to hold her in place.
"Don't
like talking about the Tates, then?" he asked, and gave the horse a kick.
"Damn slow going with all this weight." Well, she certainly hadn't
asked to come along. The first ripples of anger began building within her,
replacing the fear and giving her strength.
"Can't
say as I blame you. I loved a Tate myself once, and all it got me was a bum
leg."
He
paused a moment, and Mary Grace treasured the silence. She had noticed his leg
was stuck out at an odd angle for a rider. She had a good view of it, thrown
over the saddle the way she was. It was ramrod straight, as though he were a
Christmas nutcracker with no knee, at all.
"A
bum leg and my son," he added.
Mary
Grace stiffened. So that was it. He was the father Emily and her brothers had
talked about. The dead father. Then presumably he at least meant the
baby no harm. As for her, well, that remained to be seen.
She
was pressed up against the saddle horn, finding it impossible to relax her body
enough to ease her aching hip off the protrusion. Her captor's hands moved her
like a rag doll once again, making her only slightly less uncomfortable. How
long had they been riding? The sun hadn't moved more than a millimeter in the
sky. It was still morning. It felt like she'd been in this position for hours.
Days. Forever.
The
baby stirred, probably aroused by the change in position. She felt the horse
come to a halt, despite the fact that the man had not directed it to. She
refused to look behind her.
"Damn,"
he muttered, shifting in the saddle. "I don't know what I musta been
thinkin'. Guess I can't put this off forever, can I, Mary love? Or should I
call you 'something Mary'? Sweet Mary? How would that be?"
He
put his hand on Mary Grace's bottom, squeezing gently. She
mountain goat than horse. The baby was sleeping against the man's chest, and
Mary Grace O'Reilly was waiting to see what would happen next.
The
rocking motion of the horse was lulling her into a dazed trance when the man
spoke again, startling her.
"You
got a name?" he asked. The effort of turning to look at what kind of idiot
would ask a question like that seemed too great. She stayed where she was.
"Want
me to guess? I'd bet from that red hair and that pretty little way you had of
screaming at me that it's Colleen. I think that means pretty girl in Irish,
don't it? Yup, Colleen is my guess."
He
paused for some reaction from her, but she gave him none. What way of
screaming? She'd hardly gotten a word out before he'd clamped his hand over her
mouth and shut her up. And she didn't care how many of her relatives had said
it. She didn't sound anything like her mother when she was angry.
"No?
Not Colleen? Then how 'bout Mary something? Mary Margaret? Mary Ann? Mary
Francis? You Irish always have more than one name."
She
grimaced, as much from the pain as from listening to the stranger who straddled
the horse behind her. Her skin tingled where the firmness of his thighs rubbed
against her side, despite the layers of clothing she wore. The gentle resting
of his rein hand against her buttocks was an added indignity. If it weren't for
his incessant chatter distracting her, she thought she might have gone mad.
"Well,
if it ain't Mary something, it's something Mary, right? Close enough. So, Mary
love, which Tate is it?"
She
wrenched herself sideways and probably would have fallen right off the horse if
he hadn't pulled her firmly against him. She had a choice: the saddle pommel,
or the inside of his thighs and what lay between them. Talk about being caught
between a rock and a hard place. If she hadn't been so frightened about what
their captor had in mind for her and the baby, she might have found the thought
amusing.
"Whoa
there," he ordered, and she was unsure whether he was directing his
command to his horse or to her. He secured her squirming form, tucking the
skirt she had borrowed from Emily beneath his leg to hold her in place.
"Don't
like talking about the Tates, then?" he asked, and gave the horse a kick.
"Damn slow going with all this weight." Well, she certainly hadn't
asked to come along. The first ripples of anger began building within her,
replacing the fear and giving her strength.
"Can't
say as I blame you. I loved a Tate myself once, and all it got me was a bum
leg."
He
paused a moment, and Mary Grace treasured the silence. She had noticed his leg
was stuck out at an odd angle for a rider. She had a good view of it, thrown
over the saddle the way she was. It was ramrod straight, as though he were a
Christmas nutcracker with no knee, at all.
"A
bum leg and my son," he added.
Mary
Grace stiffened. So that was it. He was the father Emily and her brothers had
talked about. The dead father. Then presumably he at least meant the
baby no harm. As for her, well, that remained to be seen.
She
was pressed up against the saddle horn, finding it impossible to relax her body
enough to ease her aching hip off the protrusion. Her captor's hands moved her
like a rag doll once again, making her only slightly less uncomfortable. How
long had they been riding? The sun hadn't moved more than a millimeter in the
sky. It was still morning. It felt like she'd been in this position for hours.
Days. Forever.
The
baby stirred, probably aroused by the change in position. She felt the horse
come to a halt, despite the fact that the man had not directed it to. She
refused to look behind her.
"Damn,"
he muttered, shifting in the saddle. "I don't know what I musta been
thinkin'. Guess I can't put this off forever, can I, Mary love? Or should I
call you 'something Mary'? Sweet Mary? How would that be?"
He
put his hand on Mary Grace's bottom, squeezing gently. She
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