towering giant of a man observing her, his hard stare boring into her like tarnished green fire.
Even though her feet didn’t reach the floor as she hung suspended, she had to look up to meet those gold-flecked green eyes. In the flickering torchlight, she could see her reflection in them. Recognition paralyzed her. She would know those wolflike eyes anywhere. They slid the length of her from the hair that had come down and hung loose about her shoulders, to the tips of her bare toes. It was a slow, sweeping appraisal. If a woman could be raped by a look, she was being raped now. This was no specter—he was real . She had come face-to-face with Ros Drumcondra.
It’s happening, she thought, amazed. The legend is true. He has come back just as they said, out of the tomb on the winter solstice to reclaim Cashel Cosgrove for the Drumcondras. But where was she, and how could that be? This was not the dashing Gypsy renegade of her dreams, her delicious fantasy. This was a ruthless flesh-and-blood warrior, and he was dangerous.
Reaching out with one bronzed finger, he lifted away the left side of her torn frock from her body and took the measure of what lay beneath. His hooded gaze followed the swell of her breasts to the taut nipples puckered with cold, to the curve of her waist, hips and thighs. They lingered familiarly upon the thatch of raven-colored hair between them. For a heart-stopping moment, Thea thought he was going to touch her there, as the other man had, but no. Another figure sidled into view—a woman with long hair the color of chestnuts and eyes as black as coal. She was wearing Thea’s chinchilla pelerine, stroking the dense fur seductively—flaunting it as she undulated against Drumcondra, her long arms wound around his neck and broad chest like snakes. So that’s where the pelerine had gone!
With a flick of his finger, Drumcondra dismissed Thea’s torn frock and looked long and hard at the woman who had twined herself around him. Putting her from him with painstaking control, he stripped off the pelerine in one motion, ignoring her protests, and drew a long-handled dirk from his belt.
All at once there came a flapping sound close by, like the wings of a large bird moving the still, foul air. The falcon? If it was, Thea couldn’t see it, though she felt the effects of the breeze its flailing wings stirred.
Just for a moment, she caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows across the way. A hunched old woman, her long gray hair straggling out from beneath a woolen head scarf was staring at her, a triumphant knowing look on her wrinkled face. The old Gypsy? It was. Only then did Thea see the great bird perched upon the woman’s bony hand, its tethers dangling down, tether bells jingling, a plumed leather hood sheathing its head. The woman paused there for just a moment, her black eyes riveting, before melting into the labyrinth of passageways todisappear—bird and all—into the darkness, the falcon beating the musty air with its magnificent wings.
She got only that fleeting glimpse before the torchlight flashed off the dirk in Ros Drumcondra’s white-knuckled fist and commanded her attention. Thea gasped and screwed her eyes shut tight, certain her next breath would be her last as he hefted the pelerine over his shoulder and came at her with the blade. But it wasn’t the attack she feared imminent. Instead, he began hacking at the ropes tethering her wrists with the weapon.
The rope being weak, the blade razor sharp, and his strength greater than anything Thea had ever known or imagined, her bonds gave way in a trice, and she fell into his strong arms outstretched to receive her. It wasn’t the most graceful return to earth by any means, as her half-naked body was forced against his stiff leather jerkin decorated with hobnails. The tactile experience of her soft flesh against cold studded leather was a shock to her system, as was the crush of her thighs, and the soft mound of her
Even though her feet didn’t reach the floor as she hung suspended, she had to look up to meet those gold-flecked green eyes. In the flickering torchlight, she could see her reflection in them. Recognition paralyzed her. She would know those wolflike eyes anywhere. They slid the length of her from the hair that had come down and hung loose about her shoulders, to the tips of her bare toes. It was a slow, sweeping appraisal. If a woman could be raped by a look, she was being raped now. This was no specter—he was real . She had come face-to-face with Ros Drumcondra.
It’s happening, she thought, amazed. The legend is true. He has come back just as they said, out of the tomb on the winter solstice to reclaim Cashel Cosgrove for the Drumcondras. But where was she, and how could that be? This was not the dashing Gypsy renegade of her dreams, her delicious fantasy. This was a ruthless flesh-and-blood warrior, and he was dangerous.
Reaching out with one bronzed finger, he lifted away the left side of her torn frock from her body and took the measure of what lay beneath. His hooded gaze followed the swell of her breasts to the taut nipples puckered with cold, to the curve of her waist, hips and thighs. They lingered familiarly upon the thatch of raven-colored hair between them. For a heart-stopping moment, Thea thought he was going to touch her there, as the other man had, but no. Another figure sidled into view—a woman with long hair the color of chestnuts and eyes as black as coal. She was wearing Thea’s chinchilla pelerine, stroking the dense fur seductively—flaunting it as she undulated against Drumcondra, her long arms wound around his neck and broad chest like snakes. So that’s where the pelerine had gone!
With a flick of his finger, Drumcondra dismissed Thea’s torn frock and looked long and hard at the woman who had twined herself around him. Putting her from him with painstaking control, he stripped off the pelerine in one motion, ignoring her protests, and drew a long-handled dirk from his belt.
All at once there came a flapping sound close by, like the wings of a large bird moving the still, foul air. The falcon? If it was, Thea couldn’t see it, though she felt the effects of the breeze its flailing wings stirred.
Just for a moment, she caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows across the way. A hunched old woman, her long gray hair straggling out from beneath a woolen head scarf was staring at her, a triumphant knowing look on her wrinkled face. The old Gypsy? It was. Only then did Thea see the great bird perched upon the woman’s bony hand, its tethers dangling down, tether bells jingling, a plumed leather hood sheathing its head. The woman paused there for just a moment, her black eyes riveting, before melting into the labyrinth of passageways todisappear—bird and all—into the darkness, the falcon beating the musty air with its magnificent wings.
She got only that fleeting glimpse before the torchlight flashed off the dirk in Ros Drumcondra’s white-knuckled fist and commanded her attention. Thea gasped and screwed her eyes shut tight, certain her next breath would be her last as he hefted the pelerine over his shoulder and came at her with the blade. But it wasn’t the attack she feared imminent. Instead, he began hacking at the ropes tethering her wrists with the weapon.
The rope being weak, the blade razor sharp, and his strength greater than anything Thea had ever known or imagined, her bonds gave way in a trice, and she fell into his strong arms outstretched to receive her. It wasn’t the most graceful return to earth by any means, as her half-naked body was forced against his stiff leather jerkin decorated with hobnails. The tactile experience of her soft flesh against cold studded leather was a shock to her system, as was the crush of her thighs, and the soft mound of her
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