many's the man what wished he'd never crossed me. Some even lived to tell it!"
The words had scarcely left his mouth when he heard a noise directly behind him.
Hands of steel gripped his throat.
He dropped the flask and clawed at the vise-like constriction, but in his drunken state was helpless against such strength. He managed to pull his dirk from his breechwaist, only to have it struck from his hand by his attacker's knee. With sinking heart and hopes, he gagged and gasped, as his captor, like a cat playing with a mouse, cut off all but a tiny influx of precious air. Through the dull roar in his ears, Barker heard a voice like a low growl.
"You've loosed your tongue once too often, Tommy Barker, spending your ill-earned coin in the alehouse and bragging to anyone who'll listen that there's more whence it came. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, old boy, but your spending days are over."
Barker's only reply was a ghastly gurgle as the iron grip tightened, sealing off his windpipe.
Moments later he was released with a shove, his limp body falling into the road atop his precious flask, his bulging eyes staring blankly at the lover's moon.
* * *
Gwynneth smiled up at the moon. "What a beautiful evening it has been. The Sutherlands are such kind people."
Thorne said nothing as he helped her into the coach and climbed up to sit beside her.
"Horace seems a bit distant, but Caroline helped me with all my fittings and the wedding preparations. She is like a sister."
Radleigh poked his head in the doorway. "'Tis too fair a night to be riding in here." He winked at Thorne. "The fresh air will do me good."
Thorne promptly rose to take the empty seat, but Gwynneth laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. "You needn't move," she said softly.
Surprised, he reclaimed the space beside her with some misgiving. Radleigh couldn't have chosen a worse night to leave them alone.
"You were a smashing success," Thorne told her, hoping to change the direction his thoughts kept taking. "You stole the hearts of every man there, young and old."
Gwynneth's pale brow furrowed. "Perhaps I was too merry."
"You were charming." He squeezed her hand.
He should have drunk more of the costly spirits the Sutherlands had served. Perhaps sleep would come then, unlike last night. And perhaps in sleep he could forget the Sutherland vixen. Forget her dark eyes, her velvet voice, her voluptuous form and golden skin. Forget her supple movements, so matched to his own that the two of them might have been coupling instead of dancing. Forget...forget? Who was he trying to fool? She will haunt me in my dreams, God help me. It galled him to be so affected. Lust was a familiar antagonist, but he could not tolerate obsession. He despised such weakness in a man.
And she had known. He had a foreboding feeling that, for a woman like Caroline Sutherland, knowledge was power.
"The hour is late, I should be more tired," Gwynneth was saying. "How did you sleep last night?"
He tried to gather his thoughts. "I'm always restless the first night in a strange bed." He smiled an apology--far less than he'd owe her if she knew how he'd tossed and turned all night, tormented by the knowledge that she was just two rooms away in her bed.
"I nearly knocked upon your door last night."
And now you knock the breath out of me! Sweet Christ.
"Sleep wouldn't come," she was explaining. "And knowing that Father had a bottle of brandy put in your room yesterday, I thought I might try some...I...I've heard it brings on slumber," she finished, faltering under Thorne's intent stare.
Why did her parted lips seem fuller, redder, in the moonlight? Were her nether lips, the ones no man had ever seen between her lily-white thighs, swelling and parting as well, preparing to receive him? Liquid fire surged through Thorne's loins, and under fortuitous cover of his waistcoat he hardened so fast it alarmed him. He should insist on trading places with Radleigh, indeed should signal
The words had scarcely left his mouth when he heard a noise directly behind him.
Hands of steel gripped his throat.
He dropped the flask and clawed at the vise-like constriction, but in his drunken state was helpless against such strength. He managed to pull his dirk from his breechwaist, only to have it struck from his hand by his attacker's knee. With sinking heart and hopes, he gagged and gasped, as his captor, like a cat playing with a mouse, cut off all but a tiny influx of precious air. Through the dull roar in his ears, Barker heard a voice like a low growl.
"You've loosed your tongue once too often, Tommy Barker, spending your ill-earned coin in the alehouse and bragging to anyone who'll listen that there's more whence it came. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, old boy, but your spending days are over."
Barker's only reply was a ghastly gurgle as the iron grip tightened, sealing off his windpipe.
Moments later he was released with a shove, his limp body falling into the road atop his precious flask, his bulging eyes staring blankly at the lover's moon.
* * *
Gwynneth smiled up at the moon. "What a beautiful evening it has been. The Sutherlands are such kind people."
Thorne said nothing as he helped her into the coach and climbed up to sit beside her.
"Horace seems a bit distant, but Caroline helped me with all my fittings and the wedding preparations. She is like a sister."
Radleigh poked his head in the doorway. "'Tis too fair a night to be riding in here." He winked at Thorne. "The fresh air will do me good."
Thorne promptly rose to take the empty seat, but Gwynneth laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. "You needn't move," she said softly.
Surprised, he reclaimed the space beside her with some misgiving. Radleigh couldn't have chosen a worse night to leave them alone.
"You were a smashing success," Thorne told her, hoping to change the direction his thoughts kept taking. "You stole the hearts of every man there, young and old."
Gwynneth's pale brow furrowed. "Perhaps I was too merry."
"You were charming." He squeezed her hand.
He should have drunk more of the costly spirits the Sutherlands had served. Perhaps sleep would come then, unlike last night. And perhaps in sleep he could forget the Sutherland vixen. Forget her dark eyes, her velvet voice, her voluptuous form and golden skin. Forget her supple movements, so matched to his own that the two of them might have been coupling instead of dancing. Forget...forget? Who was he trying to fool? She will haunt me in my dreams, God help me. It galled him to be so affected. Lust was a familiar antagonist, but he could not tolerate obsession. He despised such weakness in a man.
And she had known. He had a foreboding feeling that, for a woman like Caroline Sutherland, knowledge was power.
"The hour is late, I should be more tired," Gwynneth was saying. "How did you sleep last night?"
He tried to gather his thoughts. "I'm always restless the first night in a strange bed." He smiled an apology--far less than he'd owe her if she knew how he'd tossed and turned all night, tormented by the knowledge that she was just two rooms away in her bed.
"I nearly knocked upon your door last night."
And now you knock the breath out of me! Sweet Christ.
"Sleep wouldn't come," she was explaining. "And knowing that Father had a bottle of brandy put in your room yesterday, I thought I might try some...I...I've heard it brings on slumber," she finished, faltering under Thorne's intent stare.
Why did her parted lips seem fuller, redder, in the moonlight? Were her nether lips, the ones no man had ever seen between her lily-white thighs, swelling and parting as well, preparing to receive him? Liquid fire surged through Thorne's loins, and under fortuitous cover of his waistcoat he hardened so fast it alarmed him. He should insist on trading places with Radleigh, indeed should signal
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