discomfort, and with a yelp she plummeted
off the destrier to the hard earth below.
Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to
lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head
to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push
them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his
callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.
"Lady Gaithlin de Gare," his voice rumbled
like thunder. "You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance
will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?"
Swallowing the bile in her throat from
fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to
her feet. Seated on her bottom beside the
massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her
disorderly mane aside.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He still couldn't see her face; she was looking to the
ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. "Look at me when I speak to
you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated."
Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself
gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue. Deep, rich, captivating blue. The blue
of the pond.
It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his
disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a
sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly
beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.
The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp
and found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent
body, her graceful movements, the pure femininity of
her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated
lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was
a de Gare.
Life was a wicked thing, indeed.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Christian heard her voice, sultry and seductive
regardless of her apprehension. Good Christ, even her voice was beautiful.
Forcing himself to overcome his incredulity, he struggled to retain a measure
of his authoritarian disposition without completely losing his composure.
"I have never met a de Gare before," he
finally said. It was the truth.
She blinked in puzzlement and he could literally see the
thick lashes fan against her cheeks. "What do you know of the de Gares?
And how do you know who I am?"
He stared at her; he'd been unable to keep from staring
at her from the very moment he laid eyes upon her. Small cracks appeared in his
hard facade, weakening him, causing him to shake with the internal struggle
they encouraged. He didn't want to weaken in the face of a hated de Gare; he
had to maintain the superiority, to maintain the loathing. But the longer he
gazed into her beauty, the deeper the cracks bled.
With his last ounce of resistance, he closed his eyes
against her and turned away, attempting to focus on something other her than
her in order to restore his sanity. He'd been aware of her identity for less
than five minutes; already, he knew he was destined for trouble. The moment he
realized that an indefinite length of sequestration with her was actually an
appealing thought was the moment he realized he was well along the path to his
own destruction.
"I know a good deal about the de Gares," he
said, praying his voice did not give away his shock. "And you, wench, do
indeed know who I am, of that I have no doubt."
Although her head was still throbbing, the world had
righted itself somewhat and Gaithlin labored to her feet. Straightening her
heavy woolen gown, the color of lavender, she allowed her gaze to rove the
massive knight; he was a good deal taller than she was, a remarkable feat
considering she was quite tall for a woman.
His hair was the color of honey with streaks of gold
laced throughout as it tumbled its way to his shoulders and she found it odd
that his hair, for its length, should be
off the destrier to the hard earth below.
Christian watched her fall without moving a muscle to
lend aid. Wild masses of silken blond hair covered her from the top of her head
to her buttocks as she wrestled with the unruly strands in an attempt to push
them from her face. She was obviously shaken and ill, but he maintained his
callous attitude as she struggled to compose herself.
"Lady Gaithlin de Gare," his voice rumbled
like thunder. "You are now my captive and the slightest show of resistance
will be forcefully met. Do you comprehend me?"
Swallowing the bile in her throat from
fear as much as from her aching head, Gaithlin ceased her attempts to rise to
her feet. Seated on her bottom beside the
massive legs of the great white destrier, she swept the remains of her
disorderly mane aside.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He still couldn't see her face; she was looking to the
ground and his irritation suddenly spiked. "Look at me when I speak to
you, wench. Your bestial de Gare manners will not be tolerated."
Sharply, her head came up and Christian found himself
gazing into huge, almond-shaped eyes of the most amazing blue. Deep, rich, captivating blue. The blue
of the pond.
It took him a moment to realize the verity of what his
disbelieving mind was attempting to convey. He heard his breath escape in a
sharp, forceful blow; the longer he gazed into the enchanting eyes and utterly
beautiful face, the more difficult it became for him to catch his breath.
The cruelty of Fate was almost more than he could grasp
and found himself struggling against the perfect memories of her magnificent
body, her graceful movements, the pure femininity of
her presence as she had displayed her aura within the privacy of the isolated
lake. Never had he met with such perfection. But the fact remained that she was
a de Gare.
Life was a wicked thing, indeed.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Christian heard her voice, sultry and seductive
regardless of her apprehension. Good Christ, even her voice was beautiful.
Forcing himself to overcome his incredulity, he struggled to retain a measure
of his authoritarian disposition without completely losing his composure.
"I have never met a de Gare before," he
finally said. It was the truth.
She blinked in puzzlement and he could literally see the
thick lashes fan against her cheeks. "What do you know of the de Gares?
And how do you know who I am?"
He stared at her; he'd been unable to keep from staring
at her from the very moment he laid eyes upon her. Small cracks appeared in his
hard facade, weakening him, causing him to shake with the internal struggle
they encouraged. He didn't want to weaken in the face of a hated de Gare; he
had to maintain the superiority, to maintain the loathing. But the longer he
gazed into her beauty, the deeper the cracks bled.
With his last ounce of resistance, he closed his eyes
against her and turned away, attempting to focus on something other her than
her in order to restore his sanity. He'd been aware of her identity for less
than five minutes; already, he knew he was destined for trouble. The moment he
realized that an indefinite length of sequestration with her was actually an
appealing thought was the moment he realized he was well along the path to his
own destruction.
"I know a good deal about the de Gares," he
said, praying his voice did not give away his shock. "And you, wench, do
indeed know who I am, of that I have no doubt."
Although her head was still throbbing, the world had
righted itself somewhat and Gaithlin labored to her feet. Straightening her
heavy woolen gown, the color of lavender, she allowed her gaze to rove the
massive knight; he was a good deal taller than she was, a remarkable feat
considering she was quite tall for a woman.
His hair was the color of honey with streaks of gold
laced throughout as it tumbled its way to his shoulders and she found it odd
that his hair, for its length, should be
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