The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

nor his cooking that was causing this insanity, Duncan knew as he watched her hungrily.

“Do you want an apple?” she asked, rummaging through her pocket. “They are rather small, for the orchard was near to ruin. I always carry a few with me when I hunt. One never knows how long it will take, but we were lucky today.”

“We were lucky,” So, she did have a hunting companion. Somehow, Duncan could not picture Daisy in the role of a stalker. One of the men from the village perhaps? An oddly annoying thought, but the direction of his ruminations was altered abruptly as Selkie trotted closer to the fence. Duncan was about to call out, to warn Kate away. The stallion had more than once been known to bite the hand that fed him, but Selkie nipped the proffered apple with the daintiness of a dowager at tea.

To Duncan’s amazement Kate scrambled onto the fence and began to rub Selkie’s mane. Even after nigh on a month together, the balky horse would not let Fred come close to him. Yet, in the space of a few minutes Kate had the stallion close to purring like a contented cat. However, the horse’s reaction was less oversetting than the sight of Kate herself in breeches and a boy’s shirt. Why was it that those ill-fitting garments so disturbed him? They covered as much as the most modest of gowns. Yet, the masculine cut somehow served to emphasize the feminine charms beneath, hugging curves, suggesting softness.

Kate knew that she ought not to. The mount must certainly belong to The MacLean. Yet, the horse seemed to be taunting her, butting himself playfully against her shoulder, nearly knocking her from the rail as if encouraging her lunatic thoughts. The temptation of freedom was beyond resisting. To gallop, to fly on horseback if only for just a few moments would be more than enough and Duncan MacLean need never know of it. As if the stallion somehow understood, he sidled close, standing stock still. Grabbing a handful of mane, Kate used the fence as her mounting block, sliding herself on to the horse’s bare back in a swift motion.

It was disbelief that held Duncan rooted. She could not be so utterly reckless, to ride an unknown horse with neither reins for guide nor saddle and stirrups for grip. But by the time he was convinced that his vision was telling true, it was too late. Beast and woman became a single creature, a melding of hair and hide, horseflesh and skin that was almost seamless as they cut through the tall grass, gaining speed.

As they rode beyond the narrow pale of his view, Duncan stepped from his concealment and watched them soar effortlessly over a fallen log. The air filled with a childish whoop of glee as her long braids flew behind, the plaits of copper-tinged brown mingling with Selkie’s light mane. They turned at the corner of the pasture with the precision of a crack regiment on parade and he caught a glimpse of her face.

It was as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. The weight of care and wariness was gone, her face wholly open and unguarded. She wore the joy of the moment, shedding the mantle of mistrust that cloaked the fire of an untamed spirit. Green eyes glowed bright, lit like faceted jewels by the exhilaration of her smile. A wild thing she was, in the freedom of that untrammeled flight, as much girl as she was woman.

Still as a lead soldier, Lord MacLean stood by the stables, his shirt tied carelessly about his waist despite the growing chill in the air. Freed from its queue, The MacLean’s damp hair curled at his shoulder, the sunlight shading it the many-hued dark of a raven’s wing. His arms were folded across his torso, throwing the night-colored whorls on his chest into shadowed relief. As she drew closer, she tried to read his expression, but his face was an impassive mask. The horse danced to a halt before him, but he made no move, said not a word to break the damning silence.

There was no choice but to dismount on her own. Apprehension made her awkward as she slid from the stallion’s back and she nearly fell in a heap on the ground. There was no excuse that she could think of as she scrambled to her feet. How could she hope to explain the impulse that had grown to a need? Surely no man could understand what it was to spend a life shackled by convention.

Did she realize the eloquence of her expression? Duncan doubted it; else she would be much better at masking her emotions. Although her back was ramrod straight, her eyes were pools of uncertainty. He moved forward and involuntarily, she took a step back. That small gesture of fear cut him like a whiplash, releasing all the anger that he had tried to rein back. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “You could have bloody well killed yourself! Selkie is no Hyde Park hack, not the compliant pieces of cat’s meat that ladies are wont to ride, my girl!”

My girl, the phrase reverberated in her mind, but she heard Marcus’s voice. You are being childish, my girl. . . Have you no concept of proper behavior, my girl? Always those two hateful words tacked on to every rebuke, simultaneously reducing her to both chattel and child. Usually, the phrase was followed by a sigh and a look of regret that told Kate that she had failed once more to meet Marcus’s lofty standards. Ah, whatever shall I do with you, my girl?

“I am not your girl,” Kate said, her fists clenching by her side. She saw Lord MacLean, but it was not to him that she spoke. “Moreover, you have likely surmised that I am not one of that vapid breed known as ‘lady.’”

Duncan’s fear and fury diminished as fascination came to the fore. Her