Claire Delacroix Read Online Free PDF Page A

proud that it seems another kind of creature entirely than the sole plough-horse in Kinfairlie. I turn and race away, a glimpse of the steed enough to make me flee. Unwilling to lead him to my home, I lead him upon a chase through the alleys of Kinfairlie.
    He laughs and clicks his tongue to the horse.
    I duck through every street - for there are not many - and every twisted alley that should have been too narrow for his steed. Yet I fail to lose him nonetheless.
    Breathless and exasperated, I spin to confront him in the relative security of the marketplace.
    That first sight of him nigh steals my breath away, as does his alarming proximity. My heart lodges in my throat as I note the black of his garb, the golden bird with outspread wings that forms the clasp of his cloak. He can be no other than the scion of the Lammergeier family who have rebuilt Ravensmuir keep. Their wicked repute has preceded them and my fears redouble.
    He is beside me in a heartbeat. I have to look up, over his knee, to meet his gaze and then, I am lost.
    Oh, this is a wickedly handsome man, of that there can be no doubt. Black of hair and broad of shoulder, he would be striking by his features alone. His lips curve in a knowing smile, his carriage is proud and confident. He has been born to wealth, and grown tall and straight beneath its advantages. His smile is crooked, confident.
    His eyes temper my fear and awaken my curiosity. They brim with merriment, sparkling as though wrought of stars. He seems amused yet mischievous at the same time. There is a shadow of knowingness deep within those eyes, an awareness of dark secrets, a certainty of not only his own allure but of my reaction to it.
    The reaction of any woman to him.
    “What do you want of me?” I demand, knowing full well the answer.
    The rogue’s smile broadens. He leans down from his saddle with a male grace unfamiliar to me, and flicks his gloved fingertip across my cheek. It is a possessive and intimate gesture, one that makes the old women in the market begin to whisper and cluck.
    I am struck to stone. His glove is soft, softer than I had believed leather ever could be, and his touch is gentle. The glove is dyed to the most remarkable shade of crimson.
    I am tempted to close my eyes and lean against his unexpected caress, tempted to welcome the softness against my cheek, tempted to forget every warning I have ever heard.
    I do not succumb.
    “I desire what all these men desire of you,” he whispers, his words deliciously low. “I desire what you promise with the sway of your hips.”
    “I promise nothing to any man.” I give him a disparaging glance. “And grant them even less.”
    “Are you wed then?”
    “Nay.” I spin and walk yet again, my fear changing to intrigue with startling ease. I had expected violence of him, a capture and a rape, not an inquiry.
    Not a caress.
    Not a flirtation. I almost smile when I hear the horse trot behind me.
    “Have you been spoken for?”
    “Nay.”
    “Pledged to the convent?”
    “Nay.”
    “Then, what is your name?”
    “It is not for you to know.”
    His voice brims with laughter. “And what, my lady not-for-you-to-know, would it take for you to grant a smile to a suitor?”
    I glance back to scoff. “You are no suitor!”
    He feigns such affront that I nearly laugh. Indeed, I enjoy myself overmuch with this handsome rogue.
    “But one glance and the lady knows my intentions. What an uncommon prize of a woman!” His eyes gleam. “I can only assume that you refer to knowledge in the biblical sense.”
    I survey him from unruly hair to fine boot toe with apparent disdain. “In your case, I most definitely do.”
    The villagers laugh.
    He catches at his heart and pretends to be injured. “The lady wounds me.”
    The crowd gathers closer, much entertained, nudging each other as they strain to catch every word.
    I prop my basket upon my hip, toss back my braid and scoff. “Understand this, sir rogue, I would grant such