The Perfect Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page A

doors were only half closed: the top half of the door was hooked back. Over the closed lower doors poked the head of a white horse, its eyes large, dark, and intelligent.
    Thank God. She could ride for help.
    The wind dropped for a moment and Grace heard a whinny and the sound of a man’s voice, deep and low. She ran toward it and as she reached the line of open-topped stalls she heard the voice again. It was too muffled for her to make out any words, but it didn’t sound like English.
    “Help!” Grace called loudly. “Help me, please! There’s been an accident and I need help!”
    A man looked out over a half stable door. “Where the devil did you spring from?” He spoke with an accent she could not place.
    His looks made her catch her breath. No, it was the running, she told herself. He was a disgrace.
    He was tall, his face was dirty and unshaven, and his thick black hair was tousled and in need of a cut. His face was severe, all hard angles and planes, lean and . . . hungry.
    He stared back at her with strange, cold, yellow eyes, his expression impatient. “I suppose you’ve come about the mares.” His gaze ran over her, lingering insolently on the parts where her wet clothes clung. And the strange golden eyes glowed.
    Grace did not care. “I don’t know anything about any mares. I need help. There’s been an accident.”
    His gaze snapped to her face. “What sort of accident?”
    “Our carriage has overturned. On the driveway below.”
    He muttered something under his breath. It wasn’t English. “Is anyone hurt?”
    “No, not really, but they’re stuck in the carriage and the postilion has run away. He was drunk! You must come, now!”
    He considered her words. “So, nobody is dead? Or bleeding?”
    “No,” she said, frustrated. “But the door is blocked by the ground and they cannot get out. You must come at once!”
    “Any horses injured?” He came out of the stall.
    He might be a gypsy, she thought. He was dark enough for it. He wore no coat. He was dressed in mud-smeared high boots and stained buckskin breeches. His shirt, too, was soiled, the sleeves rolled up over sinewy, tanned forearms. She didn’t care. He looked strong and capable and that’s what counted at the moment.
    “No, they’re all right. Please hurry !”
    “Who did you say you were?” He fastened the door behind him with deliberate care.
    She almost wept with impatience. She stamped her foot instead. “My name is Greystoke and who I am is of no importance!”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Now calm down, Greystoke. Nobody has been hurt. I’m coming. Everything will be all right.” His voice was deep and calm and confident.
    She tried to convey some sense of urgency. “Miss Pettifer—in the carriage—” She gestured vaguely down the drive. “Miss Pettifer is Lord D’Acre’s affianced wife and soon to be your mistress, so please inform your master, at once !”
    “I call no man master.” His calmness was infuriating. His eyes bored into Grace, wicked amusement dancing in their depths. “But I wouldn’t mind a mistress. Are you soon to be my mistress, too, Greystoke?” He hitched up his buckskin breeches. “I could do with a mistress. It’s been a while.”
    Grace was scandalized. But she knew better than to bandy words with a golden-eyed, mannerless gypsy devil. She said crisply, “You have no manners and your mind needs as good a scrubbing as the rest of you! Now hurry !”
    He gave her a faint, wholly wicked smile and moved purposefully forward. At last! she thought, but then he marched right up to her and suddenly he was close. Too close for comfort and before she could react he had her face cupped in his hands and all she could see was his eyes. They were an odd color, a light golden amber, ringed with a thin black line. They gleamed under slanted black brows.
    She was trapped. Like a rabbit facing a wolf. Too shocked to move.
    His gaze roamed over her face like a caress. “Are those freckles