The man who held her swore in another language (French, unless she was mistaken) and shoved from the rock. Tipping forward, he rolled her unceremoniously from his shoulder and flipped her. She was suddenly face up, lying across his arms like a woman in a swoon. The forest canopy swung into focus above her head, a cathedral of foliage with the night sky behind. Before she could react, he tipped her again and folded her roughly against his chest. She tumbled against him like a string of buoys. Gathering her up, he slowly, carefully, eased around the stone. He crouched down, matching the shape of their bodies to the shape of the rock and wedged his weight into the boulder. Then he exhaled and became perfectly, breathlessly still.
Ryan was given no choice but to fold into a ball in his lap. Her ear was pressed against his clavicle and her hands were bent at odd angles against his chest. Her knees pushed into his ribs. She heard his heart, and felt his beard, and smelled wind and horses and man. She was powerless to do anything but close her eyes and exist in his arms.
A minute passed... two... She’d been chilled on his shoulder but she was rapidly growing overwarm. Her stomach growled. The wound on her leg throbbed. She tried to shift, but he squeezed her tighter. She winced and tipped up her chin to draw breath. Her mouth brushed the whisker-rough skin at his throat. The contact was as unexpected as it was intimate—prickly and warm and tangy; she felt his pulse against her lips. For a long, fuzzy moment, Ryan’s mind skipped away from the woods, and the chase, and thethrob in her leg. She held her lips to his throat, sharing the air beneath the brim of his hat.
Downhill, the highwayman and his lackeys could be heard lumbering through the underbrush. After a time, silence prevailed; then more thrashing; and finally she heard complaining, curses, and the diminishing sounds of their retreat.
An eternity later, he released her. He simply dropped her and scooted away.
Ryan hit the damp, mossy ground in a tangle, sucking in air and scrambling to get her hands beneath her. The contrast between the tight, warm circle of his arms and the wet leaves of the forest felt like a throw from a horse. While she untangled herself, he slid backward, keeping his weight on one knee.
“Have they gone?” she whispered.
“Yes. They are lazy and underpaid.”
“Th-thank you,” she said. “I think. That is, if this is a rescue, I’m in your debt. If this is not a rescue, well—almost anyone would be better than the highwayman. I hesitate to ask, but I was riding a young mare when they attacked me. Do you—”
“The horse now belongs to Channing Meade,” he said. He stood and made no offer to help her up. Ryan braced against the rock to keep from rolling down the hill.
“You are acquainted with the highwayman?” she asked.
“No, but highwaymen steal horses and yours was delivered to him on a platter.”
He removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and pressed it back on his head. The clouds shiftedand Ryan was able to see his face. His features matched his body; strong, angular, rough. Even so, she could tell that he was young; not much more than her own twenty-four years; certainly not thirty.
Also, he was rather handsome. He was bearded, and streaked with dirt, and scowling, but she understood handsomeness as a practical matter; the natural architecture of a face. Fine clothes and pomade only went so far. This man would be handsome in a bog.
Ryan herself was neither pretty nor plain. She was not known for her appearance, a circumstance she’d accepted years ago. Ryan’s calling cards were reason and practicality and getting the job done. Her sister Diana was very striking and her sister Charlotte was very fragile—pretty, each of them, in their own way—and their beauty predicated everything they did. It was like a suffix. Lady Charlotte, the delicate one; Lady Diana, the radiant one. Lady Ryan was the one who held everything together. She was predicated by reliance.
Likely, this man’s handsomeness was also deeply embedded in his personality. She’d only now seen his face, but she’d recognized the beauty of his physical form the moment he’d hefted her onto his shoulder. He had long legs and a broad chest, a rakish hat and dashing leather coat. All of it worked together to make him appear savior-y, rather than menacing. She reminded herself that even though handsome mightfeelsafe, it was no guarantee.
“I’m going,” he said suddenly, shoving to his feet.
Going?she thought, and she realized he meant to leave her. He had rescued her perhaps, but to what end? To desert her in the dark forest?
“Oh,” she said, looking around. “Alright. Yes of course.”
“It will soon rain. I’ve left a nervous horse tied to a tree.”
“Right. Sorry, but can I impose on you to... to...”
She studied the trees around her. The landscape appeared the same in every direction: dark, steep, uncompromising. Her heartbeat ticked up. Perhaps this man wasn’t a threat to her, but the forest certainly was.
“I’ll have to bring you to my camp,” he said. “We’ve no other choice. Can you walk?”
“Your camp,” she repeated, dragging herself up. “How very...” she searched for the word “...kind.”
She was relieved, certainly, but now the veneer of safety wrought by his handsomeness began to tarnish.His camp.She felt the prickle of unease. She didn’t even know this person’s name.
“Forgive me,” she began, “but might I inquire... that is, can you tell me—? Do you have—? Will your family be there? At this camp? Will we be—”
“I live alone except for my horses.”
Ryan blinked at him. He turned away and began walking along a rocky ledge.
He lives alone except for his horses.
But would he simply leave—?
