Page 3

Move. Move. Move.

Nothing.

“Are ye daft woman? Run!”

A man’s hoarse shout shook Emily from her hypnotic stupor.

The rhythmic pounding of feet and a man swearing beneath his breath gradually filtered through her muffled hearing.

The horse and rider were almost upon her.

Face waxen, eyes wide with dread, lips pulled into a tense, determined line, and a hand fisted in the horse’s ebony mane, a young man bent low over the horse thundering toward Emily. He’d lost the reins but tried valiantly to grasp one, almost falling from the saddle in his efforts.

A moment later, something—not the horse?—plowed into Emily, knocking the breath from her lungs and her feet from beneath her. She landed partially on her side and partially on her back in the grass beside the path.

Sweet Jesus on Sunday.

Had she broken a rib?

A large, heavy, male form lay atop her, nearly suffocating her.

The horse thundered past, so near she felt the wind against her exposed legs.

Exposed?

Well, at least there wasn’t a crowd to witness her mortification and ignominy.

Emily tried to move but groaned and ceased when pain shot through her hip and shoulder. No doubt about it, she’d be covered in bruises and possibly had suffered a broken bone or two given the size of the behemoth pinning her to the ground.

A surprisingly pleasant-smelling behemoth.

She inhaled.

Sandalwood, cedar, and perhaps cloves? Or was it carnation?

Are you mad, Emily?

She’d nearly been run down, and she lay beneath a stranger contemplating the pleasantness of his cologne?

Cracking an eyelid open, she carefully turned her head, waiting for pain to stab her again. None did. Her gaze collided with familiar piercing blue eyes, the color of summer sky, beneath slashing dark-auburn brows.

A groan lodged in her throat.

Really?

Him?

That clot headhad to be her savior?