“Cailín,” he said gently. “There is no such thing as ghosties. ‘Twas myself calling you.”
She stared at him a moment in disbelief. He nodded. “I pictured you in your room, waiting, and called your name in my mind.”
“You were telling me you needed me.”
“Aye.”
“And isthatwhy you kissed me?”
He dropped his gaze to her lips, to those very kissable lips. “Because I was thankful?”
She nodded, a troubled line between her brows.
“Don’t be foolish.” And to prove his words, he kissed her again.
Only this kiss was different from his earlier one. Then, he’d been exuberant that she had come, that she had heard him.
Now, he attempted to explain the depth of what he felt, an emotion he did not fully understand yet himself. Their lips fit together perfectly. Everything about them fit together perfectly.
She made a soft mew of surprise, pulled back. He refused to let her escape—and she capitulated, turning more fully in his arms to receive him.
Ian had kissed more than his share of women, but none was as sweet and tempting as this one.
Deep within there rose a need for fulfillment like nothing he’d experienced before. All his life he’d been in search of what she was offering, in search of what she alone could give, and now here she was offering herself with such sweetness—
The pounding of hooves across the ground were his only warning. A heartbeat later, a party of four men and horses charged into the field. Ramsey Davidson was at their lead followed closely by another man in a low brimmed hat.
“It’s Fielder,” Lyssa said, identifying the second man.
Ian kicked the stallion and the chase was on. He drove the horse toward a midnight dark line of trees. He trusted this horse. He was smart and surefooted and Ian sensed he wanted to escape Davidson as much as they did.
Bracing her against him, Ian half-cocked the pistol, preparing to fire if necessary.
They reached the woods. Through the dark forest they ran. The stallion chose his own path, weaving in and out through the trees. Behind them, Ian heard their pursuers fall behind. At least two riders were unseated, their bodies crashing to the ground.
Someone fired off a pistol shot. It went wide and Ian grinned. Only a fool would waste a shot in a chase like this. He would beat them. He had no doubt.
They came out into another pasture. The stallion’s hooves threw up clods of newly turned earth. A hedgerow loomed ahead and without breaking stride, the horse jumped—
A second shot was fired.
Midair, the stallion squealed, kicking out and twisting in alarm. His front hooves hit the ground. He stumbled, coming down to his knees.
The horse had been hit.
He struggled to his feet and then, with a frightened squeal, reared in fear. Ian had to make a choice between Lyssa and the pistol which he let fall to the ground. Anger the likes he’d never felt before surged through him.
Ramsey Davidson shouted, the sound a screech in the night, “Damn you, Fielder, you shot my horse!”
Ian slid off, bringing Lyssa with him. “Run,” he ordered. “Head for the trees.”
“What about you?”
“I have a score to settle.” He gave her a push in the direction he wanted her to go and turned to face his attackers.
However, Davidson was no longer interested in him. He’d reined his horse in and confronted Fielder, “You shot my horse, you fool!”
“I wanted to stop them and I have!” Fielder flashed back. He was almost upon the hedgerow where Ian stood waiting. A man on foot could have an advantage over a rider, if he was cagey. Ian pulled the knife out of his knapsack and dropped the leather bag to the ground.
