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The woman drew herself up. “Your visit is pointless. You’ll have to leave.”
“Are you giving me orders, señorita?”
“Just go, that’s all.”
His gaze swept over her. “What do you do here? Are you the cook? The maid? Do you muck out the stalls?”
“I do all those things.”
His mouth twisted. “And warm McDonough’s bed as well?”
Her hand was a blur in the rapidly fading light. Lucas caught it before she could slap him and twisted it behind her, forced her to her toes. She looked up at him through eyes gone so dark they were almost black.
“What’s the matter, amada? Did I strike too close to home?”
“You can’t talk to me that way! Not in America, you can’t. We don’t give a damn for stupid titles. For princes who’ve never sweated for a day’s wages. For—for men who wouldn’t know how to be men if their lives depended on it.”
“Watch yourself,” he said quietly.
He could almost see her struggling between defiance and caution. He knew which she’d choose before she did.
“Or you’ll do what, almighty prince? Subject me to the bastinado?”
Maybe it was the flippant tone. The insulting words. The mention of an ancient punishment.
Or maybe it was her easy dismissal of him as a man, a dismissal made by a woman who knew nothing about being a woman.
“Why would I do that,” he growled, “when there are much better things to do with a woman?”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Kissed that sullen, angry mouth.
She fought him. Hands, teeth, the attempted thrust of a knee. She fought hard but Lucas threaded his hands into her hair, tipped back her head and kissed her again, harder this time, parting her lips with his so that she had no choice but to accept the swift thrust of his tongue.
Her hands came up between them, palms slapping against his shoulders, thumbs scrabbling for his eyes. He shifted his weight, pushed her back against the stable partition and went on kissing her.
She tasted of heat.
Of rage.
Of the untamed land she rode.
And, impossibly, of wildflowers that would come to life from barren soil after a summer rain.
She smelled of them, too. Not of horse, as he’d expected, or leather, but of flowers. Sweet. Exciting. And yet, somehow, tender and innocent as well.
Even struggl
ing against him, she was soft in his arms. Incredibly soft.
Her mouth, her skin were like silk. The feel of her breasts against his chest. Her belly against his…
He swept one hand down the long length of her back. Stroked her as he would a mare afraid of a stallion’s possession. Drew her toward him. Against him. Softened the pressure of his mouth on hers.
And heard the choked cry of her surrender.
She rose toward him. Her hands slid up his chest. “Don’t,” she whispered, but her mouth, that sweet mouth, was opening to his.
“Béseme,” Lucas said thickly. “Kiss me, amada. Like that. Yes. Just like—”
