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Ice hardened Jack’s blue eyes, a reminder his cousin’s easygoing nature had its limits. “Aye, Brendan. But it’s also lonelier.”
Elisabeth woke with a vague unease she couldn’t pinpoint.
No sound but the normal creaks and shifts of the house. A shutter caught in the wind. A fox’s bark echoing lonely and distant. A thin gap in the closed curtains sent an arrow shaft of moonlight over the carpet and up the bed. A chill in the air drove her deeper under the covers for a warm spot. Twisting, turning, and sighing in an effort to get comfortable.
Was this restlessness the effect of too much gingerbread before bedtime? Last-minute wedding nerves? Or her troubling conversation with Aunt Fitz? Did it matter? She needed her sleep. She’d not managed more than a few snatched winks during the last few days, envisioning every Brendan-initiated, disastrous scenario her creative mind could conjure. If she didn’t manage at least a few hours tonight, she’d risk falling asleep at her own wedding breakfast. Not exactly an auspicious start to marital bliss.
Rolling over, she punched the lumps from her pillow. Flopped back with a groan. Stared up into her bedhangings. Counted enough sheep to fill a small meadow. Her limbs grew lax, eyelids heavy. And just as she dozed, a light touch upon her shoulder jerked her awake.
She had a moment’s horrified impression of hard-jawed, angular features, sun-bright eyes, and a finger pressed against full, sensual lips for silence.
She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Couldn’t feel her arms or legs.
So much for Brendan Douglas’s damned luck.
Against her will, sleep finally dragged her under.
six
She woke, heart pounding, nightmare vivid and alive in her mind. Cold raising gooseflesh upon her body. Arms clamping her middle. And an exotic spicy scent tickling her nose. She recalled them with perfect clarity. But . . . she took a ragged breath. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. Everything remained. The cold. The arms. The scent. Heaven help her! Not a dream, then.
She was being held tightly against an unyielding chest, her legs slung sideways across a horse’s withers. Scrub and hedge enclosed a sunken lane, the gurgle of running water coming from nearby. A whirr of wings scraped the air above as some ni
ght prowler hunted. Beyond that, the only sounds were the horse’s breathing, the creak of saddle and the jangle of bit, and the steady fall of each hoof on the muddy track.
She lurched, head spinning, stomach lifting into her throat.
“Careful. The mare’s skittish enough carrying two.”
No. Not that voice. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t.
She went stiff, the top of her head connecting sharply with his chin.
“Ow, bloody hell.” He jerked back, his grip tightening, the mare shying sideways in a dancing skitter of hooves. “Hold still, I said. You nearly made me bite my tongue off.”
She looked up to see him rubbing his chin, annoyance in every disgusted line of his face. But just that slight movement caused her stomach to turn, and her head to whirl in a dizzy blur.
“What in blazes are you playing at, you stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard son of a damn bloody son of a . . .” Shaking with rage, fear, confusion, and a growing, belly-rush of nausea, she dredged up every expletive she’d ever heard, their palliative effect considerable, though they had absolutely no influence on their target, who remained frustratingly unfazed.
“You can thank me later,” he growled.
“Thank you? For what? For destroying my”—she couldn’t breathe—“for kidnapping”—couldn’t stop the overpowering need to be sick—“put me down.”
“I can’t.”
She beat against his chest, tears hot on her cheeks, stomach whirling. “Put me down. Now.”
“What’s wrong?” For the first time he sounded uncertain.
“Now. Or I’m going to throw up all over you.”
He lowered her to the ground, where she immediately fell to her knees, digging her hands into the mud. Uncaring where she was or that she seemed to still be in her nightclothes. The dizziness made the world spin and lurch under her as she heaved until her throat burned and her stomach cramped.
She heard him dismount behind her. He put a hand upon her shoulder as she retched and wept and sniffled and coughed.
And though she fought it, once more the black well of unconsciousness claimed her.
“What are you looking at?” Brendan snapped.
