Page 21 of What a Scot Wants
“I am a man of many talents,” he said. “In fact ye should see my sw—”
“Yes, yes, your sword. You’ve spoken of that at length already.”
“Atgreatlength.”
She rolled her eyes and replied in a droll tone, “So you keep saying. You know, overcompensation is a well-known male flaw. Should I be worried, Your Grace?”
Ronan couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud. He hadn’t felt so invigorated or light in years. And to his surprise, she was biting back her amusement, too. A genuine smile split her face, one that lit her green eyes and transformed her.
Now that he’d seen that sliver of the real woman, Ronan couldn’t stop staring. Her eyes, the color of spring grass, mesmerized him. Her lips were a glistening pink bow when curled upward in laughter and not pinched tightly together. Her chin matched the stubbornness of her nature, yes, but that he already knew. And her neck… It was long and graceful and elegant. For a second, he wanted to put his lips against it, make that alabaster column flush with color.
“Your Grace, why have we stopped?”
Ronan blinked, his brain registering her inquiry with delayed slowness. They had indeed stopped. He glanced back to where they’d started and realized they’d gone ten yards, if that. It had felt like a lifetime. He shook his head, but that wasn’t what mystified him. Hell, had he beenoglingthe lass? Andlikingit? Dimly, he registered the stiffening beneath his kilt and the sudden boiling temperature of his blood.
Bloody hell. He was aroused.
Her stare fell to his lap, and a blush crept into her cheeks, but she arched a provocative eyebrow. “Sword problems?”
God help him, he wanted to laugh again, ravish that pert mouth of hers, and put her over his knee. And that wasn’t even taking into account what he wanted to do with his bloody…sword. He bit his lip to keep from chuckling. The brashness of her.
This would not do. He had to turn the tables, restore the order. Restore his God damned sanity. Without a further thought, he reached over and plucked the lady clear out of her saddle, ignoring her unladylike squawk of protest. She went quiet quickly, however, when she felt him hard against her thigh.
“Your Grace, this is—”
“Vastly preferable,” he said, cutting her off. “Unless, of course, ye do ken how to ride and wish to apologize for this shameful performance.”
“Of course not.” She held herself ramrod straight in front of him, hot color flooding her skin, just as he’d hoped. “Everyone is looking.”
“Let them look.”
Ronan settled her into place, wondering if he’d turned the tables so thoroughly that the odds were now against him. Beneath that hideous riding habit, he felt soft, womanly curves, and the heady fragrance of her saturated his nostrils. It was sweet and sharp, like the wildflowers that crowded the hills of Maclaren. She smelled like the height of summer, of lazy days on the edge of the loch, of mischief and laughter and forgotten childhood.
Good Lord, hewasByronic.
Growling, he kicked Zeus into a gallop, and she squeaked, one arm grasping the horse’s mane and the other flying around his waist.
“This is riding,” he said. “No’ whatever it was ye think ye were doing on Dumpling.”
“Her name is Pudding. Return me to my own horse. I’m…afraid.”
“Ye’re nae more afraid than I am an idiot.”
“I beg to differ,” she muttered and scowled at him. “You are an idiot, you oaf.”
“Then why are ye holding yer body like ye were born in the saddle?” he asked, leaning forward so his nose was almost in her nape. Her scent scattered his wits. Ronan felt her sudden inhalation, saw the streaming tempo of her pulse. He also saw the moment she gave in, when her shoulders relaxed and her body rolled with the gait of the horse. Like a natural. “Pudding is beneath ye, and ye ken it.”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “And I suppose you know what’s best for me?”
Ronan didn’t answer, instead wrapping an arm around her middle and bracing her back against his chest as he urged Zeus even faster. He should say something insensitive. Something coarse and off-putting. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He wanted to relish the moment, enjoy the feel of her soft curves against him.
What the hell?
He’d lost his bloody mind. Ronan wheeled the horse around and headed back for her groom, who was leading her plodding mount with a pained look on his face.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The other walkers and riders in this part of the park were indeed watching, agape and whispering as he set her ungracefully back on the mare’s broad back.
