Page 14 of The Scot is Hers
Giselle went tumbling end over end, scrabbling for purchase on the horse and finding nothing as her vision became a mess of skirts and cloak and nothing else. She landed hard on her arse in a massive mud puddle that splashed up into her eyes. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her mount whirled in a circle as it bucked and reared, going from one end to the other and kicking out in its fear and frantic panic to escape the evil storm. One back hoof just barely missed her face, nearly tangling with her hair. Giselle scrambled to get out of the way of the horse, but the ground was wet, and she kept on falling, making it to her hands and feet before wrenching down with a splash, over and over. One of her gloves succumbed to the mud, being sucked into it as if the mud were quicksand. She finally found her footing, reaching toward the horse and reins.
“Calm, whoa, lad. Calm down. ’Tis all right.” Again and again, she tried to soothe the horse with her words. And then she was touching him, stroking his neck, feeling the skin of the horse ripple and shudder beneath her fingertips. But he was no longer resisting. There was some hope she’d be able to get back up eventually.
But another crack of thunder ruined that plan as the horse bucked again, and she started to tumble, arms flailing. Her foot caught and wrenched in a hole on the ground, yanking her sideways. Pain ricocheted in her ankle as she rolled to her side.
“Bloody hell,” she cursed to the wind, the storm, grappling with the mud and water that had now formed a small river of sorts, intent on washing her away.
At last, she came to a stop and moved to push herself upward only to realize her legs were hanging in midair at the edge of a cliff. Giselle went completely still with panic and fear. One wrong move, and she was going to fall off the edge of this cliff to her death. She patted around, hoping to grasp a bolder buried in the ground, or a thick root, even a clump of grass with which to hold onto and pull herself up.
Instant regret for escaping burned through Giselle because she was certain she was going to die. This had not been her intention in attempting to thwart an unwanted marriage. She very much wanted to live.
5
Strong hands grasped Giselle’s as she clawed at the ground and hauled her quite ungracefully back from where she’d fallen. He lifted her onto her feet and whisked her several feet away from the area of impending death. The stranger set her on her feet, but her ankle would not support her, and she cried out, collapsing against him. Her fingers curled into tight muscles, the scent of male overwhelming.
She was alive.
Somehow, in this miserable storm, she’d been saved.
“Are ye all right?” His arms were tight around her, holding her up. With her clothes soaked and flattened to the contours of her body, the feel of the strong lines of his physique against hers was blatant.
She could not recall ever feeling so much of any male...not even when her idiot betrothed kissed her.
Giselle pushed away suddenly, determined to balance on one leg, for she didn’t know who this stranger was. And she didn’t like the way she was reacting to his closeness. Not even a shred of disgust, but instead the opposite.
Absurd!
“My ankle,” she croaked out in a voice she didn’t recognize.
His face was obscured in shadow from the darkened clouds, and rain pelting against her eyeballs blurred her vision. His hair flattened to his forehead, and what parts of his face that weren’t covered in a beard had been taken over by his locks. All she could make out was that he was incredibly tall and broad.
He stuck out his rather large hand to her, offering her help once more. “Come, there’s shelter over here. I promise no harm will come to ye.”
Giselle tucked her hands behind her. She wasn’t an invalid. And she still didn’t know if she could trust him. He might have plucked her from death for his gain.
“I’ve been walking since I was a bairn,” she said. “I do no’ need your help.” She tried to take a few steps forward, but her ankle wouldn’t cooperate, and her attempts to hop only had her sliding in the mud and falling to her knees with an embarrassed, “Oof,” once more headed toward the cliff that wished to consume her.
“Please, my lady, if ye will quit being so stubborn and allow me to help?” He held out his hands once more, and with a resigned sigh, she nodded.
She supposed death by his hands, versus falling over the side of the cliff, was probably better.
All at once, those strong arms enfolded her—one around her back, one beneath her knees. He scooped her into the air as if she weighed nothing. Giselle resisted the urge to curl into his warmth. How was it possible he could be so warm when soaked, and she felt as if she’d been drowned in a frigid loch in the middle of winter?
The pain in her ankle throbbed. And, oh dear God, she was covered in mud. Her once pretty yellow day dress had lost all its vibrancy, boasting now a mud-soaked brown hue.
Where should she put her hands? Seemed logical to put them around his shoulders to hold on, but that also felt too intimate. She opted to wring them in her lap as he carried her effortlessly through the storm.
“Ye’ve lost a glove,” he pointed out.
“Aye. Where are ye taking me?” she hedged, staring at the landscape, most definitely not wanting to talk about her gloves.
“The ruins.”
Giselle strained to see through the rain, her gaze finally settling on a pile of stone that lurched from the ground as if a giant coming awake from a long nap. Ruins indeed. This was not at all what she’d had planned when she made her escape. A little rain had seemed harmless an hour ago. Now she realized what truth her mother had spat when she said young ladies shouldn’t be riding in the rain.
She turned to stare at the man cradling her, but another crack of thunder had her jumping in his grasp. This time she did wrap her arms around his neck, but only to hold on for dear life. Lightning lit the sky, threatening to blind her. She squeezed her eyes shut, certain that the illuminated streak would stab her right through the chest.
What felt like only moments ago, she’d been telling herself how much she didn’t regret leaving the castle. Now she felt certain of her doom. She’d nearly fallen off the cliff while being trampled by a horse, and now she was being carried into the ruins with a strange man. Where was that horse anyhow? What was the stranger doing out here in the storm, anyway? Waiting for a distressed maiden to come by so he could ravage her under the pretense of saving her?
