FLAME OF DESIRE by Katherine Vickery Read Free Book Online Page B

could she forget that swagger, those shoulders—wide and strong—that raven-black hair and beard?
    “The rebel!” she breathed, breaking into a run, intent upon catching up with him. She could see that he was headed for one of the largest taverns, the Cap and Crown by name, and wondered at his haste. With strides nearly twice her own he seemed to be increasing the distance between them. She wanted to call out to him but wisely held back, instead picking up her skirts to hurry along. There was so much she had to ask him, to tell him.
    A figure stepped out of the shadows before her, blocking her view of him for just a moment, and she swore an oath beneath her breath. A rickety hay wagon rumbling down the street stopped Heather for several moments while she stood watching in helpless frustration. She would never catch up with him now. He would be gone from her sight in just a moment. Gone, and she would never even known  his name.
    “But no, he’s stopping.” She could see him in deep conversation with another man, a man with a red and a white feather in his hat, a man who held out a piece of paper toward him. Heather closed the distance between them, watching as the man, who seemed to be some sort of messenger, walked away to vanish out of sight.
    The rebel stood reading the paper intently, oblivious of the world around him, and Heather wondered what could be written upon it to so transfix his eyes.
    Coming close to him, Heather opened her mouth to speak, but instead gasped. A man in the shadows, the one who had been walking in front of her, held a knife in his fist, a knife poised to strike the dark-haired rebel. Springing forward, he lashed out at his quarry, just as Heather screamed.
    Richard Morgan heard the piercing scream, turning slightly to see from whence it came, just as he felt the slicing pain of the blade. Like flames of white fire, driving the breath from his lungs, the agony came as he fell to the ground to lie gasping on the hard cobblestones of the road. He struggled to get up, clutching the letter to his chest.
    He felt a hot flood of warmth wet his hand and fought to keep it from the paper that he held. Was it his imagination that he saw the face before him that had haunted his nights, saw the auburn tresses blowing near his cheek, felt a soft hand touch his face? Opening his mouth to speak, he reached out his hand to touch her, groaning as he did so, “Heather.”
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
     
    Heather hovered over the wounded man, trying frantically to staunch the bleeding with the torn cloth of her chemise. The blood appeared to come from his shoulder wound and she knew instinctively that her cries had saved his life. The knife had been aimed to strike at the heart but had missed its target.
    Watching him writhe in pain, Heather felt his suffering as if it were her flesh which had been pierced. A tremor of apprehension ran through her, a deep fear that he would not survive. The possibility struck her like a physical blow.
    Despite his agony he clutched tightly to a letter, his face nearly as pale as that piece of paper. Pulling it from his hands despite his protests, Heather stuffed it into her bodice where it would be safe. If it was so precious to him, then how could it be less so to her?
    “I’m going to help you. Lie back and be quiet.” Her words had a calming effect on him and he closed his eyes.
    Looking about her at the people walking by, she sought to find someone to aid her, gesturing to them, crying out, but there was no one who would help. London was a city filled with crime and misery, and the horde of persons within had long ago learned to ignore any pleas for assistance. There were too many thieves who used such methods to filch one’s purse. Thus, they passed her by, ignoring the man whose life’s blood was oozing onto the ground.
    Taking off one of her stockings, Heather tied it firmly around the wound, knowing full well that whether he lived or died was up to her now. The