The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page B

answering, slumbering fire within her. She was no longer able to think. Even if her body w a s still within the tower room, trapped against the strong, powerful body of her stranger husband, her mind had taken that flying leap out onto the battlements. She made a helpless, longing li tt l e sound, half of panic, half of desire, and when he lifted his head this time there was no disguising the triumph in his amber eyes.
    No denying the s m u g sound of his laughter, either, as he released her, moving ba c k across the room and untying the l a c e s of his shirt. “Get on the bed,” he ordered casually. “This won’t take long.”
    The haze of confusion vanished as abruptly as if someone on e had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. She leaned back a g a i ns t the stone wall, staring at him, her breasts rising and falling with a sudden burst of rage. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly impatient, and his cynical, d ar k b eauty made him look like the son of Lucifer h i ms e l f . “What are you waiting for?” h e demanded in a bored voice. “Take off the rest of your clothes and spread your legs.”
    He turned a w a y from her, stripping off the black shirt and tossing it on t h e table. She took several silent, b are foot steps toward her husband , admiring the smooth, muscled line of his back, the sweep of shoulder, the elegant, wiry strength of him. Then she picked up the almost empty jug of water and slammed it over his head.
    He went d o w n hard. The rough crockery was in shards around him, and t h e r e was blood pouring from a gash in his cheek. His eyes were closed, and Elspeth stood over him, wondering w h e t h e r she’d killed h i m. Widowhood might h a v e a great deal to offer.
    However, she didn’t want to have killed him. She leaned down, putting a careful hand to his neck, feeling for a pulse. Within seconds h e r wrist was grabbed as his hand wrapped around the fragile bones like a manacle, hauling her d o w n so that she was sprawled halfway across him, her face inches from his. “Bitch,” he said. And he pulled her down so that her mouth met his.
    She kissed him then. Inexpertly, furiously, with full abandon, opening her mouth to his, pressin g her hands against his shoulders, pushing him down against the bro ken crockery and s pill e d water. When her tongue touched his, the shock almost made her veer away, but his hands were too strong, too determined, holding her in place as she felt the dampness seep i n t o her thin linen skirts, fe lt the sharp bite of broken pottery beneath her knee.
    She wanted to sink d ow n against him, to drown in the spille d water and the h ea t of his mouth. It took every last ounce of pride, of self-preservation, to yank herself a w ay from him before he could pull her back. And this time, when she coshed him on the head with a second pottery jug, he stayed down.
    She didn’t dare check to see if he still lived. The man was incredible—if she put her hands on him again, he’d probably have h e r spread-eagled beneath him. She scrambled away, eyeing h i m warily, terrified he might once again surge forward a n d capture her . But this time he was still, motionless.
    She struggled to her feet as new panic swept over her. Her only chance was to escape before anyone saw her, before her bridegroom returned to h is s e n s e s and d e manded her blood. Huntingdon Keep was on the edge of Dunstan Woods — surely on a warm summer night she could fi n d a place to hide. The woods were ancient, haunted, inhabited by demons and witches and sylvan creatures. She’d have to trust in the God who seemed to ha v e deserted h e r lately to carry her safely through the dangers of the woods.
    She reached for her discarded overdress, then let her hand drop. Pure white was not th e best choice for some one who was trying to be inconspicuous. Instead she picked up the sheriff’s rich black cloak and draped it around h e r slender body . With one l a s t worrying glance at