Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(4)

perish the thought.

“You can’t walk to the village in this storm.” His head dipped, assessing her, and she shuddered to think of the picture she made. Almost on cue, the wind picked up, nearly knocking her sideways.

He sighed and seemed to reach some sort of decision. Squaring those broad shoulders of his, he said, “I’ll take you there.”

“You?”

She blinked against the relentless rain and heard the smile in his voice as he replied, “Yes, me.”

Swiping again at her recalcitrant bonnet, she lifted her chin. “Why would I accept a ride from a self-proclaimed madman?”

His smile slipped and the hard look returned to his eyes. “Because you’ll reach the village in ten short minutes rather than the week it will take you on foot.”

Hmm. Sound logic for a madman. And truthfully, Portia was too miserable to refuse. Anything to reach shelter. Warmth. Dryness. Ground that didn’t shift and sink beneath her feet.

“Very well,” she declared, moving past him.

His stallion, hands taller than any horse she had ever mounted, eyed her suspiciously as she approached. Portia stopped, eyed the great beast in turn and wondered how she might mount without the aid of a step. An accomplished horse woman, she could usually mount unassisted, but not with wet, muddied skirts weighing her down and the spongy ground sucking hungrily at her boots.

She stepped closer, reaching for a handful of sable mane to pull herself atop. The stallion had other ideas. He dipped his head toward her with teeth bared. She jerked back, only barely avoiding the snapping jaws.

“Beast,” she cried, shocked and absurdly offended.

Hard hands grasped her waist and lifted her, securing her sideways atop the horse before she had a chance to protest. He swung up behind her, draping her legs over his thighs as if she were nothing more than a cloth doll to be neatly maneuvered.



Heat rushed her face. Settled snugly against him, she recovered her tongue. “W-what are you doing?” she sputtered. Who would have imagined that she, Lady Portia Derring, renowned bluestocking and spinster, would find herself in such an improper position? And with such a virile man?

The stallion craned his neck and tried to take another hunk out of her leg.

“Stop that, you devil,” she hissed.

“Iago doesn’t care for females.”

Iago? How fitting. The beast would be named after one of Shakespeare’s most villainous characters.

“Well, would you mind having a word with him?” she asked as she dodged another nip. “Before he cripples me?”

“No need for that,” he replied.

Portia opened her mouth to disagree, but he kicked the horse into motion, forcing Iago’s attention away from making a meal of her leg. The sudden movement also sent her rocking against him. He looped an arm around her waist.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Delivering you safely to the village.” His warm breath fanned her ear. A bolt of awareness shot through her and her breath caught. “Never let it be said I’m not a gentleman.”

She snorted. A gentleman would not ride in the midst of a storm with no thought for life and limb. Nor would he toss her about as if she were a sack of grain. Nor press himself so intimately against her.

True, he possessed a fine horse and cultured speech, but his manners were coarse, his clothing plain, his hair too long, and there was something uncivilized about him. Something raw, elemental, as wild as the rough-hewn land surrounding them. More than likely he was a rustic squire unaccustomed to polite society.

Biting her lip, she told herself not to behave like a simpering miss. The type she rolled her eyes at every Season. Of course she would have to sit closely to him in order to share a mount.

Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures.

Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the firm chest at her back, the hard thighs beneath her. The solid arm holding her close. A slow trembling stole over her.

“You’re cold,” his husky voice sounded in her ear, and he drew her closer, folding her into him and wrapping his cloak about the two of them, cocooning them together. Far more courtesy than she would have ascribed to the snarling wild man he had first appeared. “You have no business being out in this weather.”

She stiffened in his arms, not caring for his chastisement.

“You could catch ill,” he added.

“I didn’t plan on getting caught in a storm,” she retorted, “but I’m hardly a frail creature.” Indeed not. She stood taller than most of her would-be suitors, was only thin and lacking in feminine curves—as Grandmother frequently criticized. “I have a healthy constitution. A bit of rain won’t hurt me.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this is more than a bit of rain.”

“Wet and miserable as I am, it’s hard to ignore.”

“Then you should have—”

She twisted her head around, snapping, “I don’t need a lecture from someone who can’t exercise simple caution when riding his horse.”

Portia faced front again, leaning forward as much as she could, too annoyed to let herself relax against his chest.

Silence fell. No sound could be heard save the loud pelting of rain and sucking sound of hooves as they lifted from the quagmire beneath them.

He tugged at her waist, forcing her back against him. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice grudging, as if he resented asking, resented wanting to know.