He steadied his grip on the sword, hoping the woman hadn't seen it waver. His chest heaved with exhaustion and he was forced to shake the sweat from his eyes before stealing a desperate glance over his shoulder.

The forest betrayed no sign of pursuit, freeing him to return his attention to his trembling captive. "Have you no answer for my question? Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

To his surprise, the surly demand ignited a spark of spirit in the wench's eyes. "Wait just a minute! Maybe the question should be who the h.e.l.l are yow?" Her eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. "Don't I know you?" She began to mutter beneath her breath as she studied his face, making him wonder if he hadn't snared a lunatic. "Trim the hair. Give him a shave and a bath. Spritz him with Brut and slip him into an off-the-rack suit. Ah-ha!" she crowed. "You're George, aren't you? Georgea Georgea?" She snapped her fingers. "George Ruggles from Accounting!" She slanted him a glance that was almost coy. " 'Fess up now, Georgia boy. Did Daddy offer you a raise to play knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress?"

His jaw went slack with shock as she swatted his sword aside and scrambled to her feet, brushing the gra.s.s from her shapely rump with both hands. "You can confide in me, you know. I promise it won't affect your Yearly Performance Evaluation."

She was taller than he had expected, taller than any woman of his acquaintance. But far more disconcerting than her height was her brash att.i.tude. Since he'd been old enough to wield a sword, he'd never met anyone, man or woman, who wasn't afraid of him.

The sun was beating down on his head like an anvil. He clenched his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. "You may call me George if it pleases you, my lady, but 'tis not my name."

She paced around him, making the horse prance and shy away from her. "Should I call you Prince then? Or will Mr. Charming do? And what would you like to call me? Guenevere perhaps?" She touched a hand to her rumpled hair and batted her sandy eyelashes at him. "Or would you prefer Rapunzel?"

His ears burned beneath her incomprehensible taunts.

He could think of several names he'd like to call her, none of them flattering. A small black cat appeared out of nowhere to scamper at her heels, forcing him to rein his stallion in tighter or risk trampling them both. Each nervous shuffle of the horse's hooves jarred his aching bones.

She eyed his cracked leather gauntlets and tarnished chain mail with blatant derision. "So where's your shining armor, Lancelot? Is it back at the condo being polished or did you send it out to the dry cleaners?"

She paced behind him again. All the better to slide a blade between his ribs, he thought dourly. Resisting the urge to clutch his shoulder, he wheeled the horse around to face her. The simple motion made his ears ring and his head spin.

"Cease your infernal pacing, woman!" he bellowed. "Or I'll a" " He hesitated, at a loss to come up with a threat vile enough to stifle this chattering harpy.

She flinched, but the cowed look in her eyes was quickly replaced by defiance. "Or you'll what?" she demanded, resting her hands on her hips. "Carry me off to your castle and ravish me? Chop my saucy little head off?" She shook that head in disgust. "I can't believe Mama thought I'd fall for this chauvinistic c.r.a.p. Why didn't she just hire a mugger to knock me over the head and steal my purse?"

She marched away from him. Ignoring the warning throb of his muscles, he drove the horse into her path. Before she could change course again, he hefted his sword and nudged aside the fabric of her tunic, bringing the blade's tip to bear against the swell of her left breast. Her eyes widened and she took several hasty steps backward. He urged the stallion forward, pinioning her against the trunk of a slender oak. As her gaze met his, he would have almost sworn he could feel her heart thundering beneath the blade's dangerous caress.

A mixture of fear and doubt flickered through her eyes. "This isn't funny anymore, Mr. Ruggles," she said softly. "I hope you've kept your resume current, because after I tell my father about this little incident, you'll probably be needing it."

She reached for his blade with a trembling hand, stirring reluctant admiration in him. But when she jerked her hand back, her fingertips were smeared with blood.

At first he feared he had p.r.i.c.ked her in his clumsiness. An old shame quickened in his gut, no less keen for its familiarity. He'd striven not to harm any woman since he'd sworn off breaking hearts.

She did not yelp in distress or melt into a swoon. She simply stared at her hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Doesn't feel like ketchup," she muttered, her words even more inexplicable than her actions. She sniffed at her fingers. "Or smell like cherry cough syrup."

She glanced down at her chest. A thin thread of blood trickled between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, affirming his fears. But as her bewildered gaze met his and the ringing in his ears deepened to an inescapable roaring, he realized what she had already discovered. Twas not her blood staining her breast, but his own. His blood seeping from his body in welling drops that were rapidly becoming a steady trickle down the blade of his sword. Horror buffeted him as he realized it was he, and not she, who was in danger of swooning. The sword slipped from his numb fingers, tumbling harmlessly to the gra.s.s.

He slumped over the horse's neck, clutching at the coa.r.s.e mane. He could feel his powerful legs weakening, betrayed by the weight of the chain mail that was supposed to protect him. Sweat trickled into his eyes, its relentless sting blinding him.

"Go," he gritted out. "Leave me be."

At first he thought she would obey. He heard her skitter sideways, then hesitate, poised on the brink of flight.

His flesh felt as if it were tearing from his bones as he summoned one last burst of strength to roar, "I bid you to leave my sight, woman. Now!"

The effort shredded the tatters of his will. He could almost feel his pride crumbling along with his resolve, forcing him to choke out the one word he detested above all others. "Pleasea"

Swaying in the saddle, he pried open his eyes to cast her a beseeching glance. Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had never fallen before anyone, especially not a woman.

And in the end he didn't fall before this one either.

He fell on her.

Chapter 5.

Tabitha lay utterly still, afraid to breathe. In her most daring fantasies, she had wondered what it might feel like to have a man on top of her. To lay hip to hip, thigh to thigh, her tender b.r.e.a.s.t.s crushed against his brawny chest, his face nuzzled in her freshly washed hair.

She sniffed lightly, unable to resist satisfying her clinical curiosity. Her father always walked around in a cloud of expensive aftershave and the handful of men she'd dared to date showered and shaved twice a day. She'd never before smelled the sweat of honest toil, tempered with the mingled musk of horse, woodsmoke, and leather. She found the combination earthy, yet as undeniably beguiling as the p.r.i.c.kle of the stranger's unshaven jaw against her cheek. She half expected him to murmur some husky endearment.

He groaned. Tabitha's eyes flew open. The poor man probably wouldn't be inclined to whisper sweet nothings in her ear while bleeding to death. As much as she wanted to believe he was just some flunky hired by her parents to woo her, the blood soaking the front of her pajama shirt felt alarmingly real.

She tugged one hand free and shoved at his shoulder. "Mr. Ruggles?" she hissed. "George?"

He groaned again and settled his body more firmly against hers. Tabitha squirmed at the increasing intimacy, but that only made things worse.

This was frustrating. And it was her own fault. When he'd fixed her with that puppy-dog stare and started to tumble off the horse, she'd had every opportunity to hop out of harm's way. Instead, she'd given in to the inexplicable urge to break his fall. All she'd gotten for her heroic effort was to be pinned under his weight. She was afraid he'd crush her, but it was as if he'd deliberately landed so as to do her the least harm. Even the gla.s.ses in her shirt pocket seemed to have survived the impact.

She turned her head, looking around for help. The horse stood a few feet away, placidly munching on a patch of clover as if he hadn't threatened to trample her to death only minutes before. Lucy had draped her small, furry body over a sun-drenched hillock and was blissfully napping.

A b.u.t.terfly perched briefly on Tabitha's nose, making her eyes cross, then fluttered away with blithe abandon. She sighed, wondering if she was destined to spend eternity trapped beneath this ill-tempered stranger.

When she turned back, he was gazing down at her, his golden eyes more quizzical than threatening. Tabitha's breath stalled in her throat. He looked like a sleepy tiger trying to decide if he should eat his prey or simply toy with it.

Tabitha did not need her gla.s.ses to see him clearly. She was nearsighted and he was very near indeed. She could feel the pounding of his heart as if it were her own.

His face loomed in her vision a" angry slashes of eyebrows over deep-set eyes; a strong, blunt nose; a mouth that had lost its smile, but not its winsome quirk; a stubborn jaw armored with dark stubble. The faint bags beneath his eyes hinted at exhaustion, but did not detract from the dangerous appeal of his thick, stubby lashes.

Tabitha blinked. She'd never been the sort of woman to fall for a pair of bedroom eyes. His gruff words reminded her why.

"Whose woman are you?"

Her dismay erupted in outrage. "Why, of all the arrogant, politically incorrect, blatantly chauvinistic a" "

He behaved exactly as she would have expected an arrogant, politically incorrect, blatantly chauvinistic male to behave. He clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth, stifling her words. She glared at him, tasting leather against her lips.

"I asked you a simple question, la.s.s. Do you belong to any man?"

She shook her head furiously, but it wasn't until his gaze softened, becoming both tender and predatory, that she remembered she had practically invited him to ravish her before he'd come tumbling into her arms.

She was being ridiculous. Surely no man who'd lost that much blood could a"

A faint shift of his hips brought a warm and fulsome weight to bear against the softness of her belly. Apparently, he hadn't lost that much blood.

She gazed at him, the two of them suddenly reduced to something more elemental than the sum of their parts. Man. Woman. Power. Vulnerability. She felt a flicker of doubt. Her mother might bemoan the fact that Tabitha spent most of her Sat.u.r.day nights at home watching reruns of The X-Files on the Sci-Fi network, but she wouldn't have set her up on a blind date with a rapist.

Would she?

As he freed her mouth and lowered his parted lips to hers, a fresh realization struck terror in Tabitha's heart. He wasn't going to rape her. He was going to kiss her. Struck by a vision of this mighty warrior squatting on her chest croaking "rbbit, rbbit," she turned her face away and gave his chest a panicked shove.

He rolled off of her with less resistance than she expected, groaning as if in mortal agony.

Tabitha sprang to her feet. "You were going to kiss me!"

"I know," he muttered, eyeing her warily. "Delirium must be setting in."

She rested her hands on her hips, trying to decide whether to be relieved or insulted. "You can whine and moan all you like, you bogus Beowulf, but I'm not going to feel sorry for you." She pulled the sticky flannel from her skin, grimacing in distaste. "Why look what you've done! Ruined my very favorite pair of pajamas!"

"Do forgive me. I'll take more care where I spill my heart's blood in the future."

She flinched. As he lay there propped up on his elbows in the gra.s.s, those golden eyes burning with pride over his pinched, pale mouth, she discovered to her dismay that she did feel sorry for him.

She dropped to her knees at his side. He eyed her with sullen suspicion, but allowed her to gently pry away the hand he'd cupped protectively over his shoulder.

" 'Tis naught but a scratch," he muttered.

Tabitha winced. Something had slashed through his armor, carving an ugly furrow just above his armpit. "If that's a scratch, I'd hate to see what you consider a laceration." She began to tear the hem from her pajama shirt.

He nodded toward her straining hands. "I thought that was your favorite garment."

"At the moment it's my only garment," she mumbled ruefully, using her teeth to rip free a broad strip of the flannel.

He surprised her by cupping her throat in his hand, his grip somewhere between a caress and a threat. "I might not live to regret this if you turn out to be one of them."

The ruthless glitter of his eyes convinced her that this man's enemy was not something she should ever aspire to be.

She forced a cool smile. "You won't live to regret it if you bleed to death either."

Conceding her point, he allowed her to proceed. After she'd torn another strip from her pajamas, she peeled back the soft leather shirt beneath his armor to reveal the sort of chest one couldn't buy from a personal trainer or expensive gym. Oddly enough, the numerous nicks and scars seemed as much a part of him as the crisp whorls of dark hair that fanned across the dusky expanse. Tabitha bit her bottom lip, struggling to concentrate on the task at hand.

As she wound the fabric around his shoulder, she glanced up to find him transfixed by her feet. He nodded toward her slippers with their bright plastic eyes and cheerfully bobbing whiskers. "What manner of creature did you kill for those?"

This time her smile was genuine. "The dreaded polyester." She was securing the bandage with a tasteful bow when his head snapped upright.

"What is it?" Tabitha whispered. She heard nothing.

Nothing but the eerie silence that had preceded his own arrival.

She sincerely hoped his tense posture was simply psychotic paranoia or overwrought acting. "What is it?" she repeated. "I don't hear anything."

He held up a hand for silence. Lucy crouched on the hillock, fully alert now, hackles rising. The horse tossed his head, whickering a warning. Then she heard it, far off in the distance like an echo from a nightmare.

The thunder of hoofbeats. The baying of hounds. The excited clamor of male voices.

The stranger grabbed her hand. "Flee, woman! I'm too weak to ride and if they find you here with me, 'twill not go well for you."

"If those are the same men who stabbed you, then I doubt it'll go very well for you either," she pointed out with irrefutable logic.

Bitterness darkened his eyes. "I'm a man. They'll only string me up from the nearest oak or cut my throat. But you're a woman. If Brisbane's dogs don't tear you to shreds, his men will."

Suddenly Tabitha didn't want to play this particular game anymore. She wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h Lucy into her arms and sprint for the far side of the meadow. She wanted to tip her face to the sky and wail, "I want my mommy!"

But her mother was nowhere in sight and this man's urgency was real, as real as the blood still seeping through the clumsy flannel bandage, as real as the bite of his fingers into her flesh, the desperate entreaty in his eyes.

"Take my mount and go," he commanded. "Before 'tis too late."

The forest no longer looked cheerful and welcoming, but dark and sinister a" just right for Snow White's wicked stepmother and an entire orchard of poison apples. The baying of the hounds was growing louder and more relentless with each pa.s.sing second.

Tabitha looked uncertainly at the horse. "I've never ridden before. Is it anything like riding in the back of a limousine?"

Her captor softened his grip, caressing her knuckles with his gauntleted thumb. "Go, la.s.s," he said gently. "We'll have no more of your dallying."

Oddly enough, it was that tender rebuke that decided her.

Tabitha would never know where she found the strength to try and get him astride the horse. He cursed the entire time, colorful indictments of the fair s.e.x in general and herself in particular. Her shortcomings were described in meticulous detail, down to her wretched stubbornness, disobedient nature, and deplorable lack of wit. When he tumbled off the horse for the third time while reaching to give her ears a halfhearted cuff, she was finally forced to admit defeat.

They lay on their backs in the gra.s.s, Tabitha gasping for breath, the knight glowering at her through the dark locks of hair that spilled over his forehead. She felt a familiar vibration shimmy up her spine, a thousand times worse than it had been before. The ground trembled as if a herd of elephants was stampeding straight for them. Not elephants, she realized in panic, but horses.

She scrambled to her feet.

"Now will you go?" the stranger bit off, his eyes glazed with a blend of fury and pain.

Sunlight glinted off steel, catching Tabitha's frantic eye. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up Lucy and thrust the kitten into the man's hands. His sputters deepened to oaths when she bent to retrieve his fallen sword. It strained every muscle in her shoulders to lift the ma.s.sive weapon, but lift it she did, staggering around to face the invisible threat.

If these men were ruthless enough to cut down a wounded man, they would have to come through her first.

Tabitha had never thought of herself as being particularly brave. Somehow she found the courage to stand her ground when the horses came pouring out of the forest, led by a pack of baying hounds. The riders reined in their mounts less than a foot from her outstretched blade, fanning out in a circle to surround them. The hounds bared their teeth and snapped at her pajama legs. Tabitha bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood to keep from crying out in terror.

The man mounted at the head of the party shouted some incomprehensible command and the dogs fell back, slinking away with flagging tails and reproachful looks.

"I can hardly blame them," their master drawled, "I'd sulk, too, if I'd been deprived of such a tasty morsel."

Tabitha slowly lifted her gaze to the face of the man who held their fates in his velvet-gloved hands. She expected to find a ruthless sneer, not the sort of urbane smile so prevalent at company c.o.c.ktail parties. A rush of confusion dizzied her. Surely this was the man her mother had chosen to star in her fantasy.

He rode a snow-white charger with a profusion of ribbons and bells braided into its silky mane. They tinkled a winsome melody each time the spirited beast tossed its head. Tabitha wouldn't have been surprised to see a golden horn sprout from its milky brow.

The horse's master was no less a creature of myth. A honeyed mantle of hair brushed his shoulders, framing a face that might have been considered effeminate in its elfin beauty were it not for the determined jut of his clean-shaven chin. He wore a forest-green cloak trimmed in cloth-of-gold draped over his cream-colored tunic and leggings. Despite the grueling ride, he looked as fresh as if he'd just stepped from a hot shower. Tart lemon perfumed the air around him.

The man's green eyes glittered beneath arched brows a shade darker than his hair. "I've never known you to let a woman wield your precious blade, Ravenshaw." Tabitha's arms had began to droop with exhaustion; all it took was a nudge of his booted foot to drop the sword another six inches. "Perhaps you're growing soft in defeat."

The men burst into raucous laughter.

"Go to h.e.l.l, Brisbane," her companion said, his voice soft, yet sharp enough to slice through their mockery.