Shadow Rider. Kathrynn Dennis

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СКАЧАТЬ searching in the shadows of the woods where my sister and her son were killed. I’ve vowed to find the killer but am no closer now than when I started. This colt was born to help me.” He pointed to the mare and foal. “We’ll take them with us when we leave, first thing in the morning.”

      Sybilla pressed her lips together to halt a gasp. This man, the one they called the Shadow Rider—meant to steal her foal?

      Sybilla clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms. Shadow Rider or not, she would defy him if he thought to steal Regalo.

      Guy ripped an armful of brown hay from the lopsided roll and chucked the stuff into the stall. “Eat heartily tonight, old girl. Tomorrow morn we leave for Ketchem Castle.”

      The hay landed in the trough above Sybilla. Dust and chaff floated down, coating her face and shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.

      Then she sneezed.

      In an instant, Sir Guy leapt across the stall boards, grabbed Sybilla by the arm and pulled her to her feet. As her back slammed against the wall, moonlight streamed down, shining brightly in her face. Cold steel pressed against her throat.

      Sir Guy stared, his gaze penetrating, searching. “Who are you, Mistress Green Eyes?” he demanded, his hot breath blowing on her cheek. He eased the blade away, but just enough to let her speak.

      Sybilla’s mouth went dry. He smelled of barley ale and wood smoke, and he was so close she could see the welt beneath his bruised eye was turning a bloody-purple hue. Fear gripped her heart and limbs, yet she would not yield. He meant to take her foal, her Regalo, and she would not give him up.

      She glared at Sir Guy. His dark eyes flamed with an animal-like quality signaling he would react if she so much as flinched. But, Mother Mary, he had the face of the fair St. Michael—with a swollen eye and bleeding cheekbone, but an astoundingly beautiful face—framed by a mass of thick black hair that curled at the nape of his neck.

      Her heart pounding, she clutched her shift to her chest. “I am Sybilla Corbuc. The foal is mine. I will not let you steal him.”

      His brows furrowed. “Steal him? What makes you think I’d steal him? I repeat, Mistress Corbuc, for I am certain you heard me the first time—I am many things, but I am not a thief.” He leaned in close. Too close.

      Sybilla felt the scorching heat rise up her neck. Her thin chemise did little to conceal her breasts, and the bottom of the threadbare garment had hiked high above her knees. Her woolen hose had slipped down around her ankles, leaving most of her legs exposed. Mother Mary. She was as good as naked and his ready hardness pressed against her thigh.

      Sir Guy narrowed his gaze. “What have you been doing, Mistress Corbuc?”

      He glanced at the bucket filled with dirty water. “Were not the foal newborn, I would suspect you were up to something else entirely,” he whispered. “’Tis too cold to be undressed, though I must admit, the look of you does much to warm my chilled heart.” He plucked a sprig of hay from her unraveling braid. “You are filthy and your hair is a mess, but what a color. Dark and golden, like cooked honey.”

      Sybilla’s knees almost buckled. His face was just a hair’s breadth from hers, his mouth as close as a whisper. His body radiated warmth and strength, and maleness. For a moment, she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer.

      Simon’s voice rang out, “Guy, you don’t know whose kin she may be. Remember Lady Avelina. We’ve trouble enough tonight already.”

      Guy drew a deep breath. His eyes searched her face, as if he savored one last look. He stepped away. He pulled off his gloves and bowed to Sybilla. “I am Sir Guy of Warwick. Sworn by oath to serve King Richard and by fealty to the Earl of Ketchem. By my honor as a knight, I will not steal your foal.”

      His face grew intent. “But I can pay, Mistress Corbuc. If you are willing to sell.” He leaned beside her and draped his arm across the stall boards behind her head. He took her hand into his and interlaced his fingers with hers.

      Sybilla stole a startled glance at their entwined hands. The heat from his fingers promised languid warmth, like the golden sun on a lazy summer day, radiant and caressing.

      He smiled, his eyes hopeful and meant to charm.

      Sybilla’s breath quickened. What kind of woman did he think she was?

      She ducked from underneath his arm. “The foal is not for sale.”

      Guy pulled her back. “But I can pay, Mistress Corbuc. I am an honorable man. We can strike a bargain.”

      A strange sensation, tingling heat, raced from her fingertips to her gut. Mother Mary, he was vital and strong and she couldn’t help but notice how his breath quickened.

      He leaned closer, his voice husky. “I’ll give you three times more than you will get for him at Smithfield Market. If you will let me.”

      Without warning, he placed her palm against the bulging velvet money pouch hanging just below his belt.

      Sybilla gasped. God in heaven, he’s missed his mark with me.

      She wrapped her fingers around the velvet bag and yanked. “What can I do with a stolen emerald, Sir Guy? A lowly woman, poor and without a husband. If I tried to sell it, I would be arrested and hanged for thieving.”

      His brow knotted. “I didn’t steal Hamon’s em—Hold there!”

      She raised her arm, her fist gripping the pouch.

      He reached for her wrist. “That’s not an em—!”

      Before he had the chance to grab her, Sybilla hurled the pouch across the stall. “Now let me go, you lout, else I’ll call the sheriff.”

      Simon spun around to face the barn door. “It seems, Mistress Corbuc, he is already here.” He raised his sword. “Guy! To arms!”

      Chapter Two

      Fighting back a scream, Sybilla ducked beneath Sir Guy and knocked the water bucket over, kicking the straw to cover up the muck.

      A deep male voice boomed from outside. “Show yourselves. On the order of the sheriff.”

      Terror shot through Sybilla. Good saints. ’Twould be better to be accused of fornication than it would to be caught attending to the foal’s birth.

      She threw her arms around Sir Guy’s neck and with a flying leap, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

      He staggered, struggling to gain his footing. He toppled, taking Sybilla down with him. She landed underneath him. His handsome face directly over hers, he rested the weight of his upper body on his forearms and smiled down at her. He didn’t look at all surprised, or worried. If anything, amusement danced in his eyes.

      Footsteps approached, the sound of boots stomping through crunchy snow. The mare and foal skittered into the corner.

      Sybilla pressed her mouth to Sir Guy’s and kissed him hard, praying her ruse would be convincing. What did she know of lust and coupling, aside from what she’d witnessed mares and stallions do? She had never lain beneath a man.

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