He was trapped.
He had a fleeting hope that he could take her to the lodge and then race back, fast enough to catch the rest in time for the kill.
One glance at the slump of her shoulders ended that thought.
He had spent years and miles on a horse. His thighs were practised at gripping his mount, his feet at steering the horse with a touch.
But her right foot could not stay in the stirrup. Every shift by her mount threatened to land her in the dirt. Riding for hours would be a constant struggle. Chasing the stag impossible.
And yet, she had tried.
The rest of the riders disappeared, the sound of pounding hooves fading until all he could hear was the rustle of leaves.
He sighed. ‘Come.’ He nodded at a fallen tree. ‘Let’s rest.’
‘There is no need.’ Her stubborn words shook.
He ignored them.
He dismounted and came to help her. She had already been in the saddle when he saw her this morning and he had never thought to wonder how she’d managed it. Could she mount and dismount alone?
He reached for her and she swung her lame, right leg over the saddle and slid down into his arms.
Close. Too close. Her breasts pressed his chest, her breath brushed his cheek, and he caught a scent like the orange fruit from Spain he had tasted, at once sweet and tart.
Her cheek coloured and she seemed to hold her breath.
So did he.
And finally, he did what he had wanted to do ever since she had first bumped against him in the Hall.
He tilted her chin, lifted her lips to his and kissed her.
His first thought—could he even call it that?—was that her lips were softer and warmer than he had expected. His second was that they moved hungrily over his, saying things no other part of her body dared.
And he knew, without knowing how, that no one had ever kissed her before.
Their lips parted slowly. Reluctantly. He let her go and she turned away, reaching for the stick tied to her saddle.
And he waited for a shy maidenly protest. Or a sly, womanly smile, promising hidden delights.
Neither came.
No word. No blush. No smile. No protest. She leaned on her stick and took a step toward the fallen tree as if nothing had happened. As if the kiss were nothing. As if he were nothing.
He gritted his teeth, fighting the unfamiliar feeling roiling his blood. Not rage. Not even lust, though that had stirred, naturally.
No. It was something much less familiar. Possession. Protection. A mad desire to grab her and claim her and call her his.
And she seemed to notice nothing at all.
* * *
Anne turned her back on him, afraid to meet his eyes, and took another step.
A blur, all of it. It should not, could not, have happened. Yet she had kissed him. And wanted, oh, so much more.
Why had she come at all? Distract him, her lady had said, not lead him into temptation, though she would not have put it past Lady Joan to ask. But she did not because they both knew it was as impossible as asking Anne to run.
I am not a woman to capture a man’s attentions.
And yet, he had kissed her. Deliberately.
And she turned away because if she had not, she might have kissed him again and never stopped.
But his lips, ah, lips not full, but precisely sculpted, seemed to bring her very skin to life. All the strength she had amassed to fight the pain was useless against the pleasure that bloomed from the very whisper of his lips.
Now she must act as if nothing had happened, so she could pretend it had not.
She sank down on to the fallen tree with a sigh of relief.
‘You must be tired,’ he said, his words quick and meaningless.
And she, who never admitted weakness, nodded, with a weak smile.
‘Anne. Look at me.’
She wanted to pretend it had not happened. He would not.
So she lifted her chin and met his eyes, daring him to acknowledge it. ‘I forgive you.’ Dismissive words. As if she had been affronted, instead of moved.
‘I did not ask to be forgiven.’
Only his gaze touched her now, but that was enough. The heat in his eyes reignited the desire she would not, must not feel.
‘What do you want, then?’ Unable to hold her voice steady. ‘To take me out of pity?’
‘Pity?’ Was that anger in his voice? ‘Is that what you think?’
What she thought was to push him so far away that he could not recognise her weakness. ‘What I think,’ she began, ‘is that you thought to steal a kiss, or more, from a vulnerable maiden.’
That would explain it. She should have realised there could be no other reason. He must have thought her easy prey for his lust.
‘You are wrong.’
She wanted to be. Oh, she wanted to be.
‘Why else would you have lured me here? You knew I could not keep up with the chase. You knew we would fall behind and be alone.’ All things she had known before she even mounted.
‘Have you met so much unkindness in your life?’
Startled at first. Then, ashamed. She shook her head. ‘No. My lady has been all that is kind when I cannot do...what others can.’
‘I cannot dance well enough to take the floor before the King. It makes me no lesser man.’
Her eyes widened at his words. Could any man, any person, look at her and not see her as a lesser being?
Yet she saw in his eyes things she had never seen in another man’s. Desire, yes, that was remarkable enough. Coupled with anger and a touch of...admiration. Not the pity or disgust she so frequently encountered.
More often though, once they knew who and what she was, they tried not to see her at all. They simply let their eyes slide over her without stopping, as if she were a stone or a tree. Lonely sometimes, yes. But being invisible could be a benefit, as well.
‘I am sorry,’ she began, ‘to attack you when you were only being...kind.’ What other word to use?
Something in his gaze shifted. A decision reached. ‘Your first notion was the right one. It
