felt herself blushing crimson with fury, her face burning with indignation, and heard the men laughing even louder as they sat high on their steeds, looking down on her as if she were an entertainment.
‘You must forgive my friends’ mirth, my dear lady,’ the dark one said, his words heavy with scorn. ‘We have returned to England after many years overseas and the latest fashions are new to us, particularly this fashion among fine ladies for adorning their garments with mud.’
His friends threw their heads back, guffawing raucously at her expense. Of course, he was right that she was covered with mud—mostly his fault, she thought angrily. But she had to admit to herself that, with her hair awry, her workaday woollen skirts hitched up to allow her freedom of movement and wooden clogs on her feet, she wasn’t looking her most ladylike. Still, that was no excuse for his appalling rudeness.
‘At least this mud will wash off,’ Hester flung at him. ‘But no amount of cleaning would wash away your ill breeding, sir.’
His eyebrows arched with surprise, elongating the scar, which tugged threateningly at the corner of his eye. Time seemed to freeze as Hester waited for his reaction, regretting that her angry quip had been unwise. There was no laughter now; the only sound was the wind whipping off the sea. Suddenly she felt how vulnerable she was; alone here in the field with six armed strangers; rough-looking men, perhaps desperate outlaws who might do anything. She longed to look around, to scan the horizon for a friendly form, to gauge exactly how far from help she was, but did not dare show such a sign of weakness.
His eyes locked into her and Hester steeled herself to meet his fearsome gaze, clenching her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from shaking.
‘The vixen knows how to scratch,’ he said, addressing his friends, but glaring straight at her. The depth of his voice filled her with dread. Then he glanced round at his cronies, his dark eyebrows arched as if he were seeking their opinions. They looked at each other for a moment, Hester’s heart pounding with suspense. Then suddenly all six of them dissolved into laughter.
She stared at them. Being laughed at was almost worse than being scared. How dared they treat her with such insolence? How dared they not take her seriously?
‘Yes, I do know how to scratch,’ she shouted above their mirth, determined to gain the upper hand. ‘And if you don’t leave immediately, you’ll feel the pain of it.’ Hester was used to being obeyed and expected her words to command respect at the least. But instead this impudent rogue and his henchmen just laughed all the more. Hester stared at them, fuming with rage. She almost wished he had attacked her rather than laughing at her. At least then she could have defended herself with dignity, instead of standing here humiliated, the object of their scornful jokes.
‘I’m so scared,’ he mocked, fixing her again with his dark eyes, but this time they were twinkling with mirth. Beneath his tangled hair, his skin was dark too, tanned by long days in fierce sun, and his lips, twitching with amusement, showed a sensuous pleasure in teasing her. He was enjoying this, insulting her in front of his loutish companions. It was absolutely intolerable that a bunch of dirty, scruffy outlaws should speak to her in this way—and on her own land too.
‘Now, look here,’ Hester began, pulling herself up to her full height. ‘I will not stand for this—’
At that moment the huge hound came speeding up to the group, its long limbs moving so swiftly that, before Hester had seen it, it had already launched itself at her. She felt the shock of pain as a great thud on her chest knocked all the wind from her lungs and sent her flying backwards. The ground seemed to rise up and smash against the whole length of her helpless body, surrounding her in a blinding shower of mud and muck. She lay, too dazed to speak, the hound’s paws on her chest forbidding all movement, as it arched over her, growling menacingly, baring its fangs at her terrified face, saliva dribbling from its snarling jaws.
‘Get this hell-hound off me,’ she managed to wail. But the dark rider was already off his horse, his tall, powerful body striding towards her.
‘Amir!’ he called in a masterful tone. ‘Amir! Leave!’ Instantly the dog was off her and instead he was there, leaning over her, his broad chest blocking out the sky as he extended his hand to help her. She reached out to grasp it and realised she was trembling.
‘How dare you—how dare you—’ she stammered, sitting up quickly and doing her best to pull her heavy skirts free of the cloying mud.
‘My lady, allow me to help you to your feet,’ he said with infuriating mock gentility.
‘That blasted dog is dangerous,’ Hester scolded, in an attempt to regain her shattered dignity.
‘My dog is trained to protect me. She obviously saw you as a threat. Your manners are very aggressive for a woman.’
‘A lady,’ Hester snapped back, correcting him, as she placed her hand in his.
‘Oh, yes, of course, a lady. Please forgive me,’ he replied, as if humouring her. She saw amusement flicker across his mouth as he tried to suppress a smirk. ‘Now, what was it you were saying? That you wouldn’t stand for something?’
The arrogant wretch! Still making fun of her for the amusement of his cronies.
‘You’re too kind,’ Hester replied with a deceptive smile, curling her fingers around his hand. She was determined to make him regret having mocked her and now she saw the way to teach him a lesson, the only sort of lesson an ill-bred wretch like this would understand. She gripped his hand tightly as if to accept his offer of help, then with one swift movement she yanked her arm back with all her might, pulling his heavily muscled body off balance.
‘Serves you right!’ she shouted as he swayed towards the ground. But in his struggle to regain a foothold, he struck out with his strong arms, catching her on the shoulder and sending her slamming back into the mud a split second before he toppled after her.
Hester gasped, fighting for breath, trapped between the cold, squelching mud and his hot, heavy body, pressing against the full length of her, hard and muscular, pinning her to the ground. ‘Get off me, you brute.’
‘Brute, am I?’ he snarled in her ear, his breath sending shivers down her spine. She could feel the firm power of his muscles as his chest pressed against her breasts, and the musky scent of his body filled her senses, leaving her weak beneath him, her blood pulsing through her veins so violently, she was sure he must feel it too. ‘I came to help you up and you thank me with a mud-bath. And you call me ill bred,’ he rasped into her ear, the stubble of his chin and cheeks scratching painfully against her soft skin. ‘You have a lot to learn about manners, woman.’
‘Have you no idea how to treat a lady?’ she protested, fighting to free herself from his strong arms, which were locked around her like a cage.
‘I know all about treating women,’ he breathed against her cheek, the warmth of his lips seeming to burn into her as he whispered against her skin. ‘Would you like me to treat you?’
Her outrage brought sudden strength to Hester and in an instant she had pulled her arm free and lashed out at him, but he caught her hand just as it was about to strike his face. His grip was like iron as he shot a look down into her face.
‘Wildcat!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is this how you treat a returning hero?’
‘Hero?’ she spat back. Who did he think he was, this ill-mannered lout? ‘Behave like a gentleman and let go of my hand.’
‘Only
