out of the yard before turning scathingly to Skye, Storm moving skittishly on the reins, the beautiful brown eyes glaring his displeasure at this change in his morning routine. ‘Storm just isn’t suitable for a lightweight amateur,’ he added disgustedly.
‘Lightweight—!’
Her father really wasn’t exaggerating when he said she had been riding horses before she could walk. Her mother had died when Skye was less than a year old, and immediately after the funeral in England her father had sold up there and returned to his native Ireland to take over the running of the family business from his father, Old Seamus, taking baby Skye with him.
Instead of engaging a nanny to look after her, as most men would have done in the same circumstances, her father had simply taken her with him, either when working in his office, or in the stables that were really his first love.
Skye had been crawling under horses’ legs, and put up on their backs before she could even stand on her own two legs, leading the huge animals about by their reins by the time she was two years old, riding out with the grooms on their daily exercise by the time she was eight.
How dared this man call her an amateur?
She could never afterwards have even begun to explain what prompted her into her next action, even to herself; she seemed to see her own actions as if in slow motion.
She grabbed the reins from Falkner Harrington’s unsuspecting grasp, foot in the stirrup as she swung herself agilely up into the saddle, before galloping out of the stableyard up onto the downs she could see behind the house.
It was exhilarating, Storm responding to the lightest touch as he was allowed to do what he obviously loved best: running like the wind, his black mane flowing free, body stretched fully as hooves pounded easily across the grassy ground, almost seeming to fly as he jumped a hedge with effortless ease.
Riding Storm was the most thrilling experience of Skye’s young life, and she knew herself completely lost in the sheer ecstasy of the moment.
So much so that she had no idea she was no longer alone until a hand reached out to tightly clasp the reins, pulling sharply back on them, Skye almost tumbling over Storm’s head as he came to a shuddering, quivering stop.
‘Are you insane?’ Skye turned angrily on Falkner Harrington as he sat astride the showjumping horse Skye easily recognized as O’Hara’s Lad. ‘You could have knocked me off,’ she accused indignantly.
He was breathing deeply between pinched nostrils, his face white with anger as he swung down out of his saddle, his fingers tightly gripping Skye’s arm as he pulled her roughly from Storm’s back.
‘You little idiot!’ He shook her roughly, glaring down at her furiously. ‘You could have been killed!’
Skye smiled confidently. ‘No, I—’
‘Yes!’ Falkner ground out harshly. ‘Or Storm could!’ he added furiously.
Which was probably more to the point as far as he was concerned!
But before Skye could make any further protest Falkner’s mouth came roughly down on hers, the kiss he subjected her to owing nothing to gentleness and more to the anger that so obviously consumed him.
Nothing in Skye’s previously youthful experiences with the couple of boys she had so far dated had prepared her for this thoroughly adult kiss, Falkner giving no quarter as his mouth ruthlessly savaged hers, his arms like steel bands as he moulded her body so close to his she could hardly breathe.
Just when Skye thought she couldn’t stand it any more, that she was going to faint from sheer lack of breath in her lungs, Falkner thrust her roughly away from him, glaring down at her with eyes so pale a blue they were almost silver, breathing hard in his anger, every muscle and sinew of his body tensed with the fury that emanated from him.
‘You’re everything I thought you were earlier—and more!’ he told her coldly. ‘You’re also completely irresponsible. Spoilt. Reckless. But most of all—stupid!’ With one last disgusted look in her direction he swung himself up onto the stallion’s back, grabbed O’Hara’s Lad’s reins, and rode off.
Leaving Skye high and dry, in the middle of the Berkshire Downs, with only her legs to carry her back to the stable.
Where she knew, not only would Falkner Harrington’s anger be waiting there for her, but her father’s as well…
But worse than any of that, she knew that Falkner would never let her father buy Storm for her now.
‘JUST how much longer do you intend lying in this hospital bed feeling sorry for yourself?’
Skye stiffened at the first sound of that arrogant voice, quickly closing her eyes as if to shut out the man himself. It was over six years since she had last heard or seen Falkner Harrington, but she would nevertheless know that drawlingly confident voice anywhere!
‘I said—’
‘I heard what you said!’ Skye turned on him glaringly, recoiling slightly as she realized he had moved from the doorway to stand beside her bed, having to arch her neck in order to be able to look up at him, so tall and confident in casual denims and a black tee shirt.
Sexual attraction.
In spite of everything she had gone through—was still going through—the frisson of awareness that coursed through her body just from looking at Falkner told her that nothing had changed as regards her total physical awareness of him.
Although the man himself had subtly changed, she noted distractedly. Gone was the long hair, flecks of grey visible in the much shorter style, his face still as aristocratically handsome, those blue eyes coldly assessing as his gaze raked over her own changed appearance. But there were lines now beside his eyes and sculptured mouth that hadn’t been there six years ago, lines of pain as well as determination.
A week ago Skye would have known exactly what he would see as he looked at her, her hair cropped short now, the roundness of her face having thinned to leave hollow cheeks beneath blue eyes, her chin pointedly determined, and as for those voluptuous curves she had once coveted—if anything she was thinner now than she had been at eighteen, long hours of work having honed her body to perfect fitness.
Yes, a week ago she would have known exactly what Falkner would see as he looked at her, but she hadn’t looked in a mirror for a week, hadn’t brushed her hair or applied make-up during that time, either, even the gown she wore of the practical hospital variety.
‘Well?’ Falkner barked impatiently at her continued silence.
She gave a weary sigh, resenting him for making her exert herself enough even to answer him. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone?
‘What are you doing here?’ she prompted heavily.
His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Visiting you.’ As if to prove the point he pulled back the chair beside her bed and eased himself down onto it, the stiffness of his right leg obvious as he did so.
Three years ago, Skye knew from reading the newspapers, this man had sustained dreadful injuries when his horse had gone down over one of the jumps, crushing Falkner beneath it, breaking both his legs, one of them so badly he had remained in hospital for almost six months. It was obvious from the pained way he still moved that the right leg, although healed, was no longer as straight as the other one.
Skye frowned her irritation at his familiarity. ‘I don’t remember asking you to sit down,’ she snapped. ‘In fact, I don’t remember inviting you here at all,’ she added rudely.
Falkner looked completely unperturbed by this rudeness, blond brows rising over mocking blue eyes. ‘You have such a surfeit of visitors already, is that it?’ he drawled mockingly.
She could feel