Cassidy lifted her face against the wind. “Because of Milena.”
Quentin gave her a sideways glance. “Ah, Cassidy. He’s no good for you. Once you admit that, you’re free.”
She could admit it to Quentin, and satisfy him. She could even try to convince herself. But she couldn’t pretend hard enough to marry him… be with him, and have his children.
“Do you really care about me, Quentin?”
“Of course.”
“Then take me to the train station. I’m going back to America.”
“To America? Now?”
“Yes.”
“Oh-ho. I misjudged you after all. You’re running away.” He saluted her. “We’re a better match than I’d hoped. A fine pair of cowards. Or didn’t you know that about me, Cassidy? I’ll do anything to avoid a fight.” He clucked sadly. “You’ve never really been tested before this, have you? You find yourself at the line of battle, facing your first real defeat, and you turn tail. What a jolly life we shall have together, forever running away.”
Alarmed beyond thought, Cassidy lunged sideways and snatched the reins from Quentin’s hands. The horse broke into an uneven gallop as if she’d struck it a cruel blow, veering off to the edge of the road.
“Cassidy,” Quentin said, “watch out for—”
The carriage bumped over a large stone at the side of the road and shot into the air. Cassidy’s skirt caught on some part of the vehicle and tore halfway to her waist. She nearly tumbled from her seat, struggling to keep the phaeton upright. By the time she turned to check on Quentin, the place beside her was empty. He had vanished.
She pulled the carriage to a stop and jumped to the ground. “Quentin! Where are you?”
The horse threw up its head, half reared in its harness, and bolted down the road. Cassidy stared after it, wondering if she were dreaming.
But the thunder of hoofbeats continued to echo in her ears, coming closer instead of retreating. She was shaking her head to clear it when a huge, dark horse pulled up beside her, kicking up dust in a choking cloud.
The rider dismounted in a blur of motion.
“Cassidy,” he cried hoarsely. He wore only a shirt open at the collar, plain trousers, and boots. His expression was one she’d seen only once or twice before: neither cold nor aloof nor angry, but wild. He was wolf and man all at once. He felt her body and found the torn edge of her skirt.
“Quentin!” he roared. The roar became a howl, a wolf’s howl, mournful and yet potent with challenge.
But Quentin had disappeared, his scent already fading. Braden stood with his head lifted, nostrils flaring, and when he turned back to her the wildness had transformed him into a stranger.
Without a word, without another sound, he swept her up into his arms.
Sixteen
The black horse needed no guidance. It seemed an extension of its master, obeying some silent command as Braden tossed Cassidy sideways into the saddle. With remarkable agility he vaulted over the horses rump, mounting behind Cassidy, and locked his arm around her waist.
Then the horse began to run. Cassidy clutched at the heavy mane, but Braden’s arm held her as surely as if she were bound to the animal’s back with the strongest rope.
The twin drumming of the horse’s hooves and her own heartbeat filled her ears. Wind lashed her face and pulled her hair loose from its pins. The horse’s muscled shoulders flexed beneath her. Braden’s breath scalded the nape other neck. Everything was sensation, and she was paralyzed in its embrace.
In Braden’s embrace. She knew why he’d come. He was stealing her back from Quentin, reclaiming her, taking her for his own. She was as certain of that as she was of the sun sinking in the west: his intent shouted from every line and angle of his face and body.
Elation and fear suffused her heart in equal measure. She wanted this, and she dreaded it. She’d gone with Quentin still appalled by Braden’s ruthlessness, angry and hurt and despairing, and yet her feelings had not changed. Quentin himself had convinced her of that. His harshest condemnation of his brother had only sparked the one realization she couldn’t hope to resist.