Hard, brutal fingers dug into her tender flesh, forcing her legs apart, spiking unthinkable terror in the deep well of her heart.
This isn’t happening. Pulse thundering in her throat, she thrashed her legs, desperate to fight him off even as her stomach rebelled, convincing her she was going to be ill again.
He dropped his full overwhelming weight on her—a mountain crushing the air from her lungs, shoving her so hard into the carriage wall that she feared her bones might snap from the pressure.
Grunting, she fought for breath, life, freedom. She writhed, struggling to free her hands from between their bodies. All the while her knees worked furiously, pumping, squirming, trying to shake off his foraging hands.
He leaned back ever so slightly to fumble with his trousers, and her terror swelled, a deep burn in the pit of her stomach.
Time suspended. She froze, sealed in a tight bubble of astonishment. She gazed at him, the man bent on violating her: the wild tick in his jaw, the sweat sheening his nose and beading his upper lip, the open mouth and wet, furry-looking teeth.
Sounds heightened, building to a roar in her head. The excited rasp of his breath. The creaks and groans of the jostling carriage. The thundering beat of rain all around them. The fall of hooves on the wet road.
Her gaze shifted, darting about wildly, desperately, a sparrow in flight looking for a safe place to land. The sound of his trousers sliding, dropping, fired her to action. Her gaze fell on the door’s latch, inches to her left.
With a prayer on her lips, she surged forth and kicked him full in the chest. Her hand flew to the latch, grappled with it for a heartbeat before it opened. A gust of wind flung the door wide. Rain pelted her face, impairing her vision as she looked out at the blur of trees flying past.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she jumped. Wind and rain rushed her. Earth rose up to meet her. She landed unevenly, her feet slipping on the wet ground. The carriage thundered past. She fought for balance but still fell, pain lancing her left ankle.
Half staggering, half crawling, she dragged herself into the thick undergrowth crowding the road.
She pushed ahead, slapping at branches, ignoring the wet, the cold, the agony in her ankle.
Branches clawed at her sodden nightgown, tore at her unbound hair. Still, she pressed on, determined to lose herself in the woods.
She struggled forward, wincing at the jar of her every step, her breath falling in violent spurts.
She bit her lip until the coppery tang of blood ran over her teeth. Soon another sound rose over the rain and pound of her heart.
Voices.
Simon’s. The driver’s.
They grew closer, the heavy tread of boots on the forest floor reverberating through the trees.
“Portia!”
Close. Much too close.
Dropping on all fours, she crawled to the nearest tree and pressed her back against the rough bark. Tucking her knees to her chest, she tried to steady her gasps, to collect her thoughts. Her ears strained for the slightest noise, a voice, a movement beyond that of rain and wind.
Unfolding her legs, she resumed crawling through the muck.
“Portia!”
She froze. The voice was close, so near she feared she had been sighted. Still as stone, she looked up. Her heart lodged in her throat. She eased back on her heels and pressed a fist to her lips, stifling the cry that threatened to spill.
Simon stood to her left, leaning against a tree not two yards from where she squatted in the mud.
He stared ahead, not looking in her direction. Her heart beat wild as a drum against her chest.
Surely he would see her white gown. She risked a glance down and released a silent sigh. Not a trace of white remained. Closing her eyes, she remained just so, making herself a part of the landscape, as still as any rock lying on the ground.
Simon pushed his wet hair back from his brow and looked left and right, his gaze skipping over her. “Portia!” he roared.
A shudder ripped through her. She clenched her hands, her nails slicing into her palms as she willed herself to become invisible.
With an ear-stinging curse, he set off again, calling her name in a voice that carried to the skies.
Once his heavy tread faded, she shoved to her feet and slogged back to the road. Bursting through the trees, she scanned the road. The coach loitered several yards to her right, its horses munching on the low-hanging branches of a hawthorne tree.
Heart hammering in her too-tight chest, she hurried forward, careful not to startle the horses.
Clambering to the driver’s perch, she snatched up the reins and flicked her wrists.
The horses didn’t budge.
“C’mon,” she begged, flicking her wrists again. One horse looked at her, ears flattening with displeasure before resuming his feast.
At that moment, Simon burst from the line of trees, the driver behind him. Her stomach plummeted and a small whimper escaped her lips. Simon’s face, mottled several shades of red, turned deadly when he spotted her atop the driver’s perch. He charged the carriage with a bellow, spooking the placid beasts from their leisure.
She snatched the crop from the seat and whipped the horses. Under normal circumstances, she would never strike a horse so hard, but the sour taste of fear coating her mouth banished any reservations.
The crop served its purpose. The horses bolted, the force flinging Portia back on the hard seat.
“Stop,” Simon shouted, waving his arms as the carriage barreled toward him. The horses didn’t slacken their pace—and she wasn’t about to move left or right to avoid the blackguard.
At the last moment, he dove clear.
She glanced over her shoulder to see him submerged in mud. He clutched one boot close to his chest, and his strained expression told her he had not dodged the carriage unscathed. Served him right.
Facing front again, she squinted against the slashing rain and tried to gain control of the animals and slow their breakneck pace. She rounded a corner, pulling on the reins fiercely.
Wincing at the sudden bite of wind and rain on her cheeks, she averted her face. And didn’t see the horse and rider. Not until it was too late.
He materialized from the gray curtain of rain like a phantom, a specter magically brought to life.
Rider and stallion both black as night.
She jerked on the rains, her scream trapped in her throat as her fingers yanked and twisted on the slick leather.
The horses’ screams filled the air, shrill and eerily human. Blood roared to her head. Her heart plunged to her stomach as the carriage careened to one side, balancing precariously on its wheels. She kept a death grip on the reins, her lifeline, the only thing keeping her atop the carriage as her body lifted from the seat.
Her eyes met and connected with the oncoming rider for a single heartbeat. Recognition flashed in eyes as gray as the sky. Her heart leapt to her throat.
“Heath!” Her cry reverberated through the air, strange and faraway—as if someone else cried out.
Then her hands were empty, groping for reins, a handhold. Something. There was nothing.
Nothing but wind.
She flew, toppling through the air as if her body were boneless, weightless. Trees and sky rushed past in a blur. The earth rose up to meet her in a dizzying whirl, a vast maw ready to swallow her whole.
Heath swung from Iago’s back before the horse even came to a full stop. He skirted the capsized carriage, sparing only a glance for the shrieking horses that fought to be free of their restraints.
Bitter fear swept through him, flooding his mouth, burning his nostrils. “Portia,” he called brokenly as he looked for her along the road. “Portia!” Terror seized his heart, wringing tightly.
Then he saw her, buried in mud, her crumpled form so small and lifeless at the edge of the road.
He ran. It took only a moment, but he thought he’d never reach her. Never have her in his arms again. Never have the chance to say what his heart had known from the start. He loved her. Even when he had no business loving her, he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
His hands shook, suspended over her for the barest moment before he touched her, grasped her shoulders and gently folded her into his arms, praying that God could not be so cruel as to place her in his life only to take her from him so quickly.
Rain pelted her ashen face as he stared down at her.
“Portia?” He brushed a hand over her cheek, relieved to feel its warmth. His fingers slid to her throat, to the pulse point that beat steady and strong.
“Portia,” he said again, her name a sigh, a benediction.
Her eyes opened, blinking, looking up at him in confusion. “Heath?”
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, eyes raking her as if he could ascertain her injuries for himself.
“I’m fine, but I think I may have run Simon over with the carriage.”
He laughed then, his heart loosening, expanding inside his chest. “I won’t lose any sleep over that.”
Her face crumpled. “You came?” she choked, a sob lifting her chest. “How did you know—”
He cupped her face. “Astrid told me everything. But that’s not important.” He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. “We’ve wasted enough time. I’ve wasted years,” his voice faded and he shook his head determinedly. “But I’m not going to waste another moment with you.”
Her eyes devoured him, the blue brilliant and vivid through her glimmer of tears.
“I love you, Portia,” he said, feeling an immense relief in uttering words he had thought himself incapable. Words that had been caged inside him for a lifetime, waiting to be freed, waiting for this woman to free them. “Marry me. Not because of duty, or because we should. Marry me because I love you.” He stared into her wide, unblinking eyes and added in a growl, “Marry me, damn it or I will go mad.”
Her sob fell then, loud and deep, and he felt it lodge in his heart. She flung her arms around his neck and pulled him close, burying her face in his throat.
Her lips moved against his skin, spiking a familiar haze of desire. “This isn’t real,” she murmured. “None of this real. I’m afraid to let you go, to find out—”
He pulled back and silenced her with a kiss that sent a lick of heat spiraling low in his gut. After a moment, he tore his lips free. Forehead pressed to hers, he said roughly, “It doesn’t get any more real than this.”
His eyes locked with hers, their gazes melding until he felt as if they were physically linked. In a ragged, desperate voice, he said, “I need to hear you say—”
“Yes,” she blurted, without the slightest hesitation, her eyes drilling into him with an intensity that shook him. “I will marry you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you. You are my dream.”
At that moment the rain increased, the skies dumping sheets of water on both of them. Heath lifted his face, relishing the water flowing over him, rinsing him clean.
“Heath,” she murmured, laughter in her voice. He looked down at her rain-sluiced face. “It seems we’re destined for muddy roads.”
“My little mud pie,” he murmured, trailing the back of his fingers over her wet cheek. “I suddenly find that I have a great fondness for muddy roads.”
Shielding her eyes with one hand, Portia tilted her head back to view the sun-baked white columns stretching into a cloudless blue sky. For a long moment, she could only stare, allowing the reality of standing before the Parthenon to wash over her, a warm balm to the soul.
A strong hand settled at the small of her back, capturing her attention. Turning, she looked up into Heath’s face. So dear. So familiar. Warm wind blew his hair across one cheek. Her heart constricted at the tender look in his eyes. A look reserved for her.
The trip had been his gift to her—their wedding vows barely uttered before he had her on a ship sailing across the Channel. He had teased that they would need a relaxing honeymoon before returning home and suffering the come-outs of his sisters.
“Is it everything you dreamed?” The deep rumble of his voice slid though her like warm honey, the mere sound igniting her.
Her gaze skipped back to the structure that had endured two thousand years. She eyed a statue of Athena, staff in one hand, shield in the other. Its beauty alone pinched at her heart. The dignified hauteur of the goddess’s face whispered to her soul.
She returned her gaze to Heath, her husband, and felt an even deeper tug on her heart—a louder call to her soul.
“No,” she answered with a quiet certainty. Lacing her fingers through his, she squeezed his hand with hers. “But this is.”
A special thanks goes to all the players on my team: Carlye, Christy, Ane, Leslie, and Tera. As always, you were there for me every step of the way. A bit of each of you lives in these pages.
Thanks for pushing me, ladies.
SOPHIE
JORDAN
, a former high school English teacher, resides in Houston with her family.
When she’s not writing, she divides her time between inventing what she likes to call culinary masterpieces—her husband won’t always agree—and visiting her family’s pecan ranch in the Texas Hill Country.
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