Page 19 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"If you give me your name," I said, "I will let you touch me. Anywhere you like."
His shock quivered in the very air, nearly palpable. A gruff sound issued from his throat. "Now I know you are Fae, for that is a wicked bargain indeed. No chaste, god-fearing girl would say such a thing."
"I am not agirl," I snarled, forgetting my attempt to be charming. "I am a woman. And we have enough secrets between us already—why not another? One that we share, that we keep from everyone else?"
I lay still, awaiting his reply. My heart swelled and throbbed until I feared it might burst through my ribs and be revealed, raw and hot and pulsing.
"Why do you want me to touch you?"
"I—I want your name."
"But you could have placed any price on that knowledge. You chose this one. Why?"
"Because it's something you want," I snapped. "Do not deny it."
"And you think I am so crazed with desire that I will deliver you my name in exchange for the privilege of laying a hand on some private part of you?"
His hand—on some private part of me—oh heaven and hell. The space between my thighs grew warm and liquid, and a delicate ache slithered through my stomach.
"I—I don't know—"
"You seem distracted." His voice shifted deeper, velvety as a damp mossy hollow beside a stream, where violets grew fragrant and lush—
I reined in my thoughts abruptly. "I'm not distracted. I'm—frustrated."
His tone grew deeper still, with a breadth to the sound that told me he was smiling, damn him—"Frustrated? And why is that?"
"Because—because I want your name!"
"Hmm." He secured the bandage and tugged the blanket out of my fists, spreading it over me again. "So sad to see a woman in such distress. But Katrina, not every man melts for your sweet smiles—or yields to your sharp tongue."
"I will show you a sharp tongue," I muttered. "You have not felt its lash yet, fiend."
"Fiend? You called me that once already. I rather like it."
"Then I christen you Absalom, Fiend of Hell." My mouth twitched, but I was determined not to smile.
"You have given me a name, so I will allow you to touchme." And before I could speak a word, the Horseman caught my hand and pressed it to his cheek.
My breath jerked in my lungs, and my heartbeat pulsed wild in my throat. My palm scraped over rough stubble; my fingertips curled under the edge of a hard jawline. As my thumb swept across smooth, slanted cheekbone, its tip grazed a fringe of thick lashes. Hungry for more sensation, I shifted my hand, trailing my fingers across a pair of full, curved lips.
I drew in a jagged breath. "Good God. You are beautiful."
He pulled away, vanishing from my reach. "And you—you are—"
Beautiful. He would tell me I was beautiful too, and then—
"Annoying."
I frowned. "What?"
"I'll be back. Use the bedpan again if you need to." His footsteps clumped away again.
"What an insufferable ass!" I said loudly, hoping he would hear it. "Talking of bedpans at such a moment. I will kill him yet, if he does not kill me first."
But the words sobered me rather than soothing my anger. After all, being killed by the Horseman was still a very real possibility. With the Horseman absent, I could see my own peril more clearly. His magnetic presence, his voice, and his scent no longer muddled my thoughts.
I needed to get away from here. Back home, my bedroom waited for me, full of my own things—the quilt I'd had since childhood, the lace-edged pillowcases, the glossy milk-white porcelain bowl and pitcher on my washstand. My mother would bring me tea and pet my hair, and our cook, Annie, would surely make me something special to help me recover from my ordeal. Old Dr. Burton would inspect my wound and fuss over me. I would have books to read, fresh flowers to sketch, pastries to enjoy. My foolish fascination with the Horseman would be over, and I would be safe.
