Page 25 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
Something about that half-smile twitched in my brain, triggering a hazy memory. "Did I meet you once before? When I was young—yes! A Christmas party at the Van Brunts' place—"
That night I had been introduced to several of their distant relatives, including a tall, dark-haired boy who refused to play hide-and-seek with me and Brom and the other children. The boy had kept his collar turned up as he hunched against the wall in a corner.
"Every time we chose a new game, I came over and asked you to play," I said slowly.
Eamon's eyes widened. "The little golden girl. You kept popping up, trying to draw me into your games. And finally you brought me a book of short poems—"
"—and I asked you to read to me. And you gave me a half-smile—"
"—and I said yes."
"You read to me until I grew sleepy, and it was time to go home. Brom and I were maybe five, so you would have been nine—" I stopped, realization dawning. I had met him the year before his parents died.
"This is strange, isn't it?" I said. "Knowing that we met before, when we were so young?"
"Very. But it warms my heart as well. You were the only person at that party who made me feel seen, and wanted. It's a feeling that has been all too rare since then."
His dark eyes shone and his mouth inched higher at one corner. The urge to wrap him in my arms and cover him with kisses slammed through my body like a rockslide, primal and nearly irresistible. I could scarcely hold myself back, and instead tried to be content with devouring him with my eyes, from his crisp jawline, to his sinewy neck sealed with the gold band, down to his hulking shoulders. His shirt hung open, forming a V through which I glimpsed a scattering of dark hair on his chest. Every bit of him was huge and brutally male; but I knew the gentleness of those thick fingers, and the compassion in the heart beating under all that packed muscle.
Even if I had daydreamed for a hundred hours, I could not have imagined such a perfect match, so suited to me physically and mentally and philosophically. Except for the tiny, miniscule, infinitesimal problem of his Fae nature—his life as a dullahan, an enslaved killer.
Mine, whispered my traitorous soul.He will be mine alone, and no other woman's.
"You are staring at me." His smile faded. "Do I frighten you?"
"Not at all." I reached for his face, petting the stubbled skin of his jaw. He tensed, but he did not pull away; in fact, his breathing sped up a fraction. A familiar impulse seized me—the urge to play with him, to see how far I could push him—except this time, I truly wanted to go wherever the game might take us. This time, no one was there to chaperone, or to restrain me.
This time, no one had to know.
The only thing holding me back was this confounded wound in my back. Damn that ill-fated branch.
"What about me?" My fingers wandered along his neck, over the gold band, my nails teasing the symbols on it. "Do I frighten you?"
My hand slid lower, skimming his collarbone, and my thumb traced the dip of his throat.
He caught my wrist, his eyes hardening. "You want me to say 'yes,' don't you?" The grip on my wrist tightened. "You want me to say that you frighten me, that you have power over me."
"Maybe..." I frowned, trying to pull away.
"I don't have the stomach for your games, Katrina. I—wait—what is this, here?" He nodded to the scarlet bite marks on my knuckle.
"I bite my hand sometimes, if I'm in pain, or too full of nerves or anger. It helps me regain control. I had to do it several times while Anika was here."
"But you're hurting yourself."
"Sometimes I don't have a choice—I have to find an outlet, or go mad." My face heated under his inspection, and I tried to halt the flow of words—but I had never spoken of this habit to a living soul, and suddenly I could not stop myself. "I started it in school, when I had to sit still for hours. And I do it even now, when I'm in service, or at tea, or in a sewing circle—and there's nowhere to go, no way to escape, and my legs feel restless, like they will start dancing around the room all on their own—or if I am so full of agitated thoughts that I want to scream. Then I bite myself, rather than screaming, or dancing, or running away. It helps."
In his eyes I saw no judgment, only sympathy. "You really don't like to rest and be still, do you?"
"I need to move, and do things. That has always been my way."
"And I have been asking you to be idle, and to do nothing." He grimaced. "I am sorry. I will read to you tonight, if you like. I am tired, but I have enough left in me for a few chapters, I think. Will that amuse you?" His grin blazed into my very soul, a burst of dazzling sunshine. "Just like old times."
"Oldtime," I corrected, a little breathless from the glory of that smile. "You read to meonce."
His lips parted as if he would answer, but he simply kept staring into my eyes. "Your eyes are such a dark blue. Like—like blueberries."
I smirked. "You are not used to delivering compliments to women, I take it."
