Page 26 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"No, I am not." A blush colored his cheeks, and he lunged to his feet, clearing his throat. "So. Dinner. And then—a book. Yes. You get back in bed."
But his gruffness held no threat for me anymore. Truthfully my wound was aching, and I wanted to lie down; but not as much as I wanted his touch. "And if I refuse to get into bed?"
"Then I will have to put you there."
I crossed my arms over my chest and smiled up at him. From my vantage point, sitting on the floor beside the bed, his frame towered gigantic above me, so immense that my breath stopped for a second. I remembered how fearsome he looked astride his horse, dressed in that big coat. A flicker of desire teased along the sliver of space between my thighs.
He reached for me, and a thrill shot through my stomach.
Big warm hands closed around my arms, drawing me gently upward until I stood nearly against his body. The air between us sparked with energy, coiling and tightening. I could not breathe properly.
I looked up into the Horseman's face and smirked, the practiced simper of a true coquette.You will kiss me, I ordered him mentally, pursing my lips slightly. I knew how pink and luscious they were. He would not be able to resist.
But instead of lust, anger flashed through his eyes. He backed me onto the bed, swinging my legs and body into place on the mattress in one swift motion. I barely had the chance to savor the touch of his hands on my thigh and shoulder before it was over, and he moved away.
"You can stop the act, Katrina," he threw over his shoulder. "I am not one of your suitors."
He disappeared into the hall, where I could hear him fumbling around with the shelves and their contents, swearing intermittently.
Confused, I did a mental checklist of my charms. All my best qualities were still present—but it had been a while since I last bathed. My hair was greasier than usual, lying flat against my head instead of sweeping in loose golden waves. And my body—I sniffed my armpit and winced, both at the pain in my back and at the smell of my skin. The Horseman should not be so choosy, especially when he was rarely as fresh as a daisy himself. However, if my dirtiness offended him, I could remedy that, with his help. And a new plan for his seduction unfolded in my mind—fantasies I had indulged in all too often during Sunday service, or at night in my room, scenes I never thought would be possible in real life.
He stalked back into the room and set about peeling and chopping potatoes. Their earthy smell, and the thunk of the knife, and the popping hiss of the fire filled the space between us. Lying on my side, I watched the Horseman's hands, flexing and shifting so easily over the knife as he cut slices of potato. Such magnificent hands.
"Stop staring at me, Katrina," he said.
"I will not."
He growled something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I said, I should never have told you all those things about myself, and my life. I thought you would be more cautious of me, once you knew the truth. But you seem more fascinated than ever." He shook his head. "Do you have a death wish?"
"No. But I have several life wishes. Do you want to hear them?"
"I do not. Ow!" He inspected his finger, which oozed glittering red blood. "You see what you've done?" He reached for a cloth and snapped it out before wrapping it around the injury. "You distracted me."
"Did I?" I lifted my eyebrows and hunched my right shoulder, causing the loose tunic to slip down. The top half of my right breast emerged above the edge. "I was thinking I should bathe later. I'm beginning to smell like you. What do you think, Eamon? Will you help me bathe?"
He stared, dumfounded. "I do not know what to do with you."
"Feed me. Bathe me. Read to me. I am not that complicated, Eamon."
"Stop saying my name."
"No." I grinned at him.
He growled in frustration and began tossing potato chunks into the pot over the fire. "Why didn't I leave you on the bridge?"
"You said that before. Do you really wish you had left me to die?"
"Yes."
His words doused me like a bucketful of icy water. All my playful confidence drained away.
Perhaps I wasn't nearly as charming or beautiful as I thought. Perhaps I was merely annoying, and smelly, and troublesome. Here, in the hills, in this cabin, I existed as an injured burden, not a glittering heiress to lands and goods envied by everyone in the valley.
Take away all the livestock and orchards, the luxurious clothes and perfumes, the fine coiffures and social standing—and what was I, really? Books and long rambles in the forest, fishing and whittling, a motley collection of wicked desires and moral ideals that would make my neighbors gasp or jeer by turns. A mess of dreams and longings, stitched together with a spirit far more fragile than I realized.
