ISBN: 9780373305148

Had he been anywhere but Ireland those limpid doe eyes attached to his quite solemnly, quite boldly, might have unsettled him. He had coupled with many women, in many countries, but Irela… More...

Had he been anywhere but Ireland those limpid doe eyes attached to his quite solemnly, quite boldly, might have unsettled him. He had coupled with many women, in many countries, but Ireland? Curse it for a dank and dismal hell! He'd never before set foot on a squelching sod of it. And yetand yetsquinting through lashes rimed with ice, through eyes filmed with cold, he could detect something familiar in the child's face. The child was still, looking back with quiet instinct, uncaring of the drizzling sleet sleeking his fair hair against his head. The stallion snickered, blew steam at the side of his pink-cheeked face. A hoof batting against the boy's cap, catching ice on the ground, finally took the rider's attention. Moments before the lad had hurtled into the road chasing thehat and laughing, for an icy blast had exposed his tender head. The gangly, tumbling figure had made horse and rider rear back and slew to the right, almost overturning them both. A dark visage creased fiercely beneath the bite of the elements and its owner's thoughts. But the man was glad now he hadn't bellowed abuse, although the lad deserved scolding. He might have run him down and broken his own neck in the bargain. Brusquely the man flicked, then snapped, leathered fingers at the hat. Obediently it was retrieved with a childish peek at the softening snow. He wasn't afraid. He smiled instead; a faltering curving of lips that arched blond eyebrows into a sleet-spangled fringe. A broad, brown hand shot out and the cap was knocked clean of its freezing granules. "You should be careful. I could have knocked you flying. This stallion might have pulped a little chap like you." The boy was unabashed, just darting eyes enlivening a complexion drawn with cold. Dark features suddenly swooped close to his as the rider plopped the hat on the child's soaking skull. "What's his name?"the boy asked, stroking the stallion's flank. "Storm." "What's your name?' The man seemed as though he might ignore thetrembling wistful enquiry, and the small, bone-white fingers still on the flank of his sleek black mount. "It's polite to say, what is your name, sir, ' he corrected tersely, but he began to introduce himself anyway. "Etienne' The rest was lost to a woman's guttural Irish tone. "Mother Mary, did I turn me back for one minute to speak with Mrs O'Flaherty and find you gone. Now, what will your ma be sayin' if she finds out all today's mischiefan' Faith! Look, you're drenched through, so y'are'A woman clutching at her bonnet and dragging her cloak hard about her stamped over the unyielding street towards them. Grabbing at the lad's hand, she tugged him gently backwards towards the shelter of shop doorways, roaring and making a fist for a cart that drove too snugly by him. There was no more than a sharp stare angled from beneath an awning of bonnet brim to acknowledge the stranger astride his powerful stallion. Etienne watched as the boy Fiction Fiction eBook, Harlequin<