The Crimson Lady by Mary Reed Mccall

Author:Mary Reed Mccall [Mccall, Mary Reed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical, General
ISBN: 9780061741036
Google: TH9hMPFBCacC
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-10-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Fiona ran blindly, her throat choking with panic. Tears slid, burning, down her cheeks, and her stomach twisted as she stumbled through the wet bracken, pushing rain-soaked branches aside and welcoming their cool sting against her skin. She needed to flee, to run away—to where she didn’t know. She only knew that she had to get away from Draven. Far, far away…

After what seemed a very long time she was forced to slow, her body rebelling against the pace she’d set. It was no use. She jerked to a stop in the cool damp of a little clearing, bent over and gasping, her heart finally acknowledging what she’d wanted to deny so badly. She’d known it all along, but seeing Draven again out here, where she’d never thought it would be a possibility, had driven the point home with agonizing clarity. She couldn’t escape him.

You’re mine.

Those words he’d silently mouthed to her just before he left still pounded through her mind, terrorizing her as he’d known they would. No matter how far she ran or how long she was gone, he would always be there…the one man who would never relinquish his claim to her in his twisted sense of mastery and ownership. The enormity of it overwhelmed her, and she fell to her knees, retching. But her stomach was empty, and it offered forth naught but dry, painful heaves. When it was done, she wrapped her arms around herself, the throbbing pain of her wrenched wrist nothing compared to the horror snaking through her. She remained bent over, rocking, a soft, keening cry coming from deep within, and the salt of her tears on her lips.

“Fiona…ah, lady, do not weep…”

Braedan’s utterance, spoken low and in a voice full of tenderness, snapped her from her haze of sickness and fear; she stumbled to her feet, feeling disconnected and shaky, and turned to face him where he stood at the edge of the glade, having difficulty believing that he was there at all.

“Why did you follow me?” she managed to whisper.

“I needed to know you were all right.” He gazed at her, his expression so concerned that it made her long to throw herself in his arms. But she couldn’t do that, not now, not ever. The encounter with Draven had reminded her all too clearly that she wasn’t fit for a man like Braedan de Cantor. Not she, who’d been branded in every sense of the word by Draven’s ruthless possession.

She tried to breathe in deeply, but the air could barely squeeze through the constriction of her throat; the effort only made it ache more than before. Her nails bit into her palms, and she held herself as rigidly as she could, afraid to move, to blink, even, everything feeling off-balance and raw. It was as if Draven had reached in and curled his fingers in a brutal grip round her heart, claiming her once more with his words, his eyes, his touch. Her skin crawled with the memory of his hands on her, his breath on her skin.

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