Defiant Angel (2 page)

T
he black cloak of night which covered the sleepy land began to rise. The moon fading and the stars dimming, the black curtain lifted in the hour before dawn. Creatures of the forest began to stir in anticipation of a new day.

The thundering of hooves echoed in the stillness as a lone rider on a mount as black as the night, save for its hooves and blaze, raced over the newly fallen dew which covered the high meadow grass. This solitary figure leaned close to the neck of its mount as they plunged headlong into the wooded area, avoiding the low-hanging branches of trees.

The rider's thoughts were racing as fast as the magnificent beast. At a glance, the rider appeared to be a young lad of twelve or thirteen, dressed in breeches, with a cap atop his head. In actuality, it was a girl, Tiffany Elizabeth Courtland, a countess and last in line, directly descended from Robert Marlowe Courtland, seventeenth earl of Courtland Manor.

As the horse pushed toward its destination, Tiffany shot a glance up at the sky, noting that the inky blackness had turned a light purple. "Oh, it will be beautiful this morning," she said to no one. She squeezed her mare's side, increasing the wild pace, and thought.it seemed like ages since she'd felt this free. She had been severely reprimanded and punished by her father, William Courtland, over an incident involving Miriam Wareingham. She shook her head lightly, recalling her father's anger, which had not yet diminished. It was not her fault that Miriam didn't hold her seat, and how was she to know that Miriam was on the other side of the hedge when she'd jumped Xanadu? Miriam was not really hurt, only her pride, for she was trying to show Alan how well her gelding responded to her. Well, she certainly did show him! Tiffany smiled wickedly, remembering the image of Miriam sitting, legs sprawled, in the midst of a large mud puddle. Tiffany's smile faded, recalling the fuss Lady Wareingham had made over the incident--advising her father that Tiffany was nothing but a wild hoyden who needed to be sent to a convent school, where her behavior would be molded into that of a demure, feminine young lady of her station. What ensued after Lady Wareingham left was nothing that had not happened a hundred times before in her fifteen years. She was punished and ordered to refrain from riding; Xanadu was off limits entirely, and her bonbons were taken away. Her father again reminded her of her position, her bloodlines, and how the family name would be dragged through the mud by the gossip mongers. As if it were her fault that they were making wagers at the local tavern as to how long it would be before she pulled another stunt.

The sky began to change its hue from the deep purple to the dark blues and grays that would soon lighten. She pushed Touche faster, wanting to reach her favorite place-- the bluff, where she had, for almost seven years, religiously watched the day break. She knew her sentence had not been lifted, but could not take another day of imprisonment. The only thing missing was Xanadu; she would not place Nathan, their groom, in jeopardy, and so did not go to the stables. Instead she took Touche, who had been grazing in the paddock. Tiffany knew if she timed it right, she would be able to return undetected. Laughing aloud, she was smug in her belief that she could pull this escapade off cleanly. But then, with a frown, she wondered why she had to pull anything off. Alan had told her that she had to start acting like a lady--had to repress some of her rebelliousness and take on, at least for appearance's sake, some decorum. But why? Tiffany never understood
why
she had to be someone she wasn't. And as far as titles went, she never understood what some people saw in a tide. As far as she was concerned, the titled persons who visited Courtland Manor were stuffy, old, pompous people, impressed more with who they thought they were than with what they actually were. "Bah, titles! Position means nothing to me!" she shouted to the birds that flew overhead, disturbed by the pounding hooves of the horse that raced through their wooded domain.

"I wonder what my great-grandmother, Katherine Courtland, would have said." Often she heard the lecture from her father about Katherine and her wild, outlandish behavior. How she kept the gossip mills churning! As Tiffany's father had pointed out, she had inherited not only her great-grandmother's sapphire eyes and natural ability to ride, but also that damn tainted Irish blood of hers. Tiffany loved those lectures, because she felt a closeness to Katherine. She did not like the fact that her greatgrandfather, Robert Marlowe Courtland, had abducted Katherine and made her his mistress until she finally agreed to marry him. She would never have given in to any man's demand. No, she had found the man for her, and he was nothing like her greatgrandfather. He was kind, understanding, and considerate of her--Alan Winston Thurston. Yes, someday she would marry Alan, and with her father's blessing, for Alan was a lord and would someday be an earl, so that would make her father happy-- her husband would have a title. Actually, Tiffany could care less if he was nothing more than Alan. As a matter of fact, she would prefer it, for it would mean she would not have to live within the strict confines of the peerage.

The light shades of gray streaked across the horizon as Touche broke through the woods onto the headland of the bluff. Tiffany pulled her mount to a halt and sat astride, looking at the sky, waiting for the first pink streaks of dawn to appear. Touche pawed the ground, eager to stretch her legs, but Tiffany checked her and the mare stood. Tiffany's cheeks flushed with color as a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her face. Leaning onto Touche's neck, she looked with anticipation at the horizon.

"I know it will be beautiful," she whispered to Touche. "I wish Alan had reconsidered, and ridden with me." Tiffany pondered Alan. He was her only friend and confidant. She was not friendly with the other titled girls, for they found her behavior to be shocking and thought of her as a misfit. Alan did not seem to be overly bothered by her riding astride, bareback and barefooted. Her breeches never seemed to disturb him either. But of late, he seemed to be busy elsewhere, escorting this young lady or that one to soirees. Of course, he was a man of twenty, and his interests were different now. "Just you wait, Alan, until I am old enough to make my first season, and then you'll escort
me
to all those silly balls. I will bedazzle you with my charm and wit, and you'll be so enamored with me, you'll ask for my hand. And I will wave my fan and contemplate your proposal, batting my eyelashes coyly, and then throw my arms around your neck and scream,
'Yes!'
She giggled at her words, but wondered briefly if she was pretty enough for Alan. She was not like Beth Applegate or Miriam Wareingham--small, curvy, and blond. She was too tall, too long-legged, and dark-haired. She shook her head. She did not fit the current mold of beauty. Well, maybe I'll look different when I'm older. She looked up and saw that the sky was changing. Brilliant yellows mingled with pink as the sun crept over the horizon. Tiffany's eyes, the windows of her soul, spoke as no words could. They sparkled and gleamed in happiness. All of what she was, who she was, what she felt, was revealed in her sapphire eyes. The golden rays of the sun stretched out toward her, bathing her face in their glow. She reached up, grabbing the brim of her wool cap, and pulled it off. Long, raven tresses cascaded down her back to her waist. She swung her head from side to side, her hair swinging like black silk, catching the sun's rays, which reflected the blue-black hue. Here is where she felt wanted, loved; here is where her spirit was free.

She flung her cap skyward, swung her leg over Touche's neck, and leaped to the ground. Then she spun a cartwheel, standing upright, arms outstretched, to embrace the morning. Laughing gaily, she joyously greeted the day.

Unobserved, at the edge of the woods before the clearing, stood a man whose own thoughts had been interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves. He glanced up to see a rider and mount gallop past him, heading to the headland. He watched the lad pull the mount to a halt, noting the antics of the horse and the subtle checking of the reins by the lad. He moved quietly through the woods and stopped, resting against a tree, and coolly gazed at the intruders. His gray eyes passed hurriedly over the figure clad in breeches, resting for a moment on the lad's bare feet.

When the sun kissed the twilight good day, the gray eyes moved to rest on the profile, which appeared very soft, very feminine, and an easy smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he realized that the lad was no lad, but a lady. He moved closer, quietly, so as not to disturb the solitary girl. He saw the flush in her cheeks and the fine sheen of perspiration that covered her lovely face. His eyes were drawn to the rapid rise and fall of her breast, and when she raised her arm, the cloth of her shirt stretched taut, revealing the young, round fullness of her breast and the pert peak of her nipple. His attention was reluctantly drawn by the tumbling of her glorious mass of raven tresses that fell to her waist, a waist, his experienced eye noted, he could span with his hands.

He grinned when she leaped to the ground and went head over heels and back upright again. His eyes traveled the length of her as she walked to the edge of the bluff, taking in her long, coltish legs, round, soft buttocks, and the carefree, almost provocative sway of her curvy hips. He smiled, watching the bewitching girl in her childlike embrace of dawn.

He thought her to be around fifteen or so, a bit thin, he smiled crookedly, but in time, she would fill out quite nicely. He noted a natural grace and sultriness to her walk. He eyed her rounded hips, nicely displayed in the breeches, imagining the young woman this girl would become in two years time. She had something else, something inborn, like a pervading spirit; passion, it seemed, ruled her, as if it was in her nature. Now it was young, innocent, virginal, in its essence, but in time, with the right tutelage and the right man, it would blossom and burst forth like a newly tapped well from which a man could drink forever.

He watched her and thought he could do so all day. He saw her curtsy to the sun as it came fully above the horizon and could not suppress a throaty chuckle from escaping his lips.

Tiffany spun around when she heard the laugh; the sparkle and gleam in her eyes fled, as fear of discovery took over. She saw a man unknown to her, leaning negligently against a tree. A myriad of expressions washed over her face, relief finally settling on her features when she realized she was not in danger of being discovered by her father. The rapid display of emotions did not go unnoticed by the intruder, nor did the return of the sparkle and gleam in the sapphire eyes that regarded him.

Tiffany placed her hands on her rounded hips, raised a delicately arched brow, and indignantly said, "Pray, sir, what do you find so amusing?"

A gleam of admiration flickered in the gray eyes as they moved casually over her. He missed nothing in his perusal, absorbing the wild disarray of tresses, which turn-Ned about a delicately carved oval face and raised brow above an almond-shaped, sapphire eye. He grinned broadly in admiration and let his gray gaze course from her cheekbones to her fine, straight nose, whose tip turned up to the small, slight tilt of her chin--a sign of pride. But it was her mouth that held his gaze. Her hidden passion and vulnerability were revealed in its fullness and softness. It was inviting, and he suppressed the urge to taste it. She promised to be exquisite.

"You," he replied to her question as he unfurled himself and stood at his full height.

As he slowly moved toward her, Tiffany's eyes widened, taking in his fiill measure. He was uncommonly tall, and she instinctively took a step back, feeling small and vulnerable.

He stopped, smiling at her reaction, causing Tiffany to stand her ground and tilt her head defiantly toward him. He moved with casual grace toward her, and she noticed the broadness of his shoulders and the rippling muscles of his arms. She fought the urge to retreat, in spite of the power and forcefiilness he exuded.

"What governess have you escaped, child?" he slowly drawled as he stopped a hair's breadth from her.

Child! Tiffany bristled, and all caution fled, along with any thought of retreat. She tossed her head and replied indignantly, "I am not a child!" She brushed a strand of hair from her mouth with her hand. "And I assure you, sir, I have no need for a governess."

He deliberately let his eyes slowly roam over her form as if considering her claim. His mouth curved into a smile as he spoke. "That's debatable, little one."

Tiffany's eyes narrowed at the affront of this man. She took note that he was older, with dark, winged brows, arched above the most piercing, penetrating gray eyes she had ever seen. She shivered involuntarily, feeling as if they touched her soul. Composing herself, she sarcastically retorted, "No doubt someone of your advanced years would think so. Age, I'm told, distorts the body as well as the mind."

Amusement gleamed in the gray eyes. A grin flashed dazzlingly against his tanned skin in response to her words.

She realized that he was laughing at her and became more angry. "Obviously in your case, sir, your mind has been affected."

His response to her words was to throw his head back and laugh. She had a sharper wit than most of her age, and he appreciated a woman with wit.

Tiffany, too naive to appreciate the compliment, again felt that she was the brunt of his laughter. She responded in anger, which now flared in her stormy eyes.

Realizing she was angry at his laughter, the man with the gray eyes attempted to make amends, but Tiffany spoke first. "Stand aside, you . . . you . . . hyena, and let me pass!"

"Little one, a hyena, you say." He spread his arms and continued. "What you see here is a man, flesh and blood." He moved slightly to let her pass.

With all the dignity befitting a queen, she brushed past him, her head held high, raven tresses rippling as she strode barefoot to her mount. Before jumping onto Touche, she turned back to him and called out, "A man, aye, but sired by a hyena." She leaped up, kicking her mount into a gallop, hearing mocking laughter trailing behind her.