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neck before closing her fingers mindlessly on the thick silk of his hair.
    He stiffened with a whispered curse, and then withdrew. So strong was her sense of loss that she kept her eyes closed for long seconds while she sought to banish all sign of it.
    She had wanted him to go on holding her, had not cared what else he might do. He must never know this. She could not hand him that fearful weapon. But how was she to conceal it?
    “I suppose that was a kiss,” she said, assuming a tone of cool irony. “Thank you for the demonstration. I must say it appeared competent. If I should feel the need to have it repeated, I will summon you for the task.”
    Anger darkened his face. She watched it grow and was desolated, but it could not be helped.
    “My kisses are not given on command,” he said, each word slicing like a honed sword.
    “No?” Her reply was soft, but there was barbed certainty behind it. She even smiled.
    “I am my own man. You are my guest—and, yes, my prisoner. If I desire to kiss you, I shall. Otherwise, you will have nothing of me.”
    The words wounded her self-respect. They were meant to put distance between them, she felt sure, but knowing it did not erase her need to retaliate. “You have no right to hold me captive, and I will not submit to it. As for any other indignities, you venture them at your own risk.”
    “Who will prevent me from doing as I please with you?” he demanded. “Who will keep and defend you? Where is your champion?”
    His voice. Beneath the strident anger of it was maddening reason. It was a sound she knew. More than that, he had slipped into a cadence and accent very like her own, or like that of someone she knew well.
    Could it be? Was it possible?
    In icy disdain, she answered, “I am no weakling. I can and will defend myself.”
    An expression of cool determination invaded his features. He reached to take her arm in a firm grip. “Then guard yourself well.”
    She was jerked forward, off balance. At the same time, he bent from the waist to catch her at her midriff and lift her over his wide shoulder. Surprise and the sudden pressure across her abdomen stole her breath. Before she could move or protest, a hard arm clamped around her knees. Rayne settled her with a quick shift then began to walk with long, swift steps back down the track toward the cottage.
    Bouncing upside down, Mara felt the nose-tingling pressure of blood rushing to her head. It combined with her fury and indignation to pound in a blood-red haze before her eyes. She would never forgive him for this indignity. Never.
    She wanted to scream, wanted to kick and beat at the man who held her. She would have liked to order him taken and whipped, then flung into some dungeon.
    The certain knowledge than none of it would help her kept her still. She grasped desperately at the folds of his shirt to steady herself and caught handfuls of firm, warm flesh. She felt him flinch as her nails bit into him, but she did not care.
    “Put…me…down,” she said through clenched teeth.
    He made a deep noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, and leaned with a swooping movement to duck under a tree limb before plunging from the track into woods.
    When she’d recovered her breath from the dizzying swing, she tried again. “Put me down or I’m going to be sick all over you.”
    It seemed he intended to ignore that possibility. They jounced along three more steps, four.
    Abruptly he came to a halt. She was catapulted backward off his shoulder. Arms like iron bands caught her in mid-flight, locking across her back and under her knees. With a jarring swiftness, she was turned and hefted against the board-like musculature of his chest.
    “Better?” he asked in biting politeness.
    It was better, yes, but also far worse. She was more comfortable, but she could see the satisfaction in his face, feel how powerless she was against the superior strength contained in the bands of iron muscles that enwrapped his upper body.