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so, then come this way.”
    To his amazement, she dashed off in a web of ebony grace, the stole of her hair flying about her in a cloud like a raven’s wing, only to resettle as she sped along the pines to a trail just southward of their position. Still paralyzed with simple shock, he watched her.
    Then he swore, bursting back to life.
    Hurtling himself into his saddle, he urged Friar to take a wild plunge into the river. At its greatest depth, the water was only four feet, but there it rose in mighty showers and rushed back upon him in shimmering cascades.
    By the time he had crossed the river, she’d mounted a large handsome horse—a far finer animal than he had seen in most of the South. And there, on the trail, she sat, a naked beauty cloaked in nothing but the black sable of her hair, staring his way. Her limbs were long, ivory, striking against the darkness of the horse’s coat. Her face, though shadowed by that magnificent head of hair, again appeared young, striking ...
    And cunning.
    She might have been startled, just at first, that he had so quickly crossed the water and found her upon the trail. But she gave that little thought, kneed her horse, and tore down the pine-carpeted trail.
    Deeper and deeper she rode into the green darkness of the trails. Pines, oaks, webbed with ferns and mosses, created a rich canopy above them. She knew the trail, he thought. No one who didn’t know the trail would ever dare ride its length so recklessly. Nor could they follow such a twisted course with such great speed for so long a time.
    Only a fool would follow so recklessly! he thought.
    And yet ...
    He followed. She was leading him astray, he knew. Tempting him from all his intent. Only a fool would follow, yet he was certain that, just as she would lead him away—she would lead him back again.
    After twenty minutes of a heavy gallop in her pursuit, he came to a small bubbling brook. He was amazed that she had a horse with the speed and stamina to elude him so long. The Southern states had begun the war with the best horses—life in the South had been far more based upon the farm and the hunt than that in the North, and the majority of the best breeding stables had been in the South. But war had taken its toll on horses just as it had on humans—far too many of the Southern horses were little but flesh and bones.
    Not to mention the horses that had been casualties of war, rotten carcasses next to their masters upon the killing fields of the fight.
    He was lucky to have an exceptional mount himself. Friar was from Kentucky, a horse bred from specially chosen stock for both strength and speed. He still thought that he might have overtaken the woman if the trail hadn’t been so narrow and treacherous. Perhaps it was best to wait. Give her time to knot her own noose ...
    She had just crossed the brook when he reached it. Still, he reined in. It seemed a good time to hold off, back away. To wait. And to watch. She wasn’t without sense, or was she? She would surely know that she had to slow down her horse. To own such a creature, and to ride it so well, she must be aware that she would kill the animal if she raced it into the ground. But what did he know of her? Maybe she would consider the act of eluding him to be worth the life of the horse. Then what? They were deep in the midst of nowhere, far between the habited lands of either coast. She would have to care about the life of her horse.
    Very soon, she would have to slow down, walk her mount, allow it water.
    He dismounted from his horse, and hunkered down by the water. He drank, looked around. She had definitely crossed the brook. He would wait, let her move on without being chased. She would see that he had stopped, and perhaps believe that she had lost him, that his pursuit was finished.
    Never.
    He was determined.
    Why? She was a wanton little fool. Good God, didn’t she see the risks?
    He gave himself a shake, gritting his teeth, stiffening. He hadn’t felt this