Free So Wild a Heart by Candace Camp Page B

responded sardonically and turned on his heel to stride out of the room.
    Miranda's knees were suddenly too weak to stand, and she sank down in the nearest chair. Dear God, what had just happened?
    In an instant her whole life had been turned upside down. She coursed with fury and indignation and a fire that was completely new to her. Her hand stung from slapping him. She was glad she had; she wished he were back here so she could slap him again. At the same time, her insides felt jumbled and hot and hungry, and she wanted to feel again the pleasure that had surged in her when he kissed her.
    The man was arrogant and rude—no, he was beyond arrogant and rude; he was something so irritating and provoking that she could not think of a name for it. She hated him, and she hated him all the more because she had thrilled so to his kiss. She had weakly wanted to lean against him, had wantonly wished that the kiss would go on and on forever. She had enjoyed it, even though everything in her screamed not to. She had wanted him with a fierce and urgent ache that she had never felt for any other man. And it was infuriating that he had made her feel that way quite against her will.
    The man was the very devil, she thought, and she hoped that she would never have to see him again. But, no, she realized immediately, that was not true. She hoped she would see him again—and soon—so that she could tell him exactly how much she despised him!
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    Devin strode down the street, his feet keeping pace with the rapid tumbling of his brain. The nerve of the wench! To slap him, to tell him he was not good enough to be her husband! Who did she think she was? He was an Aincourt of Darkwater, and she was a nobody, puffed up in importance just because her father had made a pile of gold selling animal skins — as if that made her anyone of consequence!
    He thought of a dozen scathing things he should have said to her. He should have told her how little her refusal of his proposal had meant to him. He had not wanted to ask her to marry him in the first place — he had only done it because everyone kept hounding him to. He should have pointed out to her that she was no prize for any man, least of all an earl. But, damnation, she had felt so soft and yielding against him. And her lips had tasted of honey, and the scent of roses that clung to her had filled his nostrils in the most delightful, heady way.
    He let out a growl of frustration, startling a passerby and making the man move quickly to the opposite side of the street. It seemed too bizarre, too absurd, that she could possibly be the fetching woman who had rescued him last night. He had been in his cups, of course, and he'd had only a hazy memory of the woman's face, but he'd remembered those wide, expressive gray eyes and the way they had lit with laughter and excitement. How could she have been the same person as that drab, infuriating creature he had forced himself to propose to this afternoon?
    It had been the woman from last night who had responded to his kiss. He had felt the warmth and excitement in her, the same passion that yesterday had sent her flying into the midst of a fray. He smiled a little as he thought about the kiss, remembering the warmth of her lips, the sweet eagerness. He wasn't sure why he had done it—he had wanted to get back at her in some way. She had been so infuriating, so cold and controlled, so contemptuous of him, that he had wanted to show her that he had the upper hand. And he had done so, despite the slap. The slap only showed how much he had struck a nerve with her; he suspected that she was more furious at herself for responding than anything else.
    He knew, too, that he could make her respond again. Hell, if he put an effort into it, he could make her fall in love with him. Devin knew that he could be charming. There had been many women over the years who had succumbed to that charm—even some who most people would have said were far too