Free Taming the Barbarian by Lois Greiman

draw the tack from the mare’s back. The saddle was small and light, crafted of dark, finegrained leather, but it was the blanket that fascinated him most. ‘Twas not made of rough woven fibers as his own stallions had worn, but of a soft, snowy white fabric that cushioned the mare’s glossy back like a loving hand.
    Where indeed? Killian questioned silently and wandered from the stables.
    The sun still shone with friendly brilliance on the world through which he walked, but his mind was far away, lost in a land of shadows and war.
    Where had he been? Why had he fought? Memories shrieked through his mind, the cries of his men, the screams of their mounts.
    The sound came again. He glanced up and found himself drawn from his reverie. ‘Twas only a lark that called from a willow that shaded the lady’s gardens. Only a lark, but as Killian scanned the greenery, his gaze fell on the towering statue of the Black Celt.
    He felt the blood drain from his face, felt his limbs grow weak. God’s bones, what devilry was in play?
     
    Fleurette leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. It was not yet ten in the morning, but she felt tired and worn. Perhaps Stanford was right. Perhaps she should hire someone to pay the bills and keep the books, but if the truth be told, there were few she would trust with the task. It was hardly unheard of for clerks to steal from their employers, and she had no wish to be amongst that foolish lot.
    Pushing back her chair, she rose and paced to the window. Her knee had healed easily in the past three days. There was no swelling and little pain. The same could not be said for her pride. Bending her leg unconsciously, she scowled through the uneven glass to the street below, where two men squabbled and gestured. Farther to the east, where the thoroughfare was intersected by a rough side road, an old man sat alone with a bottle.
    Perhaps Stanford was right about her company’s location, too. Eddings Carriages was situated not two furlongs from London’s hideous dungeons. Maybe it was time to move her business out of this deteriorating neighborhood to a more posh address.
    She scowled, wondering if, in fact, Stanford was right about something else as well.
    Leaning her forehead against the window, Fleur recalled his words about marriage. She remembered, too, the slobbering feel of Mr. Finnegan’s lips against her knuckles, and the predatory look in Lord Lampor’s eyes as he hunted her through the crowd of the ballroom. She was weary of the chase, was tired of being the prize plum in a public orchard. True, men might think it unseemly for her to manage her own business; but with the cost of living rising by the day, there were few who would turn aside her income. It seemed as if every snuff-toting gentleman in London was looking to increase his purse. But if she wed, she could surely curtail their harried pursuit.
    She let the idea sink into her tired mind for a moment. If she wed, she would no longer have to suffer the advances of unwanted suitors. And if she wed
wisely
, she could still enjoy her freedom, could still manage her own affairs. There was no reason to think she couldn’t make an amiable arrangement. Surely there were a few suitable gentlemen who would be happy to give her the title of wife without assuming the
rights
that the position assumed.
    The memory of Madame Gravier’s party returned with a vengeance. Was Mr. Kendrick truly Thomas’s cousin? And if so, what had he hoped to gain by accosting her, she wondered, but in the back of her mind she realized her real concern.
    Sir Killian of Hiltsglen.
    The memory of him sent an untidy barrage of emotions sluicing through her. Where the devil had he come from? What did he want? Besides her land of course. The thought of his stealing the quarry out from under her nose irritated her no end. The memory of him taking her horse drove her mad. He’d been gone when she’d finally stormed into the stable in search of
Fille
. And she’d