The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [317]
Wylie laughed.
“She is indeed,” he said, voice filled with pride of ownership. “Are they not magnificent?”
“Well, yes,” I said, considering. “They are. Still, I’m not sure that’s quite it. ‘Magnificent’ seems more like what you’d say of a stallion, or a warhorse of some kind. These horses are . . . well, they’re sweet!”
Wylie gave a small, amused sort of snort.
“Sweet?” he said. “Sweet?”
“Well, you know,” I said, laughing. “Charming. Good-natured. Delightful.”
“All those things,” he said, turning to me. “And beautiful, as well.” He wasn’t looking at the horses, but rather at me, a faint smile on his face.
“Yes,” I said, feeling a small, obscure twinge of unease. “Yes, they are very beautiful.”
He was standing very close; I took a step to the side and turned away, under the pretext of looking at the horses again. The foal was nuzzling at the mare’s swollen udder, scraggy tail waggling with enthusiasm.
“What are their names?” I asked.
Wylie moved to the bar of the loose-box, casually, but in such a way that his arm brushed my sleeve as he reached above me to hang the lantern from a hook on the wall.
“The mare’s name is Tessa,” he said. “You saw the sire, Lucas. As for the filly . . .” He reached for my hand, and lifted it, smiling. “I thought I might name her La Belle Claire.”
I didn’t move for a second, stunned by sheer disbelief at the expression that showed quite clearly on Phillip Wylie’s face.
“What?” I said blankly. Surely I was wrong, I thought. I tried to snatch my hand away, but I had hesitated one second too long, and his fingers tightened on mine. Surely he wasn’t really meaning to . . .
He was.
“Charming,” he said softly, and moved closer. “Good-natured. Delightful. And . . . beautiful.” He kissed me.
I was so shocked that I didn’t move for a moment. His mouth was soft, the kiss brief and chaste. That hardly mattered, though; it was the fact that he had done it.
“Mr. Wylie!” I said. I took a hasty step back, but was brought up short by the rail.
“Mrs. Fraser,” he said softly, and took the same step forward. “My dear.”
“I am not your—” I began, and he kissed me again. Without the least hint of chasteness. Still shocked, but no longer stunned, I shoved him, hard. He wobbled, and lost his grip on my hand, but recovered instantly, seizing me by the arm and slipping his other hand behind me.
“Flirt,” he whispered, and lowered his face toward mine. I kicked him. Unfortunately, I kicked him with my injured foot, which deprived the blow of much force, and he ignored it.
I began to struggle in good earnest, as the sense of stunned disbelief faded into the awareness that the young man had one hand firmly on my backside. At the same time, I was aware that there were a good many people in the vicinity of the stable; the last thing I wanted was to attract attention.
“Stop that!” I hissed. “Stop it at once!”
“You madden me,” he breathed, pressing me to his bosom and attempting to stick his tongue in my ear.
I certainly thought he was mad, but I declined absolutely to accept any responsibility for the condition. I jerked back as far as I could—not far, with the railing at my back—and fought to get one hand between us. Shock quite gone by now, I was thinking with surprising clarity. I couldn’t knee him in the balls; he had one leg thrust between my own, trapping a wodge of skirt in my way. If I could get my hand round his throat and get a sound hold of his carotids, though, he’d drop like a rock.
I did get hold of his throat, but his blasted stock was in the way; my fingers scrabbled at it, and he jerked to the side, grabbing at my hand.
“Please,” he said. “I want—”
“I don’t give a damn what you want!” I said. “Let go of me this instant, you—you—” I groped wildly for some suitable insult. “You—puppy!”
Rather to my surprise, he stopped. His face couldn’t go pale, being already covered in rice flour—I could taste it on my lips—but his mouth was set, and his expression was . . . rather wounded.
“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes, it bloody