Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage. Kathleen CreightonЧитать онлайн книгу.
He’d been admiring Rashid’s own mount in particular, a dapple gray stallion with the Arabian’s classic dish face and high-arched neck, graceful, delicate lines and, it appeared, the courage of a lion. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk horse breeding with the prince…maybe discuss an exchange of bloodlines—
His thoughts scattered like dry leaves as several ponies thundered down the field in tight formation, close to the sideline and only a few yards from where he and Elena were standing, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, followed by shouts—mostly of triumph, intermingled with a few moans of dismay. Apparently the Tamiri team, jubilant and easily distinguishable in bright gold and black, had just scored on the scarlet-clad Montebellans.
Distracted by the celebration on the playing field, it was a few seconds before Cade noticed the woman running—no, dancing—along the sideline, keeping pace with the ponies galloping barely an arm’s length away beyond the low board barrier. He had an impression of slenderness and grace as unselfconscious as a child’s, of vitality as voluptuous and lush as Mother Earth herself. The unlikely combination tugged at his senses—and something else, some cache of emotions hidden away, until that moment, deep inside him. His breath caught. Protective instincts produced electrical impulses in all his muscles.
She’s too close. She’ll be trampled!
The alarm flashed across his consciousness, there one second, gone the next. Cynically, he thought, She’s a grown woman, she’s got sense enough to stay out of harm’s way. His heart was beating fast as he settled back to watch her. He realized that, incongruously, he was smiling.
She was dressed all in earth tones—shiny brown leather boots to the knee, a divided skirt in soft-colored camel suede that hugged her rounded hips like kid gloves, and a cream-colored blouse made of something that looked like—and undoubtedly was—silk, with long flowing sleeves cuffed tightly at the wrist. The skirt was belted at her waist with a silk scarf patterned in the Tamari team colors—yellow and black. She wore a hat to shade her face from the blistering Mediterranean sun, the same soft suede as her skirt with a wide brim and flat crown, like those Cade associated with Argentinean cowboys. A hatstring hung loosely under her delicate chin to keep the hat from blowing off in the unpredictable sea breeze. Beneath the hat, raven-black hair swept cleanly back from a highcheekboned face to a casually wound coil at the nape of a long, graceful neck.
Entranced, Cade thought, I wonder who she is. And following that, clearly, distinctly, I want her.
He acknowledged the thought unashamedly but with a wry inner smile. He was fully grown-up, no longer a child, and years ago had learned that wanting did not necessarily mean having.
Shouts of outrage and a shrill whistle interrupted his appraisal of the woman. He almost chuckled aloud as he watched her express her own dissatisfaction with what was happening on the field, whirling in fury and stamping her foot like an angry child. Moments later she was in motion again as the horses and riders careened back down the field, once more dancing along the sideline, completely caught up in the action, her body bobbing, jerking and weaving in unconscious imitation of the players. As if, Cade thought, she longed to be one of them, rather than just a spectator.
And then…he caught his breath. As she moved directly in front of him, a gust of wind caught her hat from behind and tipped it neatly forward off her head. She gave a little shriek of dismay and grabbed for it, but it was already tumbling across the trampled grass, directly into the path of the oncoming horses. Cade felt his body lurch involuntarily, before the thought had even formed in his mind. She’s so damned impulsive! My God, is she crazy enough to go for it?
As if she’d heard his thought or maybe sensed his forward lunge, she stopped herself abruptly and spun toward him, delightfully abashed, like a little girl teetering on the edge of the curb, preparing to earnestly swear, “I wasn’t really going to run out in the street, honest.”
Perhaps loosened by that movement, her hair came out of its sedate coil, unwinding like a living creature, something sleek and sinuous awakening to vibrant life. As it tumbled down her back in a glorious black cascade, at that precise moment she locked eyes with Cade. Catching her lower lip between white teeth, she gave him a winsomely dimpled smile.
Recognition exploded in his brain even as desire thumped him in the groin. The double whammy caught him off guard. Breath gusted from his lungs as if he’d taken an actual blow.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Cade jerked toward the quiet voice, mouth open in automatic denial. One look at Elena’s face told him protest was pointless, so instead he laughed and wryly shook his head. “Let me guess—one of the princesses, right?”
She nodded. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave. “Leila—the youngest. I’m serious, Cade. If the sheik catches you laying so much as a finger on that girl, all bets are off. He watches her like a hawk.”
“Evidently not today,” he murmured out the side of his mouth as the princess approached them, stepping gracefully up the slight incline into the shade of the ancient olive trees.
Holding out her hand to Elena and, for the moment, ignoring Cade completely, she cried out in obvious delight, “Elena—hello!” And then, her expressive face scrunching with chagrin, “You saw what happened?” She had a charming accent, more pronounced than Hassan’s—the result, Cade surmised, of having had much less contact with westerners. The quality of her voice was low and musical but with a huskiness that caressed his auditory nerves like coarse-textured fur.
“Oh, I did,” Elena said with a moan of feminine commiseration. “I’m so sorry. It was such a beautiful hat.”
The princess pursed her lips in a brief but charming pout, then smiled and gave a little shrug. C’est la vie.
She turned to Cade, finally, her eyes emerging from under thick sooty lashes like mischievous children peeking out from behind a curtain. “Hello. I am Leila Kamal.” The way she held her hand out made him wonder if she expected him to kiss it.
Which was probably why, out of pure contrariness, he did nothing of the sort, but instead took her hand in a good old Texas American-style handshake. A moment later he wondered if that had been a mistake as well. Her hand was smaller and at the same time firmer than he’d expected. It left an impression on his senses of both strength and vulnerability, and he found himself holding on to it for a lot longer than was probably sane, while his mind filled with images and urges that had nothing whatsoever to do with sanity.
“This is Cade,” said Elena. “Cade Gallagher—my friend and, uh, guardian.”
“Of course.” Lashes lifted; eyes gazed at him, somehow both dark and bright, mysterious as moonlit pools. He had a sudden sensation of leaning slightly off balance, as if his internal gyrocompass had been knocked out of kilter. “And also your brother—but not really.” The dimples flashed. “For that I am glad, because if you were truly Elena’s brother, and she is now my sister, then you would be my brother, as well.” Her laugh was low, a delightful ripple, like water tumbling over pebbles. “And I most certainly do not need any more brothers. Two is quite enough!”
Cade found himself floundering in unfamiliar territory, at least when dealing with a beautiful woman. Not that he considered himself suave—far from it—but he’d never found himself utterly at a loss for words before, either. At least, not since about seventh grade. He was muttering something unintelligible when a discreet cough from Elena reminded him that he was still holding the princess’s hand. He released it…laughed…and felt as awkward and abashed as the twelve-year-old Cade he painfully remembered.
“Are you enjoying the game, Mr. Gallagher? Exciting, is it not? Especially since Tamir is winning.” Her eyes held a gleeful sparkle.
He wondered suddenly if the reason he felt so young was simply because she was, and the thought helped restore him to sanity. That, and a calming sip of his cheroot. “I am, very much,” he drawled, gazing over her head to where the