The Untamed Heart

She didn’t breathe. He paused, again motionless, soundless, and yet he stood as if every muscle poised at the ready to respond to some invisible enemy. His scream erupted, blood chilling and eerie. And then in an explosion of movement, he lunged at the tree, legs arcing, arms firing. With fists and feet he beat into the bark, spun, then jumped in a frenzied attack, punctuating each blow with a low, guttural shout that seemed to bring a surge of power to each strike.

Willie watched in horror, expecting blood to be streaming from his hands, legs and feet. But there was none. The man was crazy. Still, as Willie watched, her horror became fascination. There was a mystical beauty to his movements, something she couldn’t comprehend or define. He was more animal than human, more mysterious than the wolf, more dangerous.

Willie drew the rifle against her chest. She took one step back. A twig cracked beneath her boot. She froze.

Devlin spun toward her and went instantly still. Hell’s fire blazed in his eyes. His chest barely moved with his breaths. Fists clenched against his thighs. Arm muscles popped. His legs braced wide, gripped and taut, ready to strike again.

In that moment, he was everything wild and hungry and beautiful that Willie could have ever imagined. And he was all male, his masculinity so blatantly displayed by his skinmolding britches she felt her legs turn to water and the blood rush in her ears. The rifle slipped from her hands.

He moved toward her with great powerful strides and all she could see was the sun reflected in his eyes and the curl of his lip, like that of a ravenous wolf. She whirled, tripped and felt the ground tip under her feet.

Chapter Four (#ulink_3fe633b7-7ef1-5b08-9d58-f74f5521f4e9)

Sloan caught her arm and lifted her back against him. “There’s nothing to fear here, Wilhelmina. Except your gun, and it’s on the ground. Can you stand?”

She spun around in a whirl of coppery curls that fell to her hips. “Of course, I can stand,” she snapped, shoving up her chin just to make certain he could see the determination in her eyes. His touch had obviously driven the fear out of her. She took one step back, then another, blinking as if she didn’t know what to do with her eyes. Skittish, not naive. The broken heart had no choice but to cloak itself in a thick wall of defense. As he watched her draw the black dog close against the side of her leg, he wondered if she had good reason to hate all men, or fear them.

“I heard you howling. I thought you were calling to the wolves. But you weren’t.”

He felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction. She was more curious than afraid. “Wolves howl to confuse an enemy.”

She glanced at the tree. “Is that what you were doing?”

“It’s called a kiai.” He watched her lips move in silent repetition. Perhaps she could understand what others never could. Maybe she would see beyond labeling him a madman and a peculiarity. “The kiai brings power to a blow and can confuse an assailant.”

“What assailant?”

Sloan inclined his head at the tree and watched her. “My imaginary opponent.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You were fighting a tree.”

“I could spend an entire lifetime perfecting my movements and mental awareness fighting that tree. I’ve fought many before, straw pads before that, even wet sand.”

“That’s why your hands don’t bleed.” She watched him extend his fingers along his thighs. “Do all men fight trees in England?”

“None that I’ve known.”

“It’s like an art form.”

“As much as any other.”

“You could kill someone with your hands.”

He looked into her eyes and saw a spark of suspicion flare. “I never have.”

“But you would.”

“The way of the empty hand is not to kill, but to defend, even to the death.”

“The empty hand. You mean, no gun.”

“No weapon.”

“That’s unheard-of here. Everyone carries a gun.”

“That’s why everyone needs to. I’ve never felt a need to prove that I can fight. I still believe disputes can be solved peaceably. Many battles are won without firing a single bullet.”

“Not here.”

“Not even in England.” He watched a bird soar high overhead. “It’s always better to walk away from trouble, even if it’s the tougher course.”

“Trouble inevitably follows.”

“Then you deal with it, efficiently.” His gaze rested on her. “You’re not satisfied.”

“I’m never satisfied.”

“I believe it. Maybe you wish to learn.”

Her face lit with the wonder of a child untainted by grief or despair. In an instant, the defenses vanished. He felt something twist in his belly, a pain and longing so deep his breath caught.

“You can teach me to move like you do?” she asked.

“Not in one day, or a year. It’s part of the ancient ancestral heritage of an island race in the Orient, based on the teachings of the monks that live in the mountains in a place called Ryukyu.”

“You were born there?”

His fists flexed. “I’ve never been to Ryukyu. To become a fighting master, I had to be put to a test of courage.” He paused, watching her. “I learned from Azato. He’s a great master. My father saw him demonstrate his skills for royalty in the Orient when he traveled there over twenty years ago. He brought Azato back with him to England.”

“Your father traveled so far.”

“My father was a vagabond, in search of a higher meaning to his life.” He paused and felt the silence press in around him. The sun inched up over the stand of trees to the east, promising heat to chase away the morning chill. Promising so much where the eye could see forever over a sea of grass to the east, enough to stir a man from his grief. A heavy weight compressed in his chest, still, no matter what he did to ease it. He glanced at her, and in her eyes he saw dwindling hope, forgotten dreams and promises broken.

“A higher meaning.” She snorted and glanced out over the horizon and the majesty of dawn. Her face remained impassive, unmoved save for the caustic twist of her lips. “You can’t find it in a mine, though you can’t tell folks that. I guess we’re all looking for it somewhere. Aren’t you?” She looked up at him as the breeze played through her hair and the sun turned her eyes the gold-green of a cat.

Heat washed over Sloan, a deep heat that fired his blood and plunged directly to his loins. Never in his life had he been so profoundly aware of a female in the basest, most physical sense. When he looked at Willie, when she looked at him, the barriers dissolved between mind and body, and his desires became his needs and his obsession.

“I’ve been looking for it all my life.” He stared at her, his arms suddenly aching to protect her, as much from broken dreams as from himself. He took a step, involuntarily reached for her, and she drew back, one hand going to the base of her throat in an instinctive gesture of defense.

“Don’t,” she said, low, husky.

He went completely still. “I won’t”

“That’s what Brant said.”

“Then he was a fool to jeopardize your trust.”

“He didn’t want my trust, Devlin.”