Excerpt of Her Master's Touch by Patricia Watters

Damon threaded his way among horses and turbaned horse coopers, heading toward what looked to be a fine black being presented for sale. Although he continued to search the faces in the crowd, he was certain he wouldn't find the gypsy woman's among them. He would, however, purchase the black for Mara. But this time he'd examine the horse closely, not be side-tracked by a green-eyed, raven-haired tart with curves to make a man gasp. No indeed. Mara would have her black and he'd purchase the finest at the fair...

"Bloody Hell!"

In his line of vision stood the gypsy woman. She looked directly at him, held his gaze for an instant, then ducked behind a wagon. He swatted the rump of a horse to move it out of his way, crossed in front of a bullock hitched to a cart, and rushed after the woman. But when he got to the wagon, she was gone. Searching the crowd, he caught sight of her running toward the fringes of the fairgrounds where several horses stood tethered. He raced after her, dodging, zigzagging, weaving through and around huddles of startled traders. But before he could reach her, she grabbed a fistful of mane and launched herself onto the bare back of a mare. Kicking the animal in the flanks, she sent it bolting forward and galloping across the field.

Damon untied a gelding and hurled himself into the saddle. He booted the animal and the horse shot forward, hooves pounding as he raced after the woman, who stuck to her mount like a fly on flypaper. On a stretch of roadway, he booted the animal again, until it was racing alongside the woman's horse in a full, ground-eating gallop. Leaning dangerously off the side of his horse, he curled his fingers around the mare's bridle, bringing both animals skidding to a dust-billowing halt. But before he could dismount, the woman slipped off the mare and raced across a glade into the woods.

He jumped down and took after her at a dead run in an effort to keep up with her. Swift as a gazelle, she zigzagged between trees, dashed beneath underbrush and scrambled over anything in her path. He gritted his teeth and scowled that this agile slip of a woman was able to leave him winded and in danger of falling back while she’d make her escape. That thought gave him the rush of adrenaline he needed to catch up and lunge at her, grabbing her legs and sending her tumbling to the ground. To his shock, she flipped over and kneed him in the crotch, then slithered from his grasp and scrambled to her feet. Pure, unadulterated fury dulled the pain long enough for him to grab her skirt and hold fast until she lost her balance and tumbled backwards, landing face up on top of him. He clamped one hand around her waist. The other hand captured a breast momentarily before teeth sank into his flesh.

Letting out a roar, he rolled her over and straddled her while pinning her hands to the ground above her head. "Damn you, you little spitfire!"

She bumped and pitched beneath him, causing him to bite his tongue, but he held her fast. "Let me go you... you... gorgio swine!" she cried.

As he bear his full weight on top of her to halt her struggles, she attempted to buck free, the sharp thrusts of her hipbone striking him square in the cock, making him fear for his masculinity. Then abruptly she stopped struggling and gazed up at him. Golden sparks flickered in her jade-green eyes. But he saw no fear in those eyes. Instead, they seemed to hold a gleam of mocking amusement. Or perhaps... triumph?

He had no idea what her game was this time, but he wouldn't be duped again. "So you don't like gorgios," he said, straddling her while trapping her hands above her head. "Well, I don't like gypsies. Every year you people arrive in hordes for the horse fair, camp on my grounds, help yourselves to my water, graze your stock in my fields, and all the while you eye me with contempt. So don't get your dander up with me, gypsy girl, because I don't much give a damn how you feel. The way I see it, you can either replace that nag you sold me with an unadulterated black, or return my money. So, what's it going to be?"

She batted her long-lashed eyes and looked at him with an air of feigned innocence, and said, "I have no black."

He inspected her more closely. Her features were delicate, her skin fair, her face more like a china doll than a gypsy hoyden. Obviously Eurasian. Not only were her eyes a striking shade of green, but her erudite English revealed not a trace of a Hindustani. But that didn't change the fact that she'd swindled him out of a sizable sum, and he intended to recover every last rupee. "Then I'll have my money back,” he demanded.

"I don't have it," she countered. "Someone took it from me."

He eyed her with vexation. The chit was truly testing him. And he was quickly losing his patience. "Like hell. You're a bloody thief."

"I am not a thief," she said. "You had the choice of examining the horse first."

"I bought a black, and that's what I expected to have after it rained!"

She gave him a waggish smile. "As they say, it all comes come out in the wash."

He clenched his jaws. "Maybe you won't find things so amusing when you're cooling your backside on the cold floor of a jail, which is where you'll be if you don't come up with my money." Slowly he released her hands, then guardedly moved from atop her and sat back on his heels, primed to take off after her if she bolted...