The instant his mount cleared the stable door, he dug in his heels; the horse lengthened his stride from trot to canter to gallop. By then, Demon had located his prey. In the far distance, disappearing into the shadows thrown by a stand of trees. Another minute and he'd have lost her.

Jaw setting, he struggled with the stirrups as he pounded along. Curses and oaths colored the wind of his passage. Finally, the stirrups were lengthened enough; he settled properly into the saddle, and the chase began in earnest.

The bobbing figure on the back of The Flynn shot a glance behind, then looked forward. A second later, The Flynn swerved and lengthened his stride.

Demon tacked, trying to close the gap by cutting diagonally across-only to find himself careening toward a stretch of rough. Forced to slow and turn aside, he glanced up-and discovered that Flick had abruptly swung the other way and was making off in a different direction. Instead of shortening, the distance between them had grown.

Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, Demon forgot about swearing and concentrated on riding. Within two minutes, he'd altered his initial plan-to ride Flick down and demand an explanation-to simply keeping the damned female in sight.

She rode like a demon-even better than he. It didn't seem possible, but…

He was a superlative rider, quite possibly the most accomplished of his day. He could ride anything with four legs, mane and tail anywhere, over any terrain. But Flick was leading him a merry dance. And it wasn't simply the fact that his horse was already tired or that he rode much heavier than she. The Flynn was tired, too, and was being ridden harder; Flick was fleeing; he was only following. But she seemed to merge with her mount in that way only other expert riders could understand.

He understood it and couldn't help admiring it grudgingly, even while acknowledging he had not a hope in hell of catching her.