Fleeing the clutches of her disreputable relatives, Sera Livingston has made her escape to Australia's Outback. Disguised as a boy, sharp-tongued Sera searches for her sister but is attacked by bushrangers. Thievery becomes her only chance at surviv...
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Roman's hand was stiff, fingers drumming on the hilt of his Peacemaker revolver with the desire to kill. "If he touches her hair, he'll wind up with a bullet in his skull."
"Keep your hands on the table, Roman. I can't have you killing Dorian just because he finds your wife pretty." August gave a grunt snort, a rare smile forming on his lips. "To think I'd ever utter those words to you."
Roman shifted in his seat, elbows resting on the table, hands lacing in front of his mouth as he leaned over, glaring at the scrawny man who was about the same age as Sera. He saw it, lustful eyes lingering too long on his little wife and one thing in particular.
Dorian wanted to touch Sera's curl, push it back and over her shoulder, tracing his fingers along the delicate curve. That was the thing about her ringlets-- they were natural and soft, not the tight, fake kind like Lydia had. But most of all, they were tantalizing. Most of Sera's hair was pinned up in twists and braids with one large, soft curl laying on her collarbone. It gleamed under the blazing flames surrounding the night and lighting up the town square for the party. A breeze sifted through, catching that delicate ringlet, torturing the man and practically begging to be swiped back.
His little mouse didn't help the situation when she laughed at something Dorian had said. Her head fell back, those dimples on full display, and her eyes lighting up. The affect was as if bits of ice were dropped into those usually straight whiskey-colored eyes and making them gleam like the drink on the rocks.
Sera shone with regal beauty and Roman marveled at how he had been able to obtain such a creature. The whole air around her was alive and breathing as if even the atmosphere was entrance, magnetizing to her. She was the most alive woman he had ever met. Her expression changed so drastically and so quickly it was astonishing to observe. One minute her brow was crinkled in disdain and the next, she was laughing in delight with her cohort, which was irritatingly-- not Roman.
Dorian-- with clever and insolent fingers-- reached up with a glass of gin in his hand. One long, and thin finger inched closer until it was too close. Roman had, had enough. A loud shot rang out, causing everyone to scream as Dorian's glass shattered. Sera jumped up and away from the fiendish, gangly man.
Roman held his revolver with pride as smoke residue billowed out of the chamber. Sera's soft ringlets bounced, indicating her irritation when she spun around, her eyes narrowing at Roman in fiery heat. That lovely body was draped in a gown of the darkest red, suctioned to her figure that was causing every man's eye to glue to her. Too bad for her, the last male courageous enough to talk with her-- and possibly ask her to dance-- was now scampering away in terror.
"That was a little bit of an overreaction, wouldn't you say?" August chuckled, smirking at Roman as he leaned back in his chair.
"She's my wife." Roman stated, taking a sip of his whiskey, eyes not leaving his mouse's. Every man around kept peering over at her. At first, it had been out of curiosity but then their gazes kept shifting back and Remington could feel himself going feral.
