Each bulging muscle.
As if to increase her discomfiture, the wind gusted then, lifting the side panel of his tunic to give her a bold glimpse at yet another of his bulging muscles.
A most masculine one.
She drew a quick breath, the sharp intake of air prompting him to glance at her. “The wound is clean,” he said, clearly mistaking the reason for her gasp. “My young friend will survive this day and many more yet to come.”
“Praise be.” Caterine nodded, her heart hammering. His nearness, and the sheer male power of him, wove a spell around her, consuming her so fully she needed all her strength to wrench her gaze from him.
How could that be?
She didn’t know and didn’t want to consider the reasons.
Instead, she turned to the injured knight, and lowered herself to the ground beside him. She also forced a calm she didn’t feel. Hoping no one would notice – especially the Sassunach – she reached for the injured Highlander’s hand, seeking to banish the cold from his fingers with the warmth of her palms.
“Noble sir,” she said, wishinghewasn’t staring at her. She needed to take her mind off his disturbing English self and the curious way he unsettled her.
“Noble sir,” she began again, focusing her attention on the pale-faced young knight, “would that Dunlaidir yet housed a full garrison. I would command them to scour the land and demand reparation for the shameful welcome you’ve received to my home.”
As she’d hoped, Lachlan pushed to sit up straighter and color began seeping back into his face. “Think nothing of it, my lady,” he said, the strength in his voice pleasing her. “I have seen worse blood-letting.”
He slid a glance at the Sassunach. “Before we return to Kintail, we will raise men and means enough to spare you future trouble with such miscreants as we saw this morn.”
“And I thank you for your chivalry.” Caterine smoothed the sweat-dampened hair off his brow. “Your valor shall be long remembered.”
Beside her, the Sassunach cleared his throat. “It was good of you to come out here, my lady, but we must see Sir Lachlan inside.”
“Of course, I came.” Caterine stood, adjusted her cloak. She also did her best to ignore the rich deepness of the champion’s voice, focusing instead on the unmistakable coloration of his birth-land.
A telltale accent that blessedly dashed the awe and relief whirling inside her ever since she’d spied his broad-shouldered self, unscathed and whole.
All male and glorious.
“We’ll need wide strips of clean linen,” he was saying, his voice irritating her now. Its Englishness offending her ears. “The most potent wine in your stores, valerian if you have-”
“I know what we’ll need.” She stood straighter, appalled by her snippy tone, but unable to keep the edge from her tongue. “I’ve run this household and others for many a year.”
“I am sure you have, my lady.”
“Indeed.” She nodded once, clasped her hands before her.
Something inscrutable crossed his face then, but vanished in the time it took her to blink. She peered at him, trying to decipher the fleeting expression but he’d schooled his features into an unreadable mask.
No emotion showed at all save the concern for his friend reflecting in the brown depths of his good eye.
To her horror, though, other eyes stared at her over his shoulder.
Leering eyes.
Lust-filled English eyes and grasping hands.
Brutal hands tearing at her gown, ripping to shreds more than the linen of her kirtle and the tender flesh between her thighs.
She saw not the man who’d come to champion her, but many men. Barbarous marauders who’d not just defiled her body, but had crushed her soul.
And slain her first husband before her very eyes.
Blessedly, as the dread faces loomed nearer, a moan and tremor from Lachlan vanquished them.
