She clenched her teeth even as she curved her lips into a pleasant smile, as if that weren’t the worst idea in the world.
It was obvious what fueled his satisfaction.The laird schemed to make a match between her and her Samhain hero.A feat that would be so much easier with the prospective bridegroom sleeping in the laird’s chamber for several days.And Carenza serving as his nursemaid.
“’Tis settled then,” the laird decided.
She wished she could say the same thing about her heart.
An hour later, after she’d dressed for bed and given Twinkle a last treat for the night, a maidservant scratched at her door.As fate would have it—or perhaps as her father had arranged—a messenger from the monastery had come to Dunlop to summon the physician.A wealthy patron had arrived at Kildunan’s infirmary.He’d fallen from his mount in a hunting accident, and it was feared he might die.
Wrapping her arisaid around her, Carenza went to her father’s chamber, where Peris gave her hasty instructions for Hew’s care.He was to be given a cup of wine with three drops of the tincture—no more, no less—at each canonical hour.The dressing for his hand—a poultice of butter and honey—should be changed daily.And he should be watched for fever and signs of infection.
A pallet was brought in for her, though she could hardly sleep.Not with the magnificent warrior of Rivenloch slumbering so near.She crept close and gazed down at him.
He truly was a stunning figure of a man.Even in repose, there was a fierceness in his face that probably made his enemies quake.He had a few light scars—one on his brow, one high on his cheek, one along his jaw—where a blade had kissed his flesh.But they only added character.
His pulse throbbed in his throat.His ribs rose with each slow breath.As her gaze traced the smoothly sculpted muscle of his chest, she felt heat rise in her face.
This was not good.
Catching her lip under her teeth, she stealthily pulled up the coverlet to cover him.She told herself it was because he might be chilled.But she knew the truth.She found Hew attractive.Alluring.Irresistible.And she knew the fewer temptations she had to face, the better.
Perhaps she should invent a new history for him.One that would portray him as a repugnant villain instead of an irresistible hero.
Hew of Rivenloch probably ate kittens for breakfast, she decided.He wrestled with wolves to prepare for battle, killing them with his bare hands.And he drank the blood of his enemies.
After all, he and his clan had come from Viking parentage.They were probably berserkers who raped and pillaged their way through the countryside.Burning down churches.Sacking castles.Destroying villages.Stepping on spiders.
It was only right to despise the vicious son of Vikings, who wreaked havoc wherever he roamed.Any civil person would hate the hound-beating, horse-whipping, lamb-slaying savage who never traveled without his killing axe.It was natural to loath the deceitful and duplicitous monk who had invaded her home and deluded her father.
Then she made the mistake of glancing down at his face.
Lord, he was handsome.As handsome as the Devil.
A subtle furrow creased his brow.His eyes fluttered beneath his lids.A quick intake of breath parted his lips.He was stirring in his sleep.
And now she’d given herself a fright, endowing him with the traits of a wild Northman.
How long was it until matins?How long before she should give him another cup of wine?Should she rouse him when the time came?Or would he wake up, screaming in pain?
She gulped.
The physician had laced his wine with opium.What if he was not himself when he awoke?What if hewasthe berserker she imagined?What if he thought she meant to harm him?What if he tried to harm her?
Should she give him four drops?Five?More?
In the next moment, his brow eased.His breath calmed.His eyes went still.
She exhaled in relief.Then she realized she’d let her imagination get the best of her.Sir Hew was not a villain.He was an ordinary man.He’d shown her nothing but courtesy.Decency.Generosity.
With a self-mocking sigh, she gazed down at his peaceful face, framed by a shining golden mane.
His hair looked soft.She liked the way it curled around his ears and caressed his neck.She wondered, while he was safely asleep, if she might…
With a tentative hand, she reached out and lifted one lock from his throat.She rubbed it gently between her fingers.Itwassoft.Velvety.Silky.Like the fur of a kitten.Or the down of a duck.Or—
Before she could finish the thought, her wrist was seized in his iron grip.
She squeaked in surprise and then dragged in a loud gasp.But she couldn’t wrench free.
