His gaze flicked to his sister standing hesitantly in the doorway, a few of his men—including Alasdair and Allan—behind her.
He shook his head, forcing himself to stay calm, though panic welled in his chest. “Not right now, lass.”
Mary bustled in, setting down the extra plaids and clothing at the foot of the bed. Seeing what he was about to do, she blushed with understanding.
“Come,” Morag said to Gilly and Mary, “there is nothing we can do for her now. The laird will do what needs to be done.”
“But what—” Gilly broke off as Morag shuffled her out of the room, her question and Morag’s response lost behind the firmly shut door. Though bold and adventuresome, in many ways his youngest sister was still an utter innocent.
Cursing his large, cumbersome fingers and the intricacy of even a simple gown, he started tearing off her clothes, doing his best to preserve her modesty. Though he knew there was no other choice, he also realized she would be embarrassed at best and furious at worst. Perhaps he should have let Morag help, but he couldn’t stand aside. She was his.
He paused, catching sight of the amulet hidden under the layers of clothing. Though part of him wished it had fallen to the bottom of the sea—taking the curse with it—the other part of him was happy for Flora because he knew how much she treasured it. He removed it from her neck, attributing the tingling in his fingers to the cold. He made quick work of the rest of her wet garments, removing them piece by piece until she wore only her shift. And then he took that off, too.
He drew in his breath, unable to completely ignore the exquisite details of the naked beauty he’d revealed. Details that would be stored for later. Her honor would be preserved this night, but he wasn’t blind. He’d yearned to strip off her clothes and to see her naked in his bed for a long time. But not like this. Right now she needed his body not for pleasure, but for survival. And he would give it to her gladly. With no conditions.
But hell, she took his breath away.
The next time he took off her clothes, he swore he would savor every gorgeous inch of her.
With one last glance that warmed his blood more effectively than any fire, he forced his mind back on the task at hand. Realizing the damp had soaked through the bed linens, he slid one of the blankets Mary had brought underneath her. The rest he layered on top of her.
Standing up from beside the bed, he started to tear off his own wet clothing. First the plaid he’d worn as a cloak, and then the linen shirt, and finally his trews and boots.
Then, before he could think about what he was about to do, he slid into the bed beside her and pulled her gently into his arms, immediately shivering, shocked by the touch of her icy skin against his. Damn, she was freezing. Dangerously so. Bracing himself, he snuggled her firmly against him and felt a fierce wave of tenderness swell hard against his ribs.
Tenderness that spoke of just how much she meant to him.
The thought that he could lose her tore a gash across his chest. Right now, he’d give anything to have her fully clothed, eyes flashing, defying him as usual.
If only she would move.Though he’d nestled her firmly against his body, she felt so rigid. And she was still so deathly cold.
The removal of his own wet clothing and the heat from the fire had rejuvenated him almost immediately, but even ensconced in the heated blanket of his body, she’d barely warmed. The chill had penetrated bone deep.
Warm, damn you,he swore, as if he could command her temperature back to normal. He had enough determination for both of them, but Flora was a fighter—he knew she would not give up. It stunned him how long she’d managed to stay afloat in the leaky skiff. Yet perhaps it shouldn’t. Her tenacity and strength were two of the qualities he most admired about her.
Though right now she seemed anything but. She seemed fragile and vulnerable—as if with one false touch, he might break her. He couldn’t believe how small she was in his arms. Or how sweetly feminine. He’d lain with many women—done much more than lain, actually—but none had ever felt so significant. Simply holding her moved him more than any previous sexual liaison.
With her nestled up against him, her bottom tucked against his groin, he was acutely aware of everything about her. From the blond tendrils of hair that were springing into soft waves as they started to dry, to her narrow shoulders and slim hips, to the tips of her tiny frozen feet. To every incredible inch of her flawless naked skin.
She smelled of seawater and salt, and nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. Because she lived.
He could no longer pretend that she was just a means to an end. Not once when he’d discovered she’d gone had he thought about his devil’s bargain with Argyll. He’d thought only about her safety.
Her attempted escape and near drowning had forced him to realize that he wanted her not just for his plan, but for himself. It didn’t change what he had to do. If anything, his feelings only complicated matters. Damn it, his duty should be his only consideration. His brother needed him to be ruthless. But Flora had engaged his conscience. Doing what must be done was no longer a simple proposition. If it ever was.
He pulled her a little closer and held her a little tighter, reacting unconsciously to the sudden amorphous threat that seemed to have invaded the chamber.
For hours he lay like that. Holding her close, a ball of emotion lodged firmly in his throat as he waited for the danger to pass. Slowly, the harsh bite of cold faded as his body warmed her and she softened against him, breathing steady.
It was near dawn when she finally stirred. She turned to him in her sleep. Burrowing her head under his chin and placing her hand on his chest. A hand that was as searing as a brand. His chest hitched. Raw emotion surged inside him, ignited by the instinctive trusting movement. Trust that tore him apart. He wanted to deserve that trust.
But in doing his duty, he was manipulating her in a way that he knew would hurt her, yet he couldn’t risk telling her the truth. It wasn’t his life at stake, but his brother’s.
Two months ago, he’d gone to Argyll for help. Lachlan recalled standing inside the great hall of Inveraray Castle and staring with a mixture of admiration and loathing at one of the most powerful—and wily—men in Scotland, Archibald “the Grim” Campbell, Earl of Argyll.
Argyll sat on a raised dais near the fireplace in a gilded chair with a large scarlet velvet cushion. It looked remarkably like a throne, which probably wasn’t a coincidence.
Argyll peered down the length of his long nose with dark eyes, the sharp angles of his features lending credence to the clan’s claim of Norman ancestry. “So the king has seized your brother. What do you expect me to do about it?”
