“Has the captain had you training this early in the morning?” Ellie asked. Meg had been called upon twice before to tend to cuts suffered in “training.”
Duncan grinned. Like most everyone else, he liked to tease her about her late rising. “It’s already midday for most of us, lass. But nay, we’ve not been training. It’s the captain.”
She jumped out of her chair before she realized what she was doing. “What’s happened?” Her pulse spiked with fear. He’d said he was going to deliver the message to her family last night. Had something happened? “Is he hurt?”
Duncan gave her an odd look and she realized she’d overreacted. She forced her frantic heartbeat to calm.What is wrong with me?
“Nay, lass, it’s only a scratch.”
Ellie could only imagine what “only a scratch” was to tough warriors like Hawk and his men. With images of limbs dangling and guts pouring out, she followed Meg and Duncan down the path to the beach where the men had set up camp.
She was grateful that neither said anything about her tagging along; she wasn’t sure she could explain it, except that she had to see for herself that he was all right. It was only the possibility that he might have been hurt while doing a favor for her that made her care.
But it didn’t explain the heavy pounding in her heart and the feeling that someone had just stepped on her chest.
A crowd of men were gathered around the fire at the rear of the cave, but they parted when Meg drew near, revealing the captain stretched out on a plaid, leaning against a low boulder.
The bottom dropped out of Ellie’s stomach. Not because he looked so pale beneath the broad black smudges smeared over his skin—though he did—or because of the large diagonal gash across his stomach, but because he wasn’t wearing acotun, tunic,leine, or anything else to cover his chest. His very broad, very muscled, very naked chest. Her gaze dropped to the plaid slung low across his waist, and her mouth went dry. Unless she was very mistaken, the rest of him was quite bereft of clothing as well.
Dear Lord. Her palms grew damp, and her stomach started to flutter nervously. He was magnificent. Muscular but lean. The broad shield of his chest was as chiseled and defined as the rocky wall of the cave behind him. His arms were stacked and rounded with thick slabs of muscle; his stomach was flat and ripped, crossed by narrow, rigid bands of steel. If there was an ounce of extra flesh on him, she couldn’t see it.
There had to be a primal feminine instinct buried deep inside her, set to flare at overt displays of physical strength. She didn’t need to be protected, but if she ever did, he was the man she would want at her side. He must be magnificent on the battlefield.
His eyes locked on hers. Holding her. Not letting her turn away. The current of awareness between them tightened; she couldn’t break it if she wanted to.
Something was happening, though she didn’t know what it was. It was as if for a moment all the pretense and hubris had been stripped away, leaving only a man and a woman. Not a pirate and a captive. Not the golden-god and the woman who was no more than passably pretty. Not the man running from the law and the earl’s daughter engaged to one of the most powerful men in England. For a moment it didn’t seem as though any of that mattered.
He’d never looked at her so intently. So seriously. She feared he could see right through her. That he read her concern, her fear, and her very feminine reaction to his nakedness.
This wasn’t a man who didn’t care about anything. This was a man of deep desires and fierce intensity. This was a man she could care about.
The thought jarred—and terrified—her.
She felt a strong tug in her chest and had to force herself to follow behind Meg, and not give in to the urge to immediately rush to his side to assure herself he was all right.
“What have you done this time?” Meg asked.
His gaze finally released her, and the mask of careless affability dropped right back into place. “Just a little trouble with a knife. It doesn’t look serious to me, but Domnall insisted you see to it. I told him that the lasses liked scars, but you know how stubborn he can be.”
Domnall snorted. “I don’t want to drag your stinking corpse all over the isles, that’s all.”
Erik laughed and turned to Ellie, who must have paled. “Don’t let all that bluster fool you, lass. He doesn’t mean a word of it. I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you let me see how close you are to death’s door,” Meg said.
She knelt beside him to examine the wound, and Ellie moved around to stand behind her.
The “scratch” was an ugly, ragged gash of about five inches that ran from below his ribs to his lower right side. It was caked with sand and what appeared to be some kind of black grease. The same grease she’d noticed in his hair before. From the large smudges, she guessed that it had once covered him from head to toe, but that most of it had been washed or wiped off.
He’d swum somewhere, she realized. And he’d done it before. What was he up to? Once again, the feeling that he was more than a typical pirate settled in.
Meg looked over her shoulder. “Ellie, come here and help me with this.”
Her eyes widened with horror, an innate sense of self-preservation kicking in. Touching him was the last thing she wanted to do.
She froze.
“Ellie?” Meg said again.
