“Nay.” The idea of her hands on him … “Now is fine,” he said, his voice unmistakably husky.
She hesitated, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest to the bedcoverings slung low across his stomach. Apparently he was feeling much better, because he stiffened like an untried lad under the weight of her gaze.
He sensed her nervousness but made no effort to cover himself. He liked her skittish, liked that she was aware of him.
“Very well.”
He lay back on the pillow and watched her as she worked. She leaned over him to examine the bandage, and her delicate scent hit him. Damn, she smelled good. Fresh and flowery. Like the lavender that scented his pillow. She wore a simple brown wool kirtle and fitted jacket that hugged the gentle curves of her breasts. Lush, round breasts that he was painfully aware were only inches from his mouth. He could lift his head and bury his face in their softness.
A lock of her hair fell forward on his chest. The feathery brush of flaxen silk on his skin nearly made him groan.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly tucking the errant lock behind her ear. Still bent over him, she lifted her eyes to his. “I have to pull the bandage back to check beneath. It might hurt a bit.”
He was in pain all right, but not from his wound.
His cock felt as if it might explode. She was so close. He couldn't breathe; every inch of his body was honed to a razor's edge. Somehow he managed a strangled, “Fine.”
Gently she pulled back the bandage, and he could see the carefully stitched wound. It looked good. Surprisingly good. Annie would have nothing to complain about—not that it would stop her from trying.
Elizabeth took a damp cloth from the basin and gently wiped away the dried blood. He closed his eyes, his skin flaming when she touched him. Her hands on his body were maddening. Torturous. An exercise in restraint for a man who had none.
Take her.
His pulse raced, his breath jagged, his patience run out.
Her fingers skimmed over his ribs to his stomach, to the waist of his breeches.
Too damn close. But not close enough. He was hard as a rock, primed for her touch, and all he could think of were those velvety hands closing around him.
Lizzie's heart pounded in her chest. Her hands were shaking as she ministered to the wound, as she'd done for two nights and a day.
But this time was different.
This time he wasn't unconscious, but fully awake. The skin that she touched was warm and pulsing with life. Tension crackled in the sultry air between them. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, watching her intently as she ministered to his wound. There was something wickedly satisfying about the knowledge that her touch affected him. It made her feel … desirable.
She dabbed the damp cloth along the bottom of the cut near his stomach, trying not to notice how hard it was. How defined the muscles were. The problem was that shewasnoticing and her hands weren't following direction. She accidentally brushed the edge of the bedsheet slung low over his hips, coming into contact with his manhood. His very prominent manhood. For just an instant, her gaze lingered on the bulge underneath the sheet.
Mother Mary.
His hand whipped out to clasp her wrist. “Enough!”
His voice was ragged and raw with pain. Her gaze shot to his face, despair plummeting through her chest. “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”
His eyes locked on hers—the brilliant green so dark, it appeared almost black. She could see the tension coiled in him, the strain, in the slight flare of his nostrils and the tiny white lines etched around his mouth. “Not in the way you think,” he said roughly. “You'd best leave. Send someone else to finish.”
Lizzie sucked in her breath as the wallop of hurt hit her hard across the chest. Her eyes widened in horror. She'd thought he was attracted to her. God, what a fool she was. Despite what had happened with John, she was far from experienced. She tried to look away, but there was nowhere to hide. He was holding her so close, the hand wrapped around her wrist as rigid as a band of steel. “Of c-course.”
Stammering. Her humiliation was now complete. With a choked sob, she tried to jerk away, but he pulled her against him with a harsh curse. The hand she instinctively braced against his chest to break her fall was the only thing preventing her from collapsing on top of him.
She gasped, the breath knocked out of her—not from the harshness of the movement, but from the force of the awareness that crashed over her at being held so close to him. So close that her breasts grazed his chest and only inches separated their mouths. The warmth of his breath swept over her lips. She could taste the hint of spice on her tongue, and all she could think about was pressing her mouth against his.
What would it feel like to kiss him? Were his lips as impossibly soft and velvety as they looked? Would he be gentle or hard? Entreating or demanding?
The temptation was torturous. His dark, masculine scent filled her senses. And he was so warm, his skin almost hot to the touch. Her body felt flush and prickly, engulfed by his heat. She could hear the pounding of his heart—or maybe it was hers.
She gazed at him, wide-eyed, trying to read the thoughts behind the implacable façade. His expression was tight, unyielding. His eyes were dark and hard. He looked as though the last thing on his mind was kissing.
She was a fool, allowing herself to get caught up like this. Hadn't he just made very clear that he wanted nothing to do with her?
