Page 5 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

“Bloody hell,” she breathed in horrified anger. The fiery reaction shot a powerful bolt of amusement through him.

“I said, slowly.” Grateful her fierce reaction had jerked him out of his enthralled state, Atticus struggled not to chuckle at her lusty language as he freed the sleeve and linen combination garment from the brambles. She trembled as his unintentional fingers inadvertently brushed across the tops of her breasts.

“Are you laughing at me?” she snapped. A small catch laced through her voice, making him frown in puzzlement.

“No,” Atticus lied.

Gray eyes darkened with suspicion as she met his gaze. The fierce way she studied him made Atticus quickly drop his head to hide his amusement. Tipping his head to one side, he examined a large swathe of her skirt snagged in an intricate collection of thorny vines.

“You’d better not be,” she huffed.

“One could either be shocked or amused by your brazen language.”

“Then you had better be shocked, otherwise, I’ll unleash the hounds of hell and let them gnaw on your bones,” she muttered, her acerbic tone highlighting her irritation.

“A decidedly unpleasant punishment, I’m sure,” he murmured sagely. “But before you summon the beasts, I suggest we free you first.”

Lifting his head, his chest constricted at the fiery expression on her pretty face. It was a look he imagined Aphrodite might have worn when angry. She was ready to do battle with him, and he was enjoying the prospect too much not to grin.

“Do not laugh at me.”

Cold anger swept across her features as she glared at him. For a fleeting instant, he saw something in her gaze that troubled him, but it vanished the moment her palms slammed into his chest. In the next instant, Atticus forgot everything as the surprising strength of her blow sent him staggering backward. With a grunt of discomfort, he watched in astonishment as she wrenched herself free of the bushes.

Her violent action tugged a low cry of pain from her before she was almost completely free of the thorny plant. Straightening upright, she tried to put even more distance between her and the bush.

When her gown resisted, she grab the side of her skirt and yanked hard. Fabric shrieked a protest at her vicious tug, and the echo of material being shredded without mercy filled the air. She froze for a moment, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

“Oh dear God,” she whispered as she jerked her head to look over her shoulder.

Atticus leaned to his left at her exclamation to see the damage. The moment he saw the large swathe of torn material dangling over the bottom half of her skirt, he clenched his jaw. From her waist down to the underside of her derriere was a gaping hole where the material had been ripped away.

Unable to help himself, Atticus’s eyes focused on her exposed undergarments. It was impossible not to notice how the white silk garment clung to a delectable plump bottom and curvaceous, lusty hips.

God help him, the woman was a tempting morsel he wanted to carry off into the night and spend every hour until dawn exploring every inch of her. Especially when his imagination had no problem visualizing a more graphic assessment of voluptuous thighs and long legs bared to him.

Sanity returned as he blinked and winced with understanding at the horror he’d heard in her small cry. The gown was destroyed beyond repair. Worse, anyone who stumbled upon them right now would think she’d been attacked the minute they took one look at her.

Atticus gritted his teeth. What the fuck was wrong with him? The woman was in trouble, and he was lusting after her instead of making a plan to save her humiliation. Whoever she was, anyone seeing her like this would ensure the morning papers would have her name splattered across the gossip columns. Atticus’s gaze slid upward, and the moment he saw her bared back, he drew in a sharp hiss of air.

“Christ Jesus.” Concern filled his harsh utterance, and she turned toward him.

“I already know what you’re going to say,” she said in a sharp, almost bitter voice. Chin tipped upward at a mutinous angle, she eyed him with scorn. “My gown is ruined because I was too impatient.”

“I don’t give a damn about the gown. I’m looking at your back. You have half a dozen thorns buried in your skin,” he growled.

“I’ll be fine. Thorns can be removed. I’ve suffered far worse. There are things that can never be mended.” There was a bleak note in the words that Atticus found troubling.

Hands capturing her waist in a firm grip, he forced her to turn around so moonlight bathed a path across her injured back and began removing thorns from her skin. There were one or two that would need to be removed with a pair of tweezers, but he was successful in pulling the others out of her back.

When he’d finished, he turned her to face him. The tears she’d shed earlier were a distant memory as her features were devoid of emotion. This woman acted as if the bloody scratches covering her back, shoulders, upper arms, and even one of her cheeks didn’t exist. People in shock looked the same way. He needed to see her safely home before anyone saw her in this condition.

First order of business was to hide the gaping hole in her gown. Atticus removed his coat, then stepped toward her, only to have her recoil in horror. Her abrupt reaction made the torn fabric of her gown fall even lower until it tangled with the hem of her gown. The moment she retreated, the material tangled with her feet. Arms flailing, she stumbled backward and Atticus lunged forward, and catching her by the waist, he pulled her into his chest.

Hands still on her waist, he breathed in her sweet smell. Roses and a hint of something tart filled his nostrils as her soft hair brushed against his cheek. Bloody hell, if she wasn’t in trouble, he’d be kissing her right now. Atticus stared down into gray eyes, luminous with awareness. The pulse of her heartbeat on the side of her neck fluttered wildly, while her slight tremor barreled into him as if it were an earthquake.

Damnation, he’d not been this beguiled by a woman in a long time—a very long time. Atticus forced himself to shut down his reaction to her as he prepared to release her. He never had the chance. Just as she had moments ago, she shoved him away from her.

“Do not touch me.” Brittle and sharp, her command was one of cold outrage.