Page 176 of Wicked Highland Heroes

She froze.

Shock rolled over her and tears became sobs. Rhoslyn felt herself lifted from the floor, then her body settled against hard thighs. Her mind told her to break free, but wracking sobs shook her shoulders and she could do nothing but allow the hot tears to flow.

At last, she heaved a long, stuttered sigh, too spent to shed another tear. Too tired to care.

“Are you thirsty?”

St. Claire’s voice reverberated through his chest and Rhoslyn remembered she was naked. Fear gave way to an embarrassment that sent a tremor rippling through her stomach. In truth, she wasn’t afraid. His gentle touch surprised her and, despite the fact he wore no shirt—and she was certain she felt a bulge beneath her bottom—he made no move to force or seduce her. She was however, uncomfortably aware of her breast flattened against his chest and the warmth of his muscled arms against her flesh.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked again.

Very thirsty, she realized. Her mouth felt like sand. “Aye,” she rasped.

St. Claire slid her from his lap onto the bed, then rose. He surprised her by keeping his eyes straight ahead and didn’t so much as flick a glance at her naked body. She pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself. Her hair was still damp. The long, thick tresses would be impossible to manage into a braid in the morning. She might be forced to allow the maid to help her.

St. Claire turned and crossed back to the bed. When he handed her the mug, she caught sight of the markings on his arm. The face and upper body of a girl no more than thirteen years of age covered his flesh from shoulder to bicep. Long hair rippled along the sculpted muscle.

He unexpectedly grasped her chin and tilted her head up toward his. His mouth thinned and she realized he was studying her bruised cheek. He released her and sat on the bed beside her. Rhoslyn fingered her cheek and found the flesh even more tender than it had been when she went to bed.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She startled. “‘Tis only a little sore.” She took a drink of the wine. “How is your wound?”

“Healing well.”

“Is it deep?”

“Little more than a scratch,” he replied.

Rhoslyn took another sip of her wine. “You should no’ have attacked me.”

“You should not have tried to marry another man.”

“What was your sister’s name?”

“Lilas,” he replied without looking at her.

Rhoslyn’s gaze caught on the room key still sitting on the table near the tub. “How did you get into my room? I have the key.”

“Ross had another.”

She should have felt annoyed, but couldn’t muster the strength.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Rhoslyn stiffened. “What do ye think happened?”

He looked at her now. “I am asking how you came to be with my brother.”

“I did no’ go with him willingly, if that is what ye mean.”

“It would make no sense to do so,” he replied. And she heard the unspoken thought, No more sense than to try to marry another man.

“He killed Sheila and your guard.” Her chest tightened. “And Mistress Muira.”

“Not Mistress Muira.”

Rhoslyn startled. “But he said—”