on the back of your head, lass.” He parted her hair, sending chills through her. “’Tis not bleeding. A good sign, but your thunderin’ head won’t thank you in the morning.”
“I like your fingers playing with my hair.”
His fingers slid across her head and glided through her damp strands. “You do?”
“Your hands are gentle. Soft.”
“Soft?”
She clasped his hand, caressing it with her thumb. The roughness spoke of his days in the sun, but he wasn’t always rough. She brought his hand to her cheek, nestling against him. “Maybe not soft, but you’re gentle with them. I like the feel of your hands on my skin.”
“Lassie,” he sai d. “You’re testing my limits.”
She opened her eyes. She couldn’t fathom why his face had turned stern. “What have I done?”
He slowly removed his hand and held her gaze. “Now sit still, lass.”
Kane wrapped a s oft blanket around her and sat beside her, rubbing her skin, chasing away the wetness. He dried her soaked hair, his fingers pulling the strands and squeezing out the excess water. “Why are you doing this?”
His callous hands were as gentle as her mother’s when she used to dry her after a bath.
His wet hair and shirt clung to his shoulder, molding to every hard muscle. She wanted to reach out and touch him.
Kane tossed the wet blanket onto the floor and drew back the covers on the bed. Her head sank into a goose down feathered pillow. The slight movement sent pain through her and she grimaced.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said as he draped the blanket across her shivering body.
She put her hand on her forehead and tried to focus, but her mouth failed to utter the words of gratitude. Her tongue was thick and large in her mouth and her lips were swollen.
Hard steps marched across the floor . A door opened and closed. Why had he left her? She tried to sleep, but her pain kept her awake.
The door creaked and she peered out her good left eye. Kane had returned and held a bowl in his hand. He hurried to her side and brushed her hair away. His shirt was missing. What happened to it?
She gazed at his carved muscle s. This was a man used to hard labor, his thick arms and chiseled chest, glistened. He dipped the rag into the bowl, twisted it, releasing a stream of water. The scent of rum filtrated through the room. He stared. “This is going to sting, lass.”
His strong fingers gripped her chin. He dabbed the rag on her lips and she jerked. “Ow.”
“I know it hurts,” he whispered, but his grip remained secure. “But you’ve a cut on your lip.”
Spots of her crimson blood stained the white rag. He doused the rag into the water and squeezed again, a red stream drizzling into the bowl. “Why is there so much blood?”
He dabbed her forehead again. “You came out during a squall.”
Wait, that’s right. She fell. Or was she pushed? No, the storm. That’s right.
He cleaned her cheek and around her eye, his spicy breath caressing her skin. She licked her lips as he gently brushed her cheek with the rag, and jolting when he touched the sensitive spot.
“Be still,” he urged . Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice or his thumb caressing her cheek?
The blankets weighed heavy upon her. Sweat pooled between her breasts and down to her belly. Her hand ran through her hair. Fuzziness clouded her vision and she shivered. How could she be so hot? She kicked at the blanket. “I’m hot.”
His eyes narrowed . He loosened his fingers on her chin. “Hot?”
Cold air rushed over Hannah’s naked skin. She turned her head side to side on the pillow. She put the back of her hand on the back of her forehead. “Now, I…I…I’m so cold,” she muttered.
He put his palm on her forehead. “Bloody hell,” he said. He sat on a chair and pulled off his black boots. They fell onto the hardwood floor. He unfastened his belt with his sheathed sword and pistol and hung over it a chair.
“I’ m so cold,
“I like your fingers playing with my hair.”
His fingers slid across her head and glided through her damp strands. “You do?”
“Your hands are gentle. Soft.”
“Soft?”
She clasped his hand, caressing it with her thumb. The roughness spoke of his days in the sun, but he wasn’t always rough. She brought his hand to her cheek, nestling against him. “Maybe not soft, but you’re gentle with them. I like the feel of your hands on my skin.”
“Lassie,” he sai d. “You’re testing my limits.”
She opened her eyes. She couldn’t fathom why his face had turned stern. “What have I done?”
He slowly removed his hand and held her gaze. “Now sit still, lass.”
Kane wrapped a s oft blanket around her and sat beside her, rubbing her skin, chasing away the wetness. He dried her soaked hair, his fingers pulling the strands and squeezing out the excess water. “Why are you doing this?”
His callous hands were as gentle as her mother’s when she used to dry her after a bath.
His wet hair and shirt clung to his shoulder, molding to every hard muscle. She wanted to reach out and touch him.
Kane tossed the wet blanket onto the floor and drew back the covers on the bed. Her head sank into a goose down feathered pillow. The slight movement sent pain through her and she grimaced.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said as he draped the blanket across her shivering body.
She put her hand on her forehead and tried to focus, but her mouth failed to utter the words of gratitude. Her tongue was thick and large in her mouth and her lips were swollen.
Hard steps marched across the floor . A door opened and closed. Why had he left her? She tried to sleep, but her pain kept her awake.
The door creaked and she peered out her good left eye. Kane had returned and held a bowl in his hand. He hurried to her side and brushed her hair away. His shirt was missing. What happened to it?
She gazed at his carved muscle s. This was a man used to hard labor, his thick arms and chiseled chest, glistened. He dipped the rag into the bowl, twisted it, releasing a stream of water. The scent of rum filtrated through the room. He stared. “This is going to sting, lass.”
His strong fingers gripped her chin. He dabbed the rag on her lips and she jerked. “Ow.”
“I know it hurts,” he whispered, but his grip remained secure. “But you’ve a cut on your lip.”
Spots of her crimson blood stained the white rag. He doused the rag into the water and squeezed again, a red stream drizzling into the bowl. “Why is there so much blood?”
He dabbed her forehead again. “You came out during a squall.”
Wait, that’s right. She fell. Or was she pushed? No, the storm. That’s right.
He cleaned her cheek and around her eye, his spicy breath caressing her skin. She licked her lips as he gently brushed her cheek with the rag, and jolting when he touched the sensitive spot.
“Be still,” he urged . Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice or his thumb caressing her cheek?
The blankets weighed heavy upon her. Sweat pooled between her breasts and down to her belly. Her hand ran through her hair. Fuzziness clouded her vision and she shivered. How could she be so hot? She kicked at the blanket. “I’m hot.”
His eyes narrowed . He loosened his fingers on her chin. “Hot?”
Cold air rushed over Hannah’s naked skin. She turned her head side to side on the pillow. She put the back of her hand on the back of her forehead. “Now, I…I…I’m so cold,” she muttered.
He put his palm on her forehead. “Bloody hell,” he said. He sat on a chair and pulled off his black boots. They fell onto the hardwood floor. He unfastened his belt with his sheathed sword and pistol and hung over it a chair.
“I’ m so cold,
Similar Books
