longed to lathe her secret core, to taste her on his lips. His jaw tightened with the restraint he placed on himself. The urge to ease his need, to impale her sweet body, again and again, until he felt the hidden recesses of her womb, nearly overwhelmed him. He wanted her. Badly. He wanted to wake her. Look into her perfectly blue eyes and make her want him, too.
But then the sheets fell even further away, falling to a pile of white linen and woolen snow beside the bed.
"No," he breathed, emotion flashing in his normally fathomless eyes.
She was laid out before him, as if sculpted from marble, breathtaking, perfect—except for her leg.
His mind reeled. An unfamiliar tightness pulled at his throat, stung at his eyes. And where he hadn't touched her before, he touched her now, on the leg so obviously and brutally broken, then clearly never repaired.
Intense, biting sorrow washed over him. Barely, carefully, he ran his palm over the uneven surface, so unlike its twin, which was shapely and perfect. His fingertips drifted up her leg and over to her hand, so fragile as it lay against the bed sheet, curved in sleep, trusting—of him— as he sat beside her naked body.
Guilt and shame pushed the sorrow away. He looked around, suddenly startled to find himself there, to find her there. To find the perfection of her body. No, he amended, the near perfection. And he wished as he had
52 Linda Francis Lee
never wished for anything before that he could make it right, set it straight, make her whole.
The thought startled him, as much as finding her there had startled him. He didn't even know her, didn't even know from where she came. She was no business of his, whoever she was. He would do well to remember that fact.
He started to go then, to escape the unfamiliar things she made him feel—things he didn't want to feel. But unexpectedly her fingers curled around his. When he looked back, her eyes fluttered opened. "Don't leave me," she whispered, with a look he couldn't define. Fiercely happy? Infinitely sad? Deeply afraid? He wasn't sure.
"Please don't go," she said.
He glanced down at their fingers, entwined like lovers, hers nearly lost in his. At length, in the quietness of the elaborately appointed room, the fire casting luminous shadows against the walls, he eased back into the chair.
She didn't let go. With effort, he pulled his hand free so he could cover her body with the bed sheets from the floor, no easy task one-handed. But when he finished, she still moaned quietly in distress. He stared at her for one long moment before he sighed in resignation, or perhaps in fear—what if he could never let her go? But that was foolishness, he told himself firmly as he took her hand again, lacing her fingers with his.
Her grip was surprisingly strong, as if she held on for dear life. And as he gazed down on her, he wondered if perhaps that wasn't exactly what she was doing.
Not until he leaned back in the chair, his head resting against the cushioned back, her hand secure in his, did she seem to ease.
Who was this woman, this Bluebell Holly? With the face of an angel and a leg so badly damaged that it was easy to believe the gods, jealous of what they had created, had dashed her against the rocks to even things out. How had it happened? he wondered. A spill from a horse? A tumble in the woods? A fall from a tree? No, he whispered to the red and orange flames that leaped and swayed in the fireplace, it had been nothing so simple, of that he was certain.
CHAPTER 5
Belle woke with a start. She was cold, very cold as she became aware of a clock tolling the hour. Midnight.
Her brow furrowed, and when she looked around she realized she had no idea where she was. Where were her paintings of flowers and sketches of trees? Where, for heaven's sake, was her favorite overstuffed chair?
With a sudden, quick movement, she turned her head in the opposite direction, and what she saw made her mouth drop open in a silent gasp. A man,
But then the sheets fell even further away, falling to a pile of white linen and woolen snow beside the bed.
"No," he breathed, emotion flashing in his normally fathomless eyes.
She was laid out before him, as if sculpted from marble, breathtaking, perfect—except for her leg.
His mind reeled. An unfamiliar tightness pulled at his throat, stung at his eyes. And where he hadn't touched her before, he touched her now, on the leg so obviously and brutally broken, then clearly never repaired.
Intense, biting sorrow washed over him. Barely, carefully, he ran his palm over the uneven surface, so unlike its twin, which was shapely and perfect. His fingertips drifted up her leg and over to her hand, so fragile as it lay against the bed sheet, curved in sleep, trusting—of him— as he sat beside her naked body.
Guilt and shame pushed the sorrow away. He looked around, suddenly startled to find himself there, to find her there. To find the perfection of her body. No, he amended, the near perfection. And he wished as he had
52 Linda Francis Lee
never wished for anything before that he could make it right, set it straight, make her whole.
The thought startled him, as much as finding her there had startled him. He didn't even know her, didn't even know from where she came. She was no business of his, whoever she was. He would do well to remember that fact.
He started to go then, to escape the unfamiliar things she made him feel—things he didn't want to feel. But unexpectedly her fingers curled around his. When he looked back, her eyes fluttered opened. "Don't leave me," she whispered, with a look he couldn't define. Fiercely happy? Infinitely sad? Deeply afraid? He wasn't sure.
"Please don't go," she said.
He glanced down at their fingers, entwined like lovers, hers nearly lost in his. At length, in the quietness of the elaborately appointed room, the fire casting luminous shadows against the walls, he eased back into the chair.
She didn't let go. With effort, he pulled his hand free so he could cover her body with the bed sheets from the floor, no easy task one-handed. But when he finished, she still moaned quietly in distress. He stared at her for one long moment before he sighed in resignation, or perhaps in fear—what if he could never let her go? But that was foolishness, he told himself firmly as he took her hand again, lacing her fingers with his.
Her grip was surprisingly strong, as if she held on for dear life. And as he gazed down on her, he wondered if perhaps that wasn't exactly what she was doing.
Not until he leaned back in the chair, his head resting against the cushioned back, her hand secure in his, did she seem to ease.
Who was this woman, this Bluebell Holly? With the face of an angel and a leg so badly damaged that it was easy to believe the gods, jealous of what they had created, had dashed her against the rocks to even things out. How had it happened? he wondered. A spill from a horse? A tumble in the woods? A fall from a tree? No, he whispered to the red and orange flames that leaped and swayed in the fireplace, it had been nothing so simple, of that he was certain.
CHAPTER 5
Belle woke with a start. She was cold, very cold as she became aware of a clock tolling the hour. Midnight.
Her brow furrowed, and when she looked around she realized she had no idea where she was. Where were her paintings of flowers and sketches of trees? Where, for heaven's sake, was her favorite overstuffed chair?
With a sudden, quick movement, she turned her head in the opposite direction, and what she saw made her mouth drop open in a silent gasp. A man,
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