had nowhere to run. She shrank from him in alarm, pressing her back against the door. He seemed enormous, and infinitely powerful.
Jason stopped a few scant inches away, surveying her with a frown. The husky catch in her voice suggested tears, but he was learning to recognize that as normal, and her eyes were dry. Those eyes fascinated him. They were amber green with golden flecks floating around the dark, wide pupils, and they looked strangely haunted. They held fear, he realized—fear of him. She needed comforting. . . .
But he clamped down on the urge to enfold her in his arms. Instead, he reached out and tugged the cloak from her shoulders, retreating a short distance.
Lauren let out her breath in relief as he moved away. She wasn't accustomed to looking up at anyone, but Jason Stuart dwarfed her. He had been so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and the power that seemed to vibrate from his sinewy frame had made her feel helpless and weak and altogether too vulnerable. Even now, her heart was still pounding in response.
She watched as Jason withdrew a small package from the pocket. When he had unwrapped the cloth, he eyed the bread and cheese skeptically. Then his gaze sliced to Lauren. "This, then, does not meet the standards of your usual fare?"
Lauren swallowed hard, wondering how he had known about the food. "No," she replied lamely.
"Then perhaps you will find the truth more palatable."
Lauren lowered her gaze to the floor. She could never divulge the truth. He would likely think her mad—or worse, he would return her to her guardian.
"Would you care to be seated?" he asked, breaking the silence again.
His tone was polite, but the ring of authority indicated clearly that he wouldn't accept a refusal. Lauren decided to accede. He was obviously used to command, and despite his earlier tenderness when he had bathed her face, he would probably resort to physical violence if she challenged him openly. Yet he couldn't force her to speak, she reminded herself. Finding the thought comforting, she crossed the room to sit in one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace.
"You're limping."
Lauren glanced at him warily, again surprised that he was so observant. "I fell and scraped my knee," she admitted cautiously.
"I'd like to see it."
"Truly, it is nothing," she protested. But he didn't seem to be listening. He fetched the basin and cloth and arranged them beside the chair before kneeling at her feet.
His familiarity startled her, and when he raised the skirt of her gown above her knees, Lauren froze. No man had ever taken such liberties with her.
Jason Stuart didn't seem to be aware of the effect he was having on her, though. Her right stocking was torn, and he was untying the garter and rolling the fabric down to expose the injured knee.
Lauren felt color flood her cheeks as his hands moved over her leg in careful exploration. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle for so powerful a man, but the intimacy of it unnerved her. Acutely uncomfortable, she focused her gaze on Jason's tawny head, trying to ignore the warmth of his long fingers and the disturbing sensations they aroused in her as they probed around the abraded skin.
"It's bruised as well as scraped," he pronounced at last. "You should let it rest for a day or two and give it time to heal."
Lauren didn't answer, deciding it wiser not to mention that she intended to leave at the first opportunity. Instead, she bit her lip and concentrated on ignoring the sharp sting in her knee as he cleansed the wound.
Jason finished the task quickly, trying to spare her pain, but even though his movements were efficient and professional, he had more difficulty pretending indifference than he let on. The feminine limb exposed to his view was long and shapely, the skin smooth and fragrant. He wanted very much to lower his lips to that silken flesh and move upward along her thigh. . . .
But he forced his thoughts back to the problem at
Jason stopped a few scant inches away, surveying her with a frown. The husky catch in her voice suggested tears, but he was learning to recognize that as normal, and her eyes were dry. Those eyes fascinated him. They were amber green with golden flecks floating around the dark, wide pupils, and they looked strangely haunted. They held fear, he realized—fear of him. She needed comforting. . . .
But he clamped down on the urge to enfold her in his arms. Instead, he reached out and tugged the cloak from her shoulders, retreating a short distance.
Lauren let out her breath in relief as he moved away. She wasn't accustomed to looking up at anyone, but Jason Stuart dwarfed her. He had been so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and the power that seemed to vibrate from his sinewy frame had made her feel helpless and weak and altogether too vulnerable. Even now, her heart was still pounding in response.
She watched as Jason withdrew a small package from the pocket. When he had unwrapped the cloth, he eyed the bread and cheese skeptically. Then his gaze sliced to Lauren. "This, then, does not meet the standards of your usual fare?"
Lauren swallowed hard, wondering how he had known about the food. "No," she replied lamely.
"Then perhaps you will find the truth more palatable."
Lauren lowered her gaze to the floor. She could never divulge the truth. He would likely think her mad—or worse, he would return her to her guardian.
"Would you care to be seated?" he asked, breaking the silence again.
His tone was polite, but the ring of authority indicated clearly that he wouldn't accept a refusal. Lauren decided to accede. He was obviously used to command, and despite his earlier tenderness when he had bathed her face, he would probably resort to physical violence if she challenged him openly. Yet he couldn't force her to speak, she reminded herself. Finding the thought comforting, she crossed the room to sit in one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace.
"You're limping."
Lauren glanced at him warily, again surprised that he was so observant. "I fell and scraped my knee," she admitted cautiously.
"I'd like to see it."
"Truly, it is nothing," she protested. But he didn't seem to be listening. He fetched the basin and cloth and arranged them beside the chair before kneeling at her feet.
His familiarity startled her, and when he raised the skirt of her gown above her knees, Lauren froze. No man had ever taken such liberties with her.
Jason Stuart didn't seem to be aware of the effect he was having on her, though. Her right stocking was torn, and he was untying the garter and rolling the fabric down to expose the injured knee.
Lauren felt color flood her cheeks as his hands moved over her leg in careful exploration. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle for so powerful a man, but the intimacy of it unnerved her. Acutely uncomfortable, she focused her gaze on Jason's tawny head, trying to ignore the warmth of his long fingers and the disturbing sensations they aroused in her as they probed around the abraded skin.
"It's bruised as well as scraped," he pronounced at last. "You should let it rest for a day or two and give it time to heal."
Lauren didn't answer, deciding it wiser not to mention that she intended to leave at the first opportunity. Instead, she bit her lip and concentrated on ignoring the sharp sting in her knee as he cleansed the wound.
Jason finished the task quickly, trying to spare her pain, but even though his movements were efficient and professional, he had more difficulty pretending indifference than he let on. The feminine limb exposed to his view was long and shapely, the skin smooth and fragrant. He wanted very much to lower his lips to that silken flesh and move upward along her thigh. . . .
But he forced his thoughts back to the problem at
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