mouth. She was now biting one of those lips in concentration. He scarcely noticed what she was doing to his body; he only knew that the moment she lifted her gaze to his, triumph shone in her eyes at having untied the bandages. Eyes that, under the right circumstance, could be a man’s undoing.
The right circumstance. That was laughable, for he wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t try to kill him, too.
When she saw him looking at her as he was—a man taken with feminine beauty—she froze. Their faces were only inches apart, and her golden-brown eyes—flecked with a silvery blue, he noted—locked on his. “What are you doing here, so far from home?” he murmured, and casually lifted his hand to touch her cheek.
Her eyes widened. But she didn’t pull away; she held his gaze. “How do you know that I am far from home?”
“You speak like a Sassenach.”
Her lashes fluttered uncertainly.
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Smooth. Silk and cream. “And you’re no’ sturdy enough to survive life in the Highlands . . . your knife notwithstanding.”
Her brows dipped. “I’m sturdy—”
“No,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “You wish you were in England, with your tea and your feathers—”
“Feathers?”
He gestured to her head. “For the hats.” He’d never seen such ridiculous millinery as he had in London.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “I am sturdy enough, I assure you, if one considers that I came to see my grandmother and discovered that not only has she lost her mind, but there is a strange and completely incapacitated man in her house. And now, I am tending to his wounds. Wounds which he has no memory of receiving,” she added suspiciously. “I rather think no one can fault me for being a bit hesitant, but I assure you, I am sturdy .”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Aye, no one can fault an English rose for changing a poor man’s bandages.” He let his hand drop, brazenly brushing her décolletage as he did.
Her blush deepened and she leaned back on her heels. “Please sit up a bit so that I might . . .” She made a circling gesture with her hand. “Unwrap them.”
“Why is it you, then, and no’ the old woman to tend me?”
She did not answer. Jamie did not take his eyes from her as he put his hand on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, heard her sharp intake of breath, and gave her a slight smile as he used her as an anchor to pull up and away from the wall, clenching his jaw against the pain this caused him.
She had to reach around him to unwind the bandage on his torso, giving him a lovely view of a flawless décolletage and the creamy mounds of flesh that rose out of her bodice. At any other time, in any other place, he would have persuaded her to allow him to touch her breasts, to bury his face in them. Jamie was not unsuccessful in wooing womento do as he pleased. But at that moment, he was far more concerned with personal survival and escaping this bloody cottage, and he contented himself with merely looking. Openly and admiringly.
“I believe your wounds have impaired your sense of propriety, sir,” she said with a pointed look.
Jamie smiled. “Perhaps a wee bit,” he conceded. “I heard a man outside, aye?”
She did not respond except to frown, then leaned into him once more to unwrap the bandage.
“Who was it, then?”
“No one.”
“No one,” he repeated.
“A passerby,” she said, leaning in to reach around him once more.
“Aye, and what did the passerby want?” he asked as he breathed in the scent of rosewater.
She hesitated in her work, then said softly, “You.”
Duff . Duff had found him, he was certain of it. And if he had, he’d be back, for Duff was the canniest, most perceptive man Jamie had ever known.
“Are you surprised?” she asked, peeking up at him. “Does it not give you cause for concern?”
“What concern should I have, lass?”
“What if he is the man who shot you? What if he would like
The right circumstance. That was laughable, for he wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t try to kill him, too.
When she saw him looking at her as he was—a man taken with feminine beauty—she froze. Their faces were only inches apart, and her golden-brown eyes—flecked with a silvery blue, he noted—locked on his. “What are you doing here, so far from home?” he murmured, and casually lifted his hand to touch her cheek.
Her eyes widened. But she didn’t pull away; she held his gaze. “How do you know that I am far from home?”
“You speak like a Sassenach.”
Her lashes fluttered uncertainly.
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Smooth. Silk and cream. “And you’re no’ sturdy enough to survive life in the Highlands . . . your knife notwithstanding.”
Her brows dipped. “I’m sturdy—”
“No,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “You wish you were in England, with your tea and your feathers—”
“Feathers?”
He gestured to her head. “For the hats.” He’d never seen such ridiculous millinery as he had in London.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “I am sturdy enough, I assure you, if one considers that I came to see my grandmother and discovered that not only has she lost her mind, but there is a strange and completely incapacitated man in her house. And now, I am tending to his wounds. Wounds which he has no memory of receiving,” she added suspiciously. “I rather think no one can fault me for being a bit hesitant, but I assure you, I am sturdy .”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Aye, no one can fault an English rose for changing a poor man’s bandages.” He let his hand drop, brazenly brushing her décolletage as he did.
Her blush deepened and she leaned back on her heels. “Please sit up a bit so that I might . . .” She made a circling gesture with her hand. “Unwrap them.”
“Why is it you, then, and no’ the old woman to tend me?”
She did not answer. Jamie did not take his eyes from her as he put his hand on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, heard her sharp intake of breath, and gave her a slight smile as he used her as an anchor to pull up and away from the wall, clenching his jaw against the pain this caused him.
She had to reach around him to unwind the bandage on his torso, giving him a lovely view of a flawless décolletage and the creamy mounds of flesh that rose out of her bodice. At any other time, in any other place, he would have persuaded her to allow him to touch her breasts, to bury his face in them. Jamie was not unsuccessful in wooing womento do as he pleased. But at that moment, he was far more concerned with personal survival and escaping this bloody cottage, and he contented himself with merely looking. Openly and admiringly.
“I believe your wounds have impaired your sense of propriety, sir,” she said with a pointed look.
Jamie smiled. “Perhaps a wee bit,” he conceded. “I heard a man outside, aye?”
She did not respond except to frown, then leaned into him once more to unwrap the bandage.
“Who was it, then?”
“No one.”
“No one,” he repeated.
“A passerby,” she said, leaning in to reach around him once more.
“Aye, and what did the passerby want?” he asked as he breathed in the scent of rosewater.
She hesitated in her work, then said softly, “You.”
Duff . Duff had found him, he was certain of it. And if he had, he’d be back, for Duff was the canniest, most perceptive man Jamie had ever known.
“Are you surprised?” she asked, peeking up at him. “Does it not give you cause for concern?”
“What concern should I have, lass?”
“What if he is the man who shot you? What if he would like
Similar Books
