her wretched soul with revenge, she
could endure whatever Fate dealt her thereafter.
Beside
her, the Englishman stirred restlessly and moaned. She'd made light
of his injury, to rouse his spirit, yet she knew the pain must be
dreadful. She knew as well he was deeply anxious about Percival.
Still, this lord would have no lump on his thick head and no reason
to be anxious, if he'd only stayed where he belonged. On the other
hand, she quickly reminded herself, the Englishman's errors had
delayed her departure. This terrible mess he'd made had given her an
opportunity.
Esme
glanced over her shoulder at him. No wonder he groaned. He'd turned
to face away from her, and the tender place on his head rubbed
against the rough blanket. She sat up and carefully coaxed his
unconscious form onto his other side. The low groaning stopped. She
lay down once more, her back to him.
She
had just begun to sink into sleep when she became aware of a wall of
warmth along her backside. In his sleep, the Englishman had edged
onto her blanket. She was about to retreat when he moved, mumbled
something, then flung his arm over her.
Esme
gasped, her heart thumping crazily. Cautiously she took hold of his
arm and tried to lift it away. It was like trying to lift a stone
pillar. He shivered and nestled closer still, his arm tightening
around her. A blanket of heat enveloped her.
Esme
rarely thought about cold, was accustomed to accept and ignore it.
Yet the man was unwell and the hut chilly and damp. His body sought
warmth, that was all. She told herself there was no harm, and closed
her eyes. For all her brave resolutions, she felt miserably alone,
and sorrow made her cold within. To be held so was comforting.
She
was just drifting to sleep when he murmured unintelligibly, and his
hand slid up from her waist, over her shirt, and closed over her
small breast.
Blind
panic shot through her. She clawed at the hand and kicked wildly as
she wriggled to get free.
“What
the—”
His
hand clamped round her wrist, and in the next instant, Esme found
herself flat on her back, the Englishman crouched over her. When she
tried to scramble away, he dropped on top of her, pinned her hands to
the ground on either side of her, and thrust his legs between hers
before she could jam her knee into his groin.
For
a moment, Esme was too stunned to move. Never in her life had any
adversary gained such speedy control. She'd thought this man effete,
a lazy weakling. But he was terrify-ingly quick — and
disconcertingly efficient. Still, he was panting, his curses coming
in growling gasps. The oaths didn't bother her. She knew curses in
five languages. What bothered her was the hard weight of his rigid
body and the numbing sensation of helplessness. But not for long, she
told herself. He was injured, after all, and she was not.
“English swine,” she
growled, kicking angrily at his legs. Her flailing foot struck Petro,
who'd been snoring obliviously on the other side of her. He bolted up
in terror.
“Help!
Help!” he screamed in Greek, as he scrabbled wildly at the
blankets. “Robbers! Murder!”
“Shut
up, you idiot,” the Englishman snapped. “Light the
lantern. It's not robbers, dammit. It's a girl!”
IT
TOOK PETRO forever to light the lantern—which stank to high
heaven. In that time, Varian had relieved the little fiend of his
weight, and her headdress. Not that he needed to examine her more
closely. He recognized a female body when he felt one, and he'd fully
awakened to find his hand curled over a very small, very firm, but
unmistakably feminine breast. He'd dreamt he was sleeping with a
woman, and woke to find that he was. A girl, he silently amended, his
gray gaze upon the shining mass of dark red hair. A girl who'd
probably reached puberty about the day before yesterday.
She
was sitting cross-legged, glaring at him. Varian's hands itched to
spank her. He didn't like being made a fool of. He liked still less
narrowly escaping murder twice in
could endure whatever Fate dealt her thereafter.
Beside
her, the Englishman stirred restlessly and moaned. She'd made light
of his injury, to rouse his spirit, yet she knew the pain must be
dreadful. She knew as well he was deeply anxious about Percival.
Still, this lord would have no lump on his thick head and no reason
to be anxious, if he'd only stayed where he belonged. On the other
hand, she quickly reminded herself, the Englishman's errors had
delayed her departure. This terrible mess he'd made had given her an
opportunity.
Esme
glanced over her shoulder at him. No wonder he groaned. He'd turned
to face away from her, and the tender place on his head rubbed
against the rough blanket. She sat up and carefully coaxed his
unconscious form onto his other side. The low groaning stopped. She
lay down once more, her back to him.
She
had just begun to sink into sleep when she became aware of a wall of
warmth along her backside. In his sleep, the Englishman had edged
onto her blanket. She was about to retreat when he moved, mumbled
something, then flung his arm over her.
Esme
gasped, her heart thumping crazily. Cautiously she took hold of his
arm and tried to lift it away. It was like trying to lift a stone
pillar. He shivered and nestled closer still, his arm tightening
around her. A blanket of heat enveloped her.
Esme
rarely thought about cold, was accustomed to accept and ignore it.
Yet the man was unwell and the hut chilly and damp. His body sought
warmth, that was all. She told herself there was no harm, and closed
her eyes. For all her brave resolutions, she felt miserably alone,
and sorrow made her cold within. To be held so was comforting.
She
was just drifting to sleep when he murmured unintelligibly, and his
hand slid up from her waist, over her shirt, and closed over her
small breast.
Blind
panic shot through her. She clawed at the hand and kicked wildly as
she wriggled to get free.
“What
the—”
His
hand clamped round her wrist, and in the next instant, Esme found
herself flat on her back, the Englishman crouched over her. When she
tried to scramble away, he dropped on top of her, pinned her hands to
the ground on either side of her, and thrust his legs between hers
before she could jam her knee into his groin.
For
a moment, Esme was too stunned to move. Never in her life had any
adversary gained such speedy control. She'd thought this man effete,
a lazy weakling. But he was terrify-ingly quick — and
disconcertingly efficient. Still, he was panting, his curses coming
in growling gasps. The oaths didn't bother her. She knew curses in
five languages. What bothered her was the hard weight of his rigid
body and the numbing sensation of helplessness. But not for long, she
told herself. He was injured, after all, and she was not.
“English swine,” she
growled, kicking angrily at his legs. Her flailing foot struck Petro,
who'd been snoring obliviously on the other side of her. He bolted up
in terror.
“Help!
Help!” he screamed in Greek, as he scrabbled wildly at the
blankets. “Robbers! Murder!”
“Shut
up, you idiot,” the Englishman snapped. “Light the
lantern. It's not robbers, dammit. It's a girl!”
IT
TOOK PETRO forever to light the lantern—which stank to high
heaven. In that time, Varian had relieved the little fiend of his
weight, and her headdress. Not that he needed to examine her more
closely. He recognized a female body when he felt one, and he'd fully
awakened to find his hand curled over a very small, very firm, but
unmistakably feminine breast. He'd dreamt he was sleeping with a
woman, and woke to find that he was. A girl, he silently amended, his
gray gaze upon the shining mass of dark red hair. A girl who'd
probably reached puberty about the day before yesterday.
She
was sitting cross-legged, glaring at him. Varian's hands itched to
spank her. He didn't like being made a fool of. He liked still less
narrowly escaping murder twice in
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