Read Online Fletcher's Woman by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page B

resting soft against the cool, dry skin of her thigh.
    And Fawn Nighthorse made her third disastrous mistake of the day. “The white warrior has no spear to throw,” she said.
    Instantly she regretted the foolish, impulsive words, but it was too late.
    With both hands, Jonas grabbed her hair, wrenched her head upward, and then thrust it down again, hard, against the floor. His left fist, always the most dangerous, pummeled into the middle of her face. She felt staggering pain, and tasted blood in her mouth.
    There was another blow, and then another. The pain was hideous, blinding. But Fawn Nighthorse did not utter a single sound, not even as her consciousness slipped away.
    â€¢   •   •
    Before she opened her eyes, Rachel sensed that she wasn’t alone in the tent. Someone was there, watching her.
    Primitive terror surged into her throat, cutting off her wind, blocking any sound she might have made. Instinct caused her to lie very still.
    There was exasperation in the voice that shattered the eerie silence. “It’s all right, Miss McKinnon; I’m not here to ravage you.”
    It couldn’t be! Drained of that first instinctive rush of fear, Rachel turned her head, squinted at the man sitting casually on the cot across from hers. “Griffin Fletcher!” she gasped, remembering all the secret things she’d imagined doing with him and blushing in response.
    He didn’t seem to notice her embarassment; he simply stood up and turned his muscular back. “Get dressed. You can’t stay here any longer.”
    Outrage roared through Rachel’s being like a forest fire consuming trees and bushes. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped, sitting up on the cot and puffing the inadequate blanket closer to her tingling skin.
    â€œYou heard me,” Griffin Fletcher intoned without turning around. “Put your clothes on, or I’ll do it for you.”
    Having no doubt that he would do just that, if challenged, Rachel scrambled off the cot, still cowering in her blanket, and pulled the hated brown woolen dress—the only dry garment she possessed—from her wicker satchel.
    The dress was rumpled and musty, but Rachel put it on anyway, and in record time. “Who do you think you are?” she raged, as she frantically brushed her hair and pinned it into place. “My father is going to hear about this, I assure you! He is a very strong man and he is not going to be pleased when I tell him how you’ve been harassing me! Why, he’ll—”
    Rachel’s tirade was interrupted by a low, intrepid laugh. Color rushed into her cheeks as Dr. Fletcher turned, at last, to face her.
    â€œHe’ll what?” he asked, grinning.
    â€œHe’ll—he’ll—” Rachel wasn’t quite sure what he’d do, so she made something up. “He’ll skin you alive and throw your insides to the gulls!”
    The irritating grin broadened. “I’m terrified, Miss McKinnon,” he said.
    Rachel was deflated now, and frightened. “If I’m not to stay here, where am I going?” she asked, raising her chin and forcing herself to meet the dark, amused gaze of her tormentor.
    â€œThat, my dear, is your mother’s problem, not mine. And you will never know how grateful I am for that one, shining fact.”
    All of Rachel’s conflicting emotions were displaced by her curious feelings toward her mother. On the one hand, she hated the woman, wished never to see her, never to speak to her or hear her voice. On the other, she wondered about so many things, harbored so many searching questions that only Rebecca McKinnon could answer.
    â€œYou’ll take me to her?” she asked evenly.
    â€œWith pleasure and relief,” said Dr. Fletcher, executing a mocking half-bow and gesturing grandly toward the door of the tent.
    Rachel preceded him outside with dignity.
    In a gentlemanly manner, Dr. Fletcher helped her