Read Online One Snowy Knight by Deborah MacGillivray - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deborah MacGillivray
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a handsome man.
Such a threat. In more ways than one.
She must remember that and never let down her guard. He was English, the invader. This man and his countrymen had crushed the army of forty thousand Scots on the fields of Spottsmuir, possibly even killed men of Craigendan in that rout. At all times she must hold tight to those truths; not for one breath could she ever drop her defenses with this knight who could only spell trouble for her.
Letting go of the bedpost, she went to fetch the small pot of ointment. As she lifted it, she hesitated. Helping him dry off had been upsetting in a way she was not prepared to handle. Her foolish heart pounded, her mouth went dry, and she actually found it hard to hold a single thought in her head. Sensations washed through her, crawled under her skin with a pagan fire, making her breasts feel heavier, fuller. A burning began at the base of her belly and throbbed like a second heartbeat. Not having experienced these disturbances before did not mean she failed to recognize them for what they were: she desired Noel de Servian with a power that was unholy. Most perplexing, she had always assumed a woman had to fall in love with a man before these intense feelings came to her, possessed her. Never would she have suspected she could suffer such a craving for a warrior who was barely more than a stranger.
A stranger, yet his words had held the ability to wound her pride. When he held her hips and declared she was too skinny, that simple opinion was a knife rending her heart. She saw concern in those all-seeing eyes. Yet, it failed to stop the pain in that he found her woefully thin.
She had lost flesh these past months. Doing her chores and that of a man, she worked too hard from dawn to dark, ate less and less as she saw the supplies dwindle. That had taken a toll. Still, to hear him declare her too lean nearly crumpled her spirit. Sucking in a hard breath, she told herself to stop these silly thoughts, to put them out of her mind. She had been wed for years and came with two children. A man such as Noel de Servian could have any woman he wanted at his beck and call. He could never want her.
“Get on with the chore and be done with it,” she whispered the chide to herself.
Setting the pot down on the small table, she scooped up the salve with her fingers, and then froze as she considered where to start. There was…so much of him! He seemed to be resting so peacefully that she hated to disturb him.
Mayhap she would let him slumber. His body surely needed sleep to heal. Wiping her fingers on the rim of the black pot, she pulled the woolen blanket across his legs and over his shoulder, and then went to clean the wolf’s blood from her body and hair.
Pausing to glance back she saw, poor man, he had not stirred. With a plaint that could not be denied, she had wanted to stroke him, give free rein to the urges pulsing within her blood. Only, it would be the wrong thing to do. Skena feared in touching him her soul would somehow form an unbreakable bond with this handsome warrior. A bond that could prove too costly in the future. Better not risk the pain. Not risk her soul.
“Coward,” she muttered. Walking to the fireplace she added more peats to the fire. “Aye, a bloody coward I am.”
Noel watched her.
With an air of utter exhaustion, Skena dropped down to the long bench and unlaced her boots. Clearly believing him asleep, she did not hesitate to stand and remove the brooch pinned at her shoulder, and then unbuckle the belt about her waist. She unwound the woolen material from her hips and dropped it on the long bench. Next came the long, linen sark, leaving her in nothing but a thin, sleeveless chemise.
He had been right in his opinion of her shape. Her breasts were high and full; the vision of Skena hit him like taking an arrow to his groin. Howbeit, the rest of her body bordered on painfully thin. The two traits usually did not go together, leading him to suspect the
Such a threat. In more ways than one.
She must remember that and never let down her guard. He was English, the invader. This man and his countrymen had crushed the army of forty thousand Scots on the fields of Spottsmuir, possibly even killed men of Craigendan in that rout. At all times she must hold tight to those truths; not for one breath could she ever drop her defenses with this knight who could only spell trouble for her.
Letting go of the bedpost, she went to fetch the small pot of ointment. As she lifted it, she hesitated. Helping him dry off had been upsetting in a way she was not prepared to handle. Her foolish heart pounded, her mouth went dry, and she actually found it hard to hold a single thought in her head. Sensations washed through her, crawled under her skin with a pagan fire, making her breasts feel heavier, fuller. A burning began at the base of her belly and throbbed like a second heartbeat. Not having experienced these disturbances before did not mean she failed to recognize them for what they were: she desired Noel de Servian with a power that was unholy. Most perplexing, she had always assumed a woman had to fall in love with a man before these intense feelings came to her, possessed her. Never would she have suspected she could suffer such a craving for a warrior who was barely more than a stranger.
A stranger, yet his words had held the ability to wound her pride. When he held her hips and declared she was too skinny, that simple opinion was a knife rending her heart. She saw concern in those all-seeing eyes. Yet, it failed to stop the pain in that he found her woefully thin.
She had lost flesh these past months. Doing her chores and that of a man, she worked too hard from dawn to dark, ate less and less as she saw the supplies dwindle. That had taken a toll. Still, to hear him declare her too lean nearly crumpled her spirit. Sucking in a hard breath, she told herself to stop these silly thoughts, to put them out of her mind. She had been wed for years and came with two children. A man such as Noel de Servian could have any woman he wanted at his beck and call. He could never want her.
“Get on with the chore and be done with it,” she whispered the chide to herself.
Setting the pot down on the small table, she scooped up the salve with her fingers, and then froze as she considered where to start. There was…so much of him! He seemed to be resting so peacefully that she hated to disturb him.
Mayhap she would let him slumber. His body surely needed sleep to heal. Wiping her fingers on the rim of the black pot, she pulled the woolen blanket across his legs and over his shoulder, and then went to clean the wolf’s blood from her body and hair.
Pausing to glance back she saw, poor man, he had not stirred. With a plaint that could not be denied, she had wanted to stroke him, give free rein to the urges pulsing within her blood. Only, it would be the wrong thing to do. Skena feared in touching him her soul would somehow form an unbreakable bond with this handsome warrior. A bond that could prove too costly in the future. Better not risk the pain. Not risk her soul.
“Coward,” she muttered. Walking to the fireplace she added more peats to the fire. “Aye, a bloody coward I am.”
Noel watched her.
With an air of utter exhaustion, Skena dropped down to the long bench and unlaced her boots. Clearly believing him asleep, she did not hesitate to stand and remove the brooch pinned at her shoulder, and then unbuckle the belt about her waist. She unwound the woolen material from her hips and dropped it on the long bench. Next came the long, linen sark, leaving her in nothing but a thin, sleeveless chemise.
He had been right in his opinion of her shape. Her breasts were high and full; the vision of Skena hit him like taking an arrow to his groin. Howbeit, the rest of her body bordered on painfully thin. The two traits usually did not go together, leading him to suspect the
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