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Authors: His Wicked Ways
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ground, he couldn’t help but be mildly offended.
She withdrew the instant she was free. He watched as she picked her way unsteadily toward the shelter of a stand of venerable oak trees, then sat beneath the outstretched branches. Cameron suspected the spot was not of any particular significance, but that her legs simply refused to carry her farther.
He was but a step behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you cannot swim?”
She said nothing.
“Answer me, lass.” His tone brooked no argument.
She turned her head aside. “You already think me weak.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “If I had told you, you would but think me weaker still.”
Cameron considered this. So. It was pride that dictated the absence of confession. Pride he could understand. Blind foolishness he could not.
The shadow of evening had begun to wash across the land, and with it a faint breeze.
Cameron did not miss the way she shivered. They were both drenched to the skin; her hair was a sodden waterfall down her back and her gown was plastered to her skin. Such discomfort did not bother Cameron, for he’d often slept in the cold, wet rain. For a moment he weighed a silent battle back and forth in his mind, sorely tempted to strip her dripping clothes from her back—it would be warmer that way. But she was already convinced he was the blackest soul on this earth, and were he to do so, no doubt he would surely plummet ever deeper into the depths to which she’d already consigned him.
Quickly he saw to building a fire. His stomach growled noisily as he dropped another branch on the leaping flames, reminding him that they had yet to partake of any food.
“We must eat,” he said curtly. “If I leave, will you promise me you will not flee?”
Again no answer. She stared at him in that way he was beginning to dislike most heartily.
Cameron’s mouth tightened. Her rebellion rankled—would that the river had drowned it!
“To return to Connyridge you would have to cross the river,” he reminded her.
A shudder shook her slender form. “I will stay,” she said at last.
Cameron smiled thinly. His statement was perhaps a peculiar means of ensuring her compliance, but ’twould seem a convincing one—and, he hoped, effective.
The possibility of her disappearance high in his mind, he did not tarry. Berries and wild turnips would have to do for this night.
At first he didn’t see her. With a curse he quickened his pace.
It died unuttered in his throat. She had simply moved toward the warmth of the fire. Stretched out beside it, she was fast asleep, one arm extended toward the fire.
He was at her side in an instant, tucking her arm back toward her belly, lest she inadvertently thrust it in the flames.
Completely relaxed in slumber, she didn’t even stir.
She was exhausted, he thought with a faint smile. Of course, he was aware she’d probably worked many a long hour at the nunnery; still, no doubt the hours traveled—the miles she’d walked—had surely been taxing. Then there was her ordeal at the river…
He was scarcely aware of moving. Putting out a hand, he started to brush away the damp strands of hair that streamed across her cheek. An odd emotion surged in him…tenderness? What was this? he wondered, amazed and aghast and annoyed all at once.
He snatched his hand away with a scowl. Why this sudden softness toward her, this strange protectiveness that surged in him? Was it protectiveness? He scoffed. Nay, not that…never that, for she was a Munro. It was only because she was a woman, and just as she’d said…weaker than he.
She moved then, easing to her back, her face upturned to the moonlight…to him.
A dark, avid gaze roamed her features—long silky lashes that shuttered eyes as pure as a bonny blue sky, the milky white curve of her cheek, the sensuous fullness of her lower lip. It struck him then, like a clenched fist low to the belly—a blatant desire that was stark and vivid and wholly undeniable. He
She withdrew the instant she was free. He watched as she picked her way unsteadily toward the shelter of a stand of venerable oak trees, then sat beneath the outstretched branches. Cameron suspected the spot was not of any particular significance, but that her legs simply refused to carry her farther.
He was but a step behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you cannot swim?”
She said nothing.
“Answer me, lass.” His tone brooked no argument.
She turned her head aside. “You already think me weak.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “If I had told you, you would but think me weaker still.”
Cameron considered this. So. It was pride that dictated the absence of confession. Pride he could understand. Blind foolishness he could not.
The shadow of evening had begun to wash across the land, and with it a faint breeze.
Cameron did not miss the way she shivered. They were both drenched to the skin; her hair was a sodden waterfall down her back and her gown was plastered to her skin. Such discomfort did not bother Cameron, for he’d often slept in the cold, wet rain. For a moment he weighed a silent battle back and forth in his mind, sorely tempted to strip her dripping clothes from her back—it would be warmer that way. But she was already convinced he was the blackest soul on this earth, and were he to do so, no doubt he would surely plummet ever deeper into the depths to which she’d already consigned him.
Quickly he saw to building a fire. His stomach growled noisily as he dropped another branch on the leaping flames, reminding him that they had yet to partake of any food.
“We must eat,” he said curtly. “If I leave, will you promise me you will not flee?”
Again no answer. She stared at him in that way he was beginning to dislike most heartily.
Cameron’s mouth tightened. Her rebellion rankled—would that the river had drowned it!
“To return to Connyridge you would have to cross the river,” he reminded her.
A shudder shook her slender form. “I will stay,” she said at last.
Cameron smiled thinly. His statement was perhaps a peculiar means of ensuring her compliance, but ’twould seem a convincing one—and, he hoped, effective.
The possibility of her disappearance high in his mind, he did not tarry. Berries and wild turnips would have to do for this night.
At first he didn’t see her. With a curse he quickened his pace.
It died unuttered in his throat. She had simply moved toward the warmth of the fire. Stretched out beside it, she was fast asleep, one arm extended toward the fire.
He was at her side in an instant, tucking her arm back toward her belly, lest she inadvertently thrust it in the flames.
Completely relaxed in slumber, she didn’t even stir.
She was exhausted, he thought with a faint smile. Of course, he was aware she’d probably worked many a long hour at the nunnery; still, no doubt the hours traveled—the miles she’d walked—had surely been taxing. Then there was her ordeal at the river…
He was scarcely aware of moving. Putting out a hand, he started to brush away the damp strands of hair that streamed across her cheek. An odd emotion surged in him…tenderness? What was this? he wondered, amazed and aghast and annoyed all at once.
He snatched his hand away with a scowl. Why this sudden softness toward her, this strange protectiveness that surged in him? Was it protectiveness? He scoffed. Nay, not that…never that, for she was a Munro. It was only because she was a woman, and just as she’d said…weaker than he.
She moved then, easing to her back, her face upturned to the moonlight…to him.
A dark, avid gaze roamed her features—long silky lashes that shuttered eyes as pure as a bonny blue sky, the milky white curve of her cheek, the sensuous fullness of her lower lip. It struck him then, like a clenched fist low to the belly—a blatant desire that was stark and vivid and wholly undeniable. He
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