Read Online Wild about the Witch by Cassidy Cayman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cassidy Cayman
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his shirt away from the bandage.
He cracked an eye and smiled crookedly at her. “I’m sorry I didna get ye home. We can try again when I’m rested.”
She was exhausted as well, and all the pent up fear she’d been pushing down the last terrifying week on the road with Wodge slowly dissolved into tears. One splashed down on the mattress beside Quinn and she hurried to wipe her eyes before he noticed. Had he actually just apologized to her?
Fearing a rejection, she took his hand. He didn’t twine his fingers with hers or even return her grip, but he didn’t pull away. She adjusted the bandage, which had slipped during the ride. Stupid man, he could have injured himself further. The slightest infection could kill a person in this time and her heart rate sped up with anxiety for him. In fact, did he feel hot already? She pressed her palm to his chest, and the side of his neck.
“How do you feel?” she asked, getting up to sit beside him on the mattress.
She brushed his hair back off his face and felt his forehead, trying to compare it to her own temperature. How did mothers do it? She couldn’t tell at all if he had a fever.
“I feel as if I’ve been shot,” he said. “And then jostled about on horseback.”
“That last is your own fault,” she reminded him, forgetting to worry about a fever, but keeping her hand lightly on his cheek. His dark blue eyes were still glazed with pain.
“Well, if ye dinna mind, I’m still going to complain about it.”
He turned his face into her hand so his lips brushed her palm. Not a kiss, but it reminded her of his sweet hand kissing habit.
“I don’t mind,” she said softly. She scooted down and tugged on his boot. “Let me help you get comfortable.”
She tried to maintain a business-like air as she pulled off his boots and then eyed his kilt. It was spattered with mud and blood, and his shirt was in shreds. A quick knock and the door opened to reveal a servant with a small tub of water and several sheets.
“Just what we needed, thank you,” she said, shooing the boy out the door after he put the tub down. She turned back to Quinn who raised his head quizzically. “Don’t you think you’ll be more comfortable if you’re clean?” she asked. “And it’s better for the wound as well,” she added.
He lifted his hands in surrender, helping her get his kilt off by rolling back and forth as she tugged it away, then tossed it in the corner. Trying not to stare at his muscular body, she covered his lower half with one of the sheets and began to sponge his shoulders and chest.
“Ye’re not responsible for this, ye know,” he said, pulling on a lock of her messy hair before tucking it behind her ear. “Ye dinna have to do this.”
She looked at him and bit her lower lip, not sure if he was subtly telling her to get lost. She watched his gaze drop to her lips as he licked his own.
“I want to,” she said. She really, really wanted to.
He nodded and dropped his head back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.
Bruises were already beginning to spread around the area of the gunshot, and she winced, remembering the doctor ruthlessly digging out the bullet. She worked her way lower, rinsing out the sponge as she swabbed away the dirt and blood, her fingers brushing over his rippling stomach muscles.
His smooth skin erupted in goosebumps when she rolled the damp sponge down his sides and she pressed the sheet to him to keep him warm, dislodging it from his hips and making her own skin heat up at the sight of him. She quickly straightened it, leaning across him to tuck it in on his other side, her breasts brushing against his ribcage.
She breathed out as her senses went berserk. Her hands shook, craving to touch him without the hindrance of the sponge, just run themselves all over him. Her fatigue was gone, replaced with a heavy, urgent longing. Slowly, torturously, she pulled herself away from him, unable to keep her hand from sliding over his hipbone,
He cracked an eye and smiled crookedly at her. “I’m sorry I didna get ye home. We can try again when I’m rested.”
She was exhausted as well, and all the pent up fear she’d been pushing down the last terrifying week on the road with Wodge slowly dissolved into tears. One splashed down on the mattress beside Quinn and she hurried to wipe her eyes before he noticed. Had he actually just apologized to her?
Fearing a rejection, she took his hand. He didn’t twine his fingers with hers or even return her grip, but he didn’t pull away. She adjusted the bandage, which had slipped during the ride. Stupid man, he could have injured himself further. The slightest infection could kill a person in this time and her heart rate sped up with anxiety for him. In fact, did he feel hot already? She pressed her palm to his chest, and the side of his neck.
“How do you feel?” she asked, getting up to sit beside him on the mattress.
She brushed his hair back off his face and felt his forehead, trying to compare it to her own temperature. How did mothers do it? She couldn’t tell at all if he had a fever.
“I feel as if I’ve been shot,” he said. “And then jostled about on horseback.”
“That last is your own fault,” she reminded him, forgetting to worry about a fever, but keeping her hand lightly on his cheek. His dark blue eyes were still glazed with pain.
“Well, if ye dinna mind, I’m still going to complain about it.”
He turned his face into her hand so his lips brushed her palm. Not a kiss, but it reminded her of his sweet hand kissing habit.
“I don’t mind,” she said softly. She scooted down and tugged on his boot. “Let me help you get comfortable.”
She tried to maintain a business-like air as she pulled off his boots and then eyed his kilt. It was spattered with mud and blood, and his shirt was in shreds. A quick knock and the door opened to reveal a servant with a small tub of water and several sheets.
“Just what we needed, thank you,” she said, shooing the boy out the door after he put the tub down. She turned back to Quinn who raised his head quizzically. “Don’t you think you’ll be more comfortable if you’re clean?” she asked. “And it’s better for the wound as well,” she added.
He lifted his hands in surrender, helping her get his kilt off by rolling back and forth as she tugged it away, then tossed it in the corner. Trying not to stare at his muscular body, she covered his lower half with one of the sheets and began to sponge his shoulders and chest.
“Ye’re not responsible for this, ye know,” he said, pulling on a lock of her messy hair before tucking it behind her ear. “Ye dinna have to do this.”
She looked at him and bit her lower lip, not sure if he was subtly telling her to get lost. She watched his gaze drop to her lips as he licked his own.
“I want to,” she said. She really, really wanted to.
He nodded and dropped his head back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.
Bruises were already beginning to spread around the area of the gunshot, and she winced, remembering the doctor ruthlessly digging out the bullet. She worked her way lower, rinsing out the sponge as she swabbed away the dirt and blood, her fingers brushing over his rippling stomach muscles.
His smooth skin erupted in goosebumps when she rolled the damp sponge down his sides and she pressed the sheet to him to keep him warm, dislodging it from his hips and making her own skin heat up at the sight of him. She quickly straightened it, leaning across him to tuck it in on his other side, her breasts brushing against his ribcage.
She breathed out as her senses went berserk. Her hands shook, craving to touch him without the hindrance of the sponge, just run themselves all over him. Her fatigue was gone, replaced with a heavy, urgent longing. Slowly, torturously, she pulled herself away from him, unable to keep her hand from sliding over his hipbone,
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