Page 6

Indecently large muscular arms and a thickly corded neck gave testament to his strength. Strength she’d experienced firsthand. Earlier, he’d picked her up and plopped her atop his horse as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread.

Though she wasn’t one to ogle the opposite sex, Emeline would have to have been dead not to appreciate what a marvelous specimen of manhood Liam MacKay, Baron of Penderhaven, presented.

Seldom—fine, never—had she seen the like. If she hadn’t been so traumatized by the series of events which had occurred but hours ago, she might’ve thrilled at the recollection of his touch and the generous amount of exposed virile masculinity before her now. If she were a woman who took note of such provocative displays.

She put her fingers to her ribs where she could still feel the imprint of his large palms spanning them. A flush of sudden mortification scoured her, and she flattened her hand on her torso. Good heavens. She wore nothing but her shift.

Where were her clothes?

Scrutinizing the cottage, Emeline relaxed slightly upon spying her gown, cloak and stockings. They, along with Liam’s garments, had been draped over a thin rope which stretched from one side of the room to the other. He’d placed her shoes and his knee-high boots on either side of the hearth.

At the realization he’d undressed her, another blush swept her from ankle to neck.

She’d fainted. Dead away.

Before today, she’d never swooned. However, she supposed, given the horrific events of the past few hours, she was entitled to a moment of womanly weakness.

Satisfied she’d not have to parade about in the presence of a man in nothing but her underthings, she finished inspecting the lodgings.

A scruffy table with four mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the single room abode. Beside the door, a six-paned window—the only one—looked out into the inky sky. Glass was highly unusual for a humble abode such as this, shutters being much more common and less expensive.

The fireplace dominated the final wall. Next to it, a shelf contained all manner of items from books to cups and plates to what appeared to be a chess set. A moth-eaten, slightly crooked, stag head hung directly above the fireplace. Pegs protruded from the posts bracing the beds and from the door as well.

Sparse. Plain. Functional. A man’s abode for certain.

The baron’s?

Emeline swallowed against the dryness scraping her throat. Water. She must have a drink of water. When she was positive she could stand without falling onto her face, she braced one hand against the wall and gingerly levered to her feet.

The floor was freezing, and she almost jerked them back beneath the blanket.

“What the devil do ye think ye’re doin’, lass?”

Liam’s husky, sleep-thickened question so disconcerted her, she gave a tiny yelp and jumped. She tottered unsteadily for an instant.

“Ye startled me,” she said inanely. Och, for pity’s sake. Shaking off her discomfit, she made a feeble gesture. “I’m thirsty. Is there any water to be had?”

That was the God’s honest truth. Her mouth felt as dry as parchment.

Half-groaning and half-sighing, he sat up. Although, unlike her, he was careful not to smack his head on the upper bunk. The blanket slid to his waist, revealing even more of his gorgeous body, including the rippled muscles of his sinewy torso and the stair-steps of his ribs.

As irrational as it was, she envied the blanket. For it was permitted to caress that fascinating flesh while she was not.

Attention fixed on him, she worked her captivated gaze over every inch of exposed flesh. How very different a man’s body was from a woman’s.

Emeline swallowed again and dropped her attention to the floor, suddenly finding her cold, pink toes quite the most enthralling things. Not as enthralling as the man in yonder bed, however.

Was he totally nude beneath the blanket?

At once, all sorts of naughty—delicious—images leaped to mind.

God help her and her vivid imagination. She wasn’t convinced the peculiar flutterings in her stomach were dismay at all. She studiously kept her focus fixed on the worn floor as he rustled around a bit.

“Ye can look now, lass.” Distinct humor colored his rumbling burr.

Expecting to see him clothed, she glanced up. Her jaw sagged like a worn-out cushion, and the tingles shooting through her had nothing to do with disapproval or censure. Good God. Flames licked her already hot cheeks.

He’d simply secured the blanket haphazardly around his narrow waist.