Free The Chief by Monica Mccarty Page B

physique, but also in the strong angles of his face that might have been hewn from stone.
    It was the strangest thing. Despite his ferocity, she had an urge to reach up and trace her finger down the hard lines of his cheek and jaw. His face was so expertly chiseled, it almost didn’t look real.
    There was nothing refined or classical about his features—from the deep-set eyes hooded beneath the heavy, dark brow, to the strong nose widened at the bridge where it must have been broken, to the high cheekbones that descended in a sharp angle to a square jaw, to the softly sculpted wide mouth—yet the combined effect was raw, masculine perfection.
    But clearly that of a warrior. Up close she could see the stamp of battles waged on his face. A thin scar bisected hisright eyebrow, and a longer one ran down his cheek to the top edge of his lip. She thought he had another on his chin, but the slight indentation had come from the thumb of God, not a weapon.
    His skin was darkly tanned except for the tiny white lines etched around eyes and mouth. He was relatively clean-shaven, the dark shadow of a day-old beard emphasizing the hard, implacable jaw, and his hair, worn shorter than most of the men, fell in soft, uneven waves to his chin. It should be brown, but for the bleaching by the sun.
    He was gorgeous. The most physically striking man she’d ever seen. And she’d read too many books not to be affected by a handsome knight.
    Apparently, she wasn’t alone in her thoughts. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
    Her lips parted in a soft gasp. He was going to kiss her. She waited, her heart fluttering wildly, like the wings of a bird in a cage frantic to get out. She was scared, but not scared—her body warring with her mind. Could she actually want him to kiss her?
    She’d never been kissed before, but his mouth looked so soft compared to the rest of him. It was all that she could think about. Unconsciously, she leaned closer, anticipation shivering down her spine. Her nipples beaded against his chest.
    His gaze darkened with something she didn’t recognize. She thought his hold on her tightened for an instant before he stilled, and then released her so quickly that she wondered if she’d only imagined it.
    “Return to your room,” he said gruffly. “You’ve had enough trouble for the night.”
    All at once she realized what she’d done. Her face flooded with mortified heat. She’d embraced not only a stranger but a fierce warlord. How could she have so forgotten herself after what had just happened?
    By all rights she should be far more terrified of this manthan of the one who’d attacked her. He was bigger, stronger, and after what she’d witnessed of the sword fight earlier, far more dangerous. One look at his face had sent her attacker running scared.
    Why wasn’t she scared? She had been at first when he’d been so angry, but the moment he sensed her fear, he’d controlled it so effortlessly that she knew she wasn’t in danger. It was so different from her father’s unpredictability.
    Despite the improbability of the situation, and with what she knew of these Island warriors, she felt safe with him. Not just because he’d saved her—though that was part of it. It was something in his voice and noble bearing. In the deep, masculine tones and calm authority that resonated with every word and in the regal pride with which he carried himself. Instinctively, at some base level, she trusted him. How else could she explain what she’d just done?
    And it seemed that trust was well placed. He’d wanted to kiss her but let her go. He was too honorable to take advantage of her.
    But what must he think of her? She was here to be presented to him as a possible bride. Would he want such a forward woman for a wife? And why did she care, when she had no intention of marrying him?
    “Forgive me,” she said horrified. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s just that I was so grateful for what you did earlier by