Free The Enchantress by May McGoldrick Page B

them from her still body, hanging them over the rawhide cord he quickly strung up beneath the thatched roof. He placed her stockings and shoes beside the fire.
    Her eyes were shut. Her chest barely moved as she breathed. At least, she was alive.
    “As I said before, your kind think only of yourselves.”
    William used the inside of his tartan to squeeze some of the water out of her streaming black hair. It had come completely free of the braid. The long shining waves gleamed like the wing of a raven. Looking away, he remembered the old shirt he carried in his saddlebag and got up to fetch it. He then pulled her into his lap. Her body draped over his arm, as limp as the wet woolen dress that clothed her.
    “I’m telling you now, lass...I hate doing this.” He pulled her close to his chest and reached for the laces on the back of her dress. Her face rolled on his shoulder slightly as he swept the long ebony locks out of the way. The laces gave way slowly. As the soaked wool parted, his fingers came in contact with a linen shift. It, too, was soaked through. With a low curse, William started pulling the wool dress forward, off her shoulders.
    “I do not like you,” he lied through clenched teeth. “And I do not like any of your kind. In fact, I’ll take a fistful of needles in my eyes and a dirk in my back before ever conceding that this gave me one whit of pleasure.”
    He averted his eyes from the dark circles of her nipples showing through the transparent undergarment. Putting his old wool shirt quickly over her head, he relied on his sense of touch to push the wet shift down her arms. Holding her by one arm, he pulled the gray dress and the shift off her legs, and worked her arms into the sleeve of the dry shirt.
    The woman made an incoherent sound deep in her throat. As he watched, her hands fisted, suddenly clutching his tartan and shirt. He pulled her more tightly to him, laying her head against his chest. As he held her, he gently rubbed one hand over her arms and back, warming her skin. Slowly, he felt her begin to relax.
    By St. Andrew, he thought, he’d asked for distance and here she was, naked as a bairn beneath his shirt. He tried not to think of how soft her skin felt beneath his fingers or how full and round her breasts had looked. He tried to not remember the gentle curve of her hip and backside where he’d touched her just a moment ago. He felt the heat again stirring in his loins and took a deep breath. Her hair smelled of lavender, just as it had last night.
    “By Duthac’s Shirt, woman! Have I told you how much I hate you?” He pulled her knees up and covered the exposed skin with the soft wool shirt. “As soon as this damnable weather lets up, I am taking you straight to the church and dropping you at the gates of the place. Gilbert can do whatever he wants with you. I’ll have no part of it!”
    He felt her hand again clutch his tartan tightly, and she stiffened momentarily. As she did, her cheek accidentally brushed against his neck, and he felt the wetness on her face. He pulled back slightly and saw the tears. The silent tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Just as they had the night before.
    “Laura!” he called gently, wiping away the wetness. “You’re safe, lass.”
    Tears continued to fall as her features shifted, the muscles moving beneath the skin, a display of anguish and hurt that showed clearly even in the flickering firelight. The point of some invisible blade slipped between his ribs, and he breathed in sharply as the point touched something deep within him.
    William edged closer to the fire and stretched, placing another piece of driftwood on the flames. She continued to cling to him. In a strange way, he realized that he was beginning to take comfort in that. It was true that she represented everything that he didn’t want in a woman. And yet, thrown together as a result of the storm and the danger around them, he would be a foul, unfeeling fiend not to give the