Free Ransom My Heart by Meg Cabot Page B

the black cord about which he’d been speaking. The large, uncut emerald fell heavily into her hands, and she stared down at it in wonder, her lips parted moistly.
    â€œâ€™Tis yours,” Hugo said, realizing he was breathing hard with the effort of not knocking her about the head. “Until my ransom is paid, in any case. Take it, Finnula. If I escape, then you may keep it, to do with as you like. It will pay,” he added, with ill grace, “for a great deal of hops and malt.”
    Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, so great was her surprise that he’d sussed out the true reason for her kidnapping of him. “How did you know…?”
    â€œUntie me.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œUntie me. Now.”
    Never taking her large gray eyes from his face, she carefully dropped the silken cord from which the gemstone hung about her own long, slender neck. Then she reached for the knife she’d sheathed in the belt at her narrow waist, and, leaning so close to him that he could once again smell the fresh scent of her, she sliced cleanly through the rope that bound his wrists. Freed, Hugo stood, pulling himself up to his full height, and looked down at her. Finnula, who stood hardly past his elbow, regarded him without trepidation, a rare occurrence for Hugo, who engendered as much fear as admiration in the hearts of the many women he had known. Perhaps that brother of hers had seen that she led a sheltered life, never knowing of the cruelty of which men were capable, he thought. Foolish boy! Better that the girl should know the truth, that most men would not have her best interests at heart.
    â€œShow me where it hurts,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. There was something about her proximity, which was close indeed, that caused him no small degree of discomfort. He did not know whether he wanted to thrash her or kiss her.
    Without a word, she sank back onto the rock outcropping, and lifting her white lawn shirt no higher than the beginning of the curve of her right breast, revealed a bruise already mottled. Hugo sank to one knee to examine it, then reached out a tentative hand to touch the sensitive skin. When Finnula drew away before he had even touched her, her expression clearly challenging, he looked into her wide eyes and asked politely, “May I?”
    She looked scornful. “What do you know,” she demanded, “of tending to wounds?”
    â€œWhat choice do you have?” he snarled right back at her. “I don’t see any of your many sisters about, do you?”
    Capturing her lush lower lip between her white, even teeth, Finnula nodded, closing her eyes against the anticipated pain—or perhaps, Hugo considered, against the humiliation of his touch.
    Carefully, he laid his hand upon the bruised flesh, feeling skin that was smoother than any he had ever encountered, as soft as silk, but as hot as a feverish brow. She had very little fat on her, her muscles well-honed from riding and hunting. Her ribs protruded slightly beneath her small breasts, and the one he felt was surely bruised from Peter’s blow, though not likely broken. He had long experience with wounds, having spent so many years on battlefields, and he was well-versed in the arts of medicine.
    But he had never, in all his healing experience, had so comely a patient.
    Hoping that his voice carried no hint of the desire he felt at the touch of her bare, silken flesh, he asked, “Does it hurt when you breathe?”
    She said, keeping her face turned well off to the side, so that all he saw was the curve of her high cheekbone, “A little. Is it my rib?”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œIs it broken?”
    â€œI think not,” he said, straining to keep his voice light. “Bruised, surely, though. But such a slight wound is surely nothing to a woman of your stamina—”
    The gray-eyed gaze swiveled toward him, the dark fringe of lashes narrowed