Free The Warrior Bride by Lois Greiman Page A

beauty of her skin, the firm stretch of her muscles.
    “I’ll fetch what is needed,” he said, and yanking himself away, turned abruptly toward the door.
    On the far side of the portal, Lachlan slowed his pace and gave his head a mental thump. Sweet mother! What was wrong with him? She was wounded. She was uninterested. She thought herself a man!
    Still, the sight of her bare skin… His erection ached again and he shook his head at his own foolishness. Nay, she was not for him. But hardly could he leave her. After all, she was a maid, and a wounded one at that. ‘Twas his duty to see to her, and if that duty involved bathing her and…
    Nay, not bathing her! It only involved tending her wound, and that much he would do. After that his duty would be complete and he could return home with a clear conscience.
    Aye, that was all he wanted, he vowed, and strode determinedly off to find the necessities that would heal her and hurry him on his way.
    Alone in the bedchamber, Hunter exhaled heavily.
    She was tired, exhausted really. But her wounds were not serious and her mission would not be delayed.
    Evil comes to Evermyst.
    Was the old woman right? She didn’t know. Wasn’t sure, though she’d spent a year trying to find out. For a long while, she’d thought it all foolishness. Now she wasn’t certain, but she would learn the truth soon enough.
    She would allow MacGowan to tend her and then she would be rid of him, for he would only make her task more difficult. Aye, she determined, and nodded to herself as she pressed her tunic more firmly to her breasts. They felt strangely full and unusually heavy, like a foreign weight against the bare skin of her arms. But then she’d never found much use for them, she thought, and almost laughed as she sat down on the bed.
    Steadying a flagon of spirits, an unwieldy bucket of warmed water, and a half dozen other items, Lachlan fumbled with the door latch. The bucket tipped slightly, loosing a few drops of water onto his wrist and spilling forth the medicinal scent of camphor.
    He remedied the situation, managed the door latch, and stepped inside. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Hunter sat upright in bed. He was just about to speak when he realized she was asleep.
    Nay, she had not lain down, but neither was she awake. Her cheek rested against the head of the bed. Her shoulders were bare, and though her right arm was holding her tunic against her bosom, some kindly miracle had caused the garment to slip slightly toward the mattress, revealing the soft upper curves of her breasts.
    It was then that he stopped breathing. It was then that his desire roared back to life. Not coincidentally, it was also then that his plans began to crumble like a house of sand, for lying there silent and defenseless, she looked like a fairy child who had found her father’s clothing. A fairy child dressed in leather. And aye, the fairy child was soiled and she was the very devil with a dirk but…
    She awoke without warning. Her eyes snapped open and her gaze flew to her blade where it lay on the floor. He tensed, but she did not leap to her feet and demand a duel to the death as he had suspected she might. Instead, she relaxed visibly. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, lowered, and seeing the wanton ways of her tunic, she pressed it slowly upward again.
    “You’ve returned.” Her voice was low, her heavy lashes dipped slightly over her sleep softened eyes.
    “Aye.” No threats? No curses? “Are you feeling well?”
    “Very well,” she said and sat up slowly. “I dreamt.” She said no more, but somehow those simple words intrigued him. The thought of her asleep captivated his imagination, while the thought of her playing in dreamland stole his breath.
    “What did you dream?” he asked.
    The suggestion of a crescent smile curved her lips.
    The expression did strange and unwanted things to his innards, and his nethers. “I dreamt of a castle,” she said.
    “Oh, and what castle was