Free Charming the Chieftain by Deanie Roman Page A

it into the bushes. Finished, she wrapped herself in another plaid Fergal had fetched for her. She thanked him, chose a parcel of ground covered in velvety moss, and bedded down for the evening.
    She detected eyes on her and struggled to gain a comfortable position under close scrutiny. With her feet poking out from beneath the plaid, she resembled a butterfly about to break free of its chrysalis. Furtively, she glanced at Aeden and then his men. It became glaringly obvious the brisk evening bothered not one, save her. Resigned, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth against the cold, and prayed she still had use of her limbs come first light.
    • • •
    Aeden waited for Elisande to settle in before staking his claim opposite her against a wide tree trunk. He shut his eyes and tried to dislodge her from his mind. By some means, she had gotten to him in a way he never predicted. Her scent still lingered, and the unexpected throatiness of her voice flowed over him like warmed whisky. With an impatient movement, he flipped the plaid over his head only to throw if off again. There was no escaping the truth. He wanted her in his bed. In the beginning, he was captivated by her winsome beauty, but her lively mind, quick wit, and odd beliefs surpassed even her physical beauty.
    “Did you hear that?” Ronan asked, breaking into Aeden’s musings.
    “Aye, you would have to be a deaf man no’ to,” Kiernan said hoisting his bulk up on an elbow.
    Aeden smiled into the dark.
    “God’s teeth, it’s akin to bones rattlin’,” Fergal added on a yawn.
    “There ’tis again, what in hell is it?” Kiernan demanded.
    “S-s-sorry everyone, m-my teeth are ch-ch-chattering,” Elisande stuttered.
    “You’re that cold, lass?” Aeden questioned, surprised.
    “Y-yes.”
    Worried for her health, Aeden leapt to his feet, moved over the mossy ground, stopping short of Elisande’s head, visible at the top of her plaid.
    “Why did you no’ say you were cold?” he accused.
    “I a-assure you, I am n-n-not doing this t-t-to thwart you.”
    Her disgruntled tone made him smile. He stood there a moment and stared. The breeze had lifted her silken curls and deposited them in a windswept manner around her head. His fist clenched by his thigh. He had to fight the irrational urge to reach out and run his fingers through her tangled mane. He gave himself a mental shake and conjured up mundane chores in an effort to calm his quickening heartbeat. It didn’t work. The woman made him mad.
    Apparently mistaking his silent manner for annoyance, she apologized.
    “I am sorry if I k-kept you and the men awake. I c-c-cannot seem to grow w-warm enough t-t-to nod off.”
    The meager firelight showed the poor lass’s lips had turned blue. She looked wrung out. Without a word, he bent down and plucked her from the ground. She weighed no more than a sack of dandelion fluff.
    The wind caught the edge of the plaid and exposed her legs.
    “Well, that helped,” she muttered.
    He ignored her biting comment, and continued moving further into the shelter of an ancient hawthorn grove.
    “I’m p-perfectly able to w-walk.”
    He ignored her.
    “You s-shall tear your st-stitches,” she remarked.
    “I heal fast.”
    Desperation laced her voice. “For g-g-goodness sake, put me down. I must be taxing your wound.”
    Incredulous, he stared down at her. “You canna weigh no more than a bag of goose feathers.”
    Satisfied they were far enough under the cover of tree to keep the brunt of the wind at bay, he set her back on her feet.
    Her expression of gratitude died on her lips when he ripped the blanket from her body. “Wh-what are you doing?”
    “I am only taking your plaid and spreading it on the ground, lass.”
    Next, he settled his large frame against the substantial trunk of a Rannoch crab tree, wrapped his plaid around his shoulders, and then opened his arms to her. By her expression, she wanted to raise a fuss over the impropriety. Nonetheless, the