Free Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance by Selena Kitt Page A

the wooden tub. She had it halfway full, and the floor was wet where she’d splashed—not to mention the front of her robe, which clung to her like a damned second skin—when the big wulver-man, Griff, came into the room. He glanced at her as she put the last two full buckets on the floor beside the fireplace in his room. These were for rinsing, of course.
    “Are ye ready fer yer bath, m’lord?” She couldn’t keep the venom from dripping off her tongue.
    First, this beast bests her as temple guardian. Then, he somehow bewitches her parents into thinking he’s some sort of “red wulver” who’s here to fulfill a prophecy. Then, just when the dragon and the lady were about to tell them the truth, he attacks her!
    Rescue, my foot, she thought, glaring as the man began to undress. His sheath was empty—no swords, aside from the ceremonial ones, were allowed in the temple—and he tossed it onto the bed.
    Alaric and Aleesa had given up their room, with the big bed and large fireplace, for their guest. And why? Because they thought this arrogant fool was some sort of wulver king? He was nothing but a bragging, boastful boy.
    Bridget turned to watch him, leaning against the tub, arms crossed over her chest. Well, mayhaps not so much a boy, she corrected herself, as he pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it on the bed, too. At least, not physically. His shoulders were big and broad, tawny colored in the firelight. He was so muscled, the hills and valleys in his arms alone were breathtaking, like the scenery of Skara Brae. Rolling and rather delicious.
    Bridget told herself it was the heat from the fire, and her own toil in carrying water back and forth from the kitchen, that made her face flush when the man divested himself of his plaid. He half-sat on the bed, pulling off hose and boots too, tossing them aside.
    She knew Aleesa would want them washed, and so Bridget moved to retrieve them. She set them all by the door—his clothes, boots, sword sheath, belt—ignoring the fact that he was naked behind her.
    She averted her eyes when he climbed into the tub, but she couldn’t help seeing the bulge of the man’s strong thighs, the hollows at the sides of his buttocks, before he sank into the water with a low, soft groan.
    “What d’ye wan’ me t’do?” Bridget had hissed at her mother as they warmed water over the fire.
    “Jus’ tend ’im, Bridget,” Aleesa told her with a heavy sigh. “Wash t’man wit’ soap’n’water. Ye act like ye do’na know what a bath is!”
    Of course she knew what a bath was. She’d taken thousands. Okay, maybe hundreds. But she’d never had to wash anyone but herself before. She didn’t know anything about man parts, aside from the fact that, if you brought a knee up between their legs, they had soft stones that puckered and shriveled and turned them into howling babies. She’d learned that lesson by accident, but her father had used it, as he used everything, to teach her a lesson. If she absolutely had to hurt a man, if he was besting her and she had to escape, honorably or no, that was the best way to do so.
    “Ye can leave me, lass,” Griff called softly as Bridget put his things in order. Mayhaps she was stalling, it was true. “I can bathe m’self.”
    She glanced over, seeing his head tipped back, eyes closed, his big arms resting on the sides of the tub, elbows cocked, hands floating in the water. When she didn’t answer, he peeped one eye open to look at her. She stood near the door, undecided, worrying her lip between her teeth. Griff opened two eyes, then his gaze moved down her robe, all the way to her bare toes peeking out from underneath, then upwards until their eyes locked.
    “D’ye ’ave any soap, lass?” he asked, running a hand through his thick, dark mass of hair. It curled even more when it was wet, she noticed.
    “Aye,” she said softly, moving to get it for him. She had made the soap herself. Aleesa taught her that, the same way she’d