Free Irish Moon by Amber Scott Page A

skin.
    His strong jaw lay tilted up and his features
were cast in lovely relief in the morning light. His features
appeared so chiseled they could be that of a sculpture. Thick black
eyebrows arched over his heavy, long lashed eyes. Soft black curls
framed his face. His lips were full and soft looking.
    Breanne reached her hand out to touch his
cheek and only then realized that she’d walked over and knelt next
to him. It startled her from the distraction seeing him had cast on
her. Her cheeks filled with heat and she thanked the lord and
goddess that no one had witnessed her foolish behavior.
    English. Yes, he looked English. Were he
well, the two or three days growth of beard that shadowed his jaw
would be cleanly shaven. Her eyes traveled over the rest of him,
evaluating other signs of his heritage. He was tall yet still broad
shouldered and lean. His chest was bare of any hair and Breanne
wondered what his skin would feel like on her palm.
    Her belly flip-flopped and shivered. Again,
she blushed and mentally shook herself. Such thoughts were new to
her. Even her girlish crush on Quinlan hadn’t evoked such
lasciviousness.
    She did have to touch him though, to ensure
he remained free of fever. Why not on his chest, a small impish
voice asked? Tentatively, Breanne reached her hand forward to hover
above the outlined of pectoral muscle, where his heart would be.
Would she feel its beat, she wondered, mesmerized by the tingle of
emotion swirling through her?
    Slowly, she placed her hand on him. His skin
was warm, not hot but the surge that went through her body was. The
sensation jolted her and she jerked her hand away. No fever. That
is all she needed to verify. She should leave him the food and go.
But she didn’t. She replaced her hand, keeping a watchful eye on
his face for signs of awareness.
    He didn’t stir. She pressed her palm slightly
and felt his heart thump steady and strong. It assured the healer
in her but stirred another part. Breanne gradually slid her hand
down his skin, fascinated by the smooth texture and warmth. More
wondrous was the heat his body seemed to send into hers. Not heat
as the sun gives, or fire, for this did not feel at all
uncomfortable. It didn’t warn not to get too close. This heat did
not burn, and yet did somehow.
    The man’s skin goose-bumped under her touch
and Breanne jerked back her hand. She tore his eyes from his
sleeping face and focused her attention on placing the satchel and
wineskin in an obvious and close place. Too late, she thought to
include a note warning him not to leave the cave. It was enough
food to last more than a day and she didn’t know when she’d be able
to return.
    Worry made her movements hasty and her brow
furrow. She couldn’t tarry much longer or Niall would have a search
party after her and of all her luck it would include Shane
MacSweeney. She rued her lack of forethought but couldn’t see a way
around it. He’d wake no later than tonight, surely. She would
simply find a way to return, explain, and get some explanations, as
well.
    The idea made her feel immensely better.
“Until tonight then,” she whispered. Her hushed voice echoed in the
small stone room and the feeling she had of quiet awe when she
entered, returned.
    On her walk back, Breanne tried to find the
hole that created the tunnel of light, but gave up as the pressure
of time closed in on her. Within ten minutes, she slipped back
through the gate and remembering her lie, headed in the direction
of the friary. Just in case.
    “Breanne O’Donnell,” a man’s voice said.
“You’ve got yourself some explaining to do.”
    Breanne’s heart skipped a beat when she
recognized the voice to be her uncle’s. She stopped and faced the
man with her most charming smile to placate the annoyance she heard
in his words. “Uncle Patrick. Good morning to you. Why, I was on my
way to see you just now and here you are.”
    “I doubt such a story,” he said gruffly, his
eyebrows sharply