The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(115)

Too bad the charm did not also ward off sharp rocks or death by drowning.

I’ll have to add that in next time.

Zarabeth was freezing—she’d die of cold and exposure even if she didn’t drown—but she didn’t regret what she’d done to bring herself here. Sebastian was a monster, and he’d made her life unbearable for the last five years. When she’d learned some months ago that he was a traitor, she could no longer even pretend to be a loyal wife.

She’d crept away in the middle of the night and sought her cousin Damien, Imperial Prince of Nvengaria. Damien had helped her begin divorce proceedings, and when things grew too dangerous, had shipped her off to Scotland for her safety.

Only Zarabeth would not reach safety. Or Egan. She’d planned to apologize to him for being such a fool one storm-tossed night five years ago. The world had taught her that dreams and reality were vastly different, and Zarabeth planned to tell him so.

Her only regret was that she’d never again see his strong face or watch his hardest expression suddenly dissolve into his warm grin. She’d never again hear his rumbling voice that comforted her like nothing else could.

Egan MacDonald, the only person she’d ever met whose thoughts she could not read. He was her knight in shining armor, like the legends of old; except he wore a kilt and old leather boots. She’d waited for his rescue for so long.

It was likely he wouldn’t come now, and she’d be dead and unable to scold him for it.

Help me, Egan.

Over the pounding of surf against rock, she thought she heard hoofbeats on the hard road. She raised her head but could see nothing through the spray, rain, and mist.

Then out of the darkness loomed a knight gleaming from head to foot in armor, his mighty warhorse pawing the ground, sparks flying from his hooves.

The knight flung himself off the horse and descended the treacherous rocks toward her. His figure resolved itself into that of a Scotsman in dark blue and green plaid; then suddenly he blurred and vanished.

A dream, Zarabeth thought dimly, and then she lost consciousness.



* * *



Egan hauled Zarabeth’s limp body from the rocks, cradling her against his chest. Her skin was clammy and cold, and so wet. The damned rain wouldn’t cease.

Zarabeth’s dark hair hung in tangles, her hands cut and bloody from clinging to the rocks. Her dress was torn, revealing the pale skin of her breasts, a strange piece of jewelry glinting gold against her chest.

Get her warm. The thought pounded through Egan’s head. He’d wrapped her well in his cloak, but she was too cold, too lifeless. They’d never reach Castle MacDonald before she froze—it was too far and night was falling.

Egan laid her across his saddle and mounted the horse behind her, pulling Zarabeth up to cradle her against his chest. He turned the horse toward Ullapool, knowing an inn lay at a crossroads not far from there. It was not much of an inn, but there he could get Zarabeth warm and dry.

The inn’s proprietor and his wife quickly acquiesced to Egan’s commands—they’d never refuse anything of a MacDonald. Soon Egan had Zarabeth in a private bedchamber with a roaring fire in its hearth.

Egan helped the innkeeper’s wife peel off Zarabeth’s clothes, Egan feeling ill as he saw the bruises on her pale body. She was so cold, shivering, and she would not wake up.

The innkeeper’s wife rubbed Zarabeth vigorously with towels and blankets. Then Egan laid her in the bed, piling on the quilts. The wife hung Zarabeth’s sodden dress and underclothes in front of the fire, shaking her head at the gashes in the fine cotton.

After the woman finished and gone, Egan sat down on the bed beside Zarabeth. Damn it, she was still too cold. The room had already filled with warmth, but none of it seemed to touch her.

Egan stripped out of his coat and kilt and peeled off his wet shirt, his own body warm despite being drenched. He spread his clothes in front of the fire to dry, then slid under the covers next to Zarabeth. He spooned himself against her cold, limp body, worried that she lay so lifeless.

“Take my warmth, love,” he whispered. “Take all ye need.”

If she heard him she made no response. Egan pressed a kiss to her hair, remembering the Zarabeth who had kissed him so innocently in her father’s house five years ago. Her lips had warmed him, her smile welcoming.

Egan had been drunk and enchanted that night, and ready to take her right there on the carpet. That night he’d realized that his dear friend Zarabeth had become a woman—a beautiful, charming woman he wanted with every breath.

Her lips had tasted of warmth and spice, and his hands had sought the curve of her hips. She’d been wearing a dress that bared most of her bosom, a pendant similar to what she wore now hanging in the shadow between her breasts. Egan had wanted to catch the pendant in his teeth, lick the salt of her skin. Itched to pull the dress down to bare the sweet darkness of her nipples.

Leaving her had been the hardest thing Egan had done in his life. He hadn’t spoken to Zarabeth or seen her, or even had a letter from her from that day to this. And now here he was in bed with her.

I’ll stay until she’s warm, then go.

His mind said that. Egan’s body knew that he’d ridden hard in the cold rain and dragged Zarabeth to safety and that he was exhausted from chill and worry.

He fell asleep.



* * *