The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(116)

Zarabeth woke to incredible warmth. She cracked open her eyes, then shut them quickly because even her eyelids hurt.

She became aware that she lay under heavy quilts in a prickly bed with a thin pillow. Her breath ached in her chest, but she reposed in splendid comfort and felt no signs of fever.

The thought trickled through her head that she was no longer clinging to sharp rocks in a stormy sea. She nearly wept with relief, forgiving the mattress its prickles and the pillow for being flat. For a time Zarabeth lay still, eyes closed, and enjoyed life and safety.

After a while, she realized several more things. First, she had no idea where she was. Second, she was not alone in the bed. A warm bulk lay next to her, long and strong and protecting her like a wall. It was also snoring.

Zarabeth pried open her eyes. It did not hurt as much this time, and she was able to see Egan MacDonald lying on his side next to her, his head pillowed on his bent arm.

She nearly stopped breathing. The man she’d dreamed about for five years—in intense, deeply erotic dreams—lay under the covers with her. When she’d last seen him he’d been devastating—hair rumpled, brown eyes half closed, smile lazy as he’d said softly, “What is it ye wanted to tell me, lass?”

If anything Egan looked stronger and more solid than ever, his skin darkened by sun and wind. The lazy smile had been replaced by a little frown in his sleep, and his eyes were closed, lashes resting against his cheek.

His large hand had spread out on the coverlet over her hip as though he’d been reaching for something but had fallen asleep partway there. Misty sunlight picked out gold strands in Egan’s hair, light-brown weaving through darker brown.

Zarabeth had always loved his wild hair and how the colors were variegated, and she’d always longed to touch it. She indulged herself now, sliding a finger through a twisting curl that rested against his cheek.

The hand on the quilt moved, and Egan’s lips curved in a half smile. He still slept, but he turned his head to nestle his cheek into her palm.

Zarabeth moved the pad of her thumb across his cheekbone, back and forth, feeling the burn of unshaved whiskers. Egan’s smile faded as he drew a long breath, and his hand on her hip grew heavy as he drifted into deeper sleep.

Zarabeth continued to rub the rough of his whiskers until her own eyelids drooped and she fell once again into dreamless, contented slumber.

She awoke facing the edge of the bed. Her body was spooned to Egan’s, his chest to her back, his strong arm flung around her waist. She realized this time that they were both unclothed.

A fold of blanket had wedged between them, but she felt every line of Egan’s body burrowed into hers, including the thick hardness that nudged her through the fabric. A silver armband encircled the upper part on his right arm, the metal cool against her skin.

Zarabeth still had no idea where she was. The room was tiny and whitewashed, filled mostly with the large bed. A fire flickered on the small hearth, and early sunlight leaked through the half-shuttered window.

Zarabeth tried to slide out from under Egan’s arm, but he murmured in his sleep and tightened his clasp. One hand came up to rest on her chest, his palm cupping her breast through the blanket.

“Egan,” she whispered.

“Mmm.” Egan nuzzled her ear, then his lips touched her hair, so warm. “Hush, love.”

Love? For a moment Zarabeth pretended Egan meant the endearment for her, not for whatever lady he was dreaming of. She liked the thought of him kissing her and calling her love.

“Egan, it is Zarabeth.”

Egan went still a moment, then with the suddenness of a lightning strike, jerked awake. He wrenched himself up with unflattering speed and landed on his feet, snatching a length of tartan to wrap his lower body.

Zarabeth sat up, hugging the blankets to her chest. Egan made a delectable picture, his hips draped by the plaid, the cloth dipping to reveal a hint of dark hair below his navel. His skin was tanned by the sun—he’d been dark since his army days—and his tight arms were marked with narrow, white scars, the intricately patterned armband glinting on the right one.

Dark brown hair hung in tangles to his shoulders, unruly as ever, and unshaved whiskers stubbled his face and jaw. Egan’s chest was sculpted with muscle like the rest of him, and dusted with dark hair. Flat, copper-colored nipples drew to tight points as Egan regarded her almost fiercely.

Zarabeth’s blood heated at the sight—her Highlander was tall and very male.

“’Twas only to get you warm, lass,” Egan said, voice harsh. “Nothing more.”

Zarabeth couldn’t cease looking at him. “I’d say that I was warm.”

“I meant to leave ye, but I fell asleep.”

If only he didn’t look so repulsed to have awakened pressed against her.

Out of habit, Zarabeth slid into her brisk society-hostess voice. No one out-eleganced Zarabeth of Nvengaria. “Very well, then we can pretend you left while I slept.”

Egan’s eyes narrowed. She could never fool him, and he knew it. Egan could always see through her, no matter that Zarabeth never had any idea what was going on behind his hard gaze.

Egan made himself lean over the bed and rest his hand on her forehead. “No fever. Good. I got ye out in time.”

Flashes of memory came to her—the storm, the breaking ship, the wild and terrified thoughts of the sailors and crew, the despair of the first officer as he flailed away from her, and his last fading thought—I’m sorry. Then the freezing, greedy sea, trying to pull Zarabeth from the rocks to her death.