The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(30)

He was acting like an idiot. He wanted her. So what? He’d wanted a lot of women in his life. There was nothing special about—

He stopped mid-step as the edge of the loch came into view.

His mouth went dry. Everything went dry. It felt as if his insides had drained in a rush of heat to the floor. Not again.

She was sitting at the edge of the loch on a rock with her gown raised to her knees to dip her hurt ankle in the cold water. Smart, but he wasn’t thinking about that right now. All he could think about was the creamy perfection of two very shapely legs. Every inch of that smooth, satiny skin was emblazoned in his memory.

Damn it. He marched forward with determination and a very clenched jaw. He could do this.

If it was any consolation—which it wasn’t—she didn’t look very comfortable either. Nor was it any consolation to know that he wasn’t the only one feeling this tension. She was attracted to him, though clearly the thought of being attracted to a notorious bastard who lived by the sword didn’t sit well with her. He was everything she disdained. A mercenary who didn’t believe in anything to her fiercely loyal patriot.

“Is Mary all right?”

“The child is fine.” He knelt beside her. “How is your ankle?”

“A little sore.”

He arched a brow. “A little?” She stared at him defiantly. “Is it broken?”

She bit her lip. Jesus. Could she make this any harder on him? “I don’t think so.”

“Let me see.”

She hesitated, but his curt, businesslike tone must have convinced her. She lifted her foot out of the water and held it up for him to examine.

His teeth were clenched so tightly he was surprised he didn’t hear cracking. He steeled himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the smooth, velvety softness of her skin under his palms. It took everything he had not to slide his hand up the long length of her leg. And then do the same thing with his mouth. Just knowing how close he was to that sweet little juncture between her thighs made every inch of his body hot and hard.

She quivered at his touch. The knowledge that she was not unaffected was almost more than he could take. Don’t look at her. If he saw anything resembling desire, he’d do something foolish.

Sweat gathered at his brow. Every muscle in his body flexed with restraint. The flames of desire licked and snapped around him, threatening to incinerate the last threads of control.

Focus. She’s hurt, damn it. He needed to be careful. Bella MacDuff was dangerous. He had a job to do and couldn’t afford any distractions, not if they were going to make it through this alive. They had two countries chasing them.

He held her foot in his hand, steadying himself. For as strong as she appeared on the outside, her bones were as fine and delicate as a bird’s. He’d never seen such a dainty foot in his life. Not much bigger than his hand, the tiny toes, the high arch, and the thin, albeit slightly swollen ankle seemed to belong to a fairy.

She’s hurt, he reminded himself. But he was touching her this time, not just looking. His blood pounded. Slowly, he slid his hand up around her ankle, pressing gently on the swollen skin, pleased when it didn’t appear to cause her too much pain. He rotated her foot a little just to make sure, but she was right: It wasn’t broken. Not that it would be any less painful to walk on for the next few days.

She wouldn’t be able to ride on her own. Someone would have to ride with her. His mouth thinned, not knowing why the idea didn’t sit well with him.

He lowered her leg carefully back into the water and removed his hands, feeling as if he’d just survived an ordeal. Hell, he’d rather walk across hot coals than go through that again.

He stood up and ventured a glance in her direction, telling himself it was too dark to see a soft flush on her cheeks. “You’ll need to wrap it when you get back to camp. If you don’t know how, I can show you.”

“I can do it,” she said quickly.

Clearly she was no more eager for him to have his hands on her than he was. He bit back the flash of anger. “How are your hands?”

She held them out, palms up. “Not too bad.”

They were scratched and scraped raw. The lady had the understatement of a Highlander.

“MacKay has some salve. Put it on, and try to keep them covered with cloth or gloves.”

She nodded, and as she did he caught a glimpse of something under her chin. He reached out and cradled her jaw between two of his fingers, tilting her face up. He swore. “Your chin is scraped.”

Instinctively, she reached for it and winced when her fingers came into contact with the raw skin. The admiration he felt for her was almost as annoying as his lust. Almost.

Bending down, he dunked the edge of his plaid in the water, getting it good and wet.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said hurriedly.

He ignored her protest, and proceeded to dab the sopping cloth on the underside of her chin to clear away the dirt.

He was close to her, very close. Close enough to make her nervous. Close enough to smell the subtle scent of her skin. Roses today, damn it.

He could hear her breath turn shallow. He looked into her eyes, seeing the confusion.

But then he made a mistake. He looked down, his gaze catching on a rivulet of water as it made its way past her throat to the open collar of her chemise. Her now—thanks to his sopping plaid—very wet chemise that clung to two incredible br**sts.