To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(30)

“Humph.”

She knew that her entire face was enveloped in a fiery blush, but she still needed to get those wet breeches off him. She began on the buttons, waving his fumbling hands away when he tried to help her. He swayed as she got the last button undone, and suddenly she was no longer worried about her flush or what he might think of her.

“Get to the bed,” she ordered.

“Bossy woman,” he muttered, but his words were slurred again, and he shuffled toward the massive bed.

Once there, she had him lean against the mattress as she stripped his boots, breeches, hose, and smallclothes from him. She had only a glimpse of long hairy legs and a dark patch of fur at their apex before she was shoving him into the bed and heaping the covers on top of him.

She expected some sardonic comment from him then—perhaps along the lines of her hurry to get him into bed—but he merely closed his eyes. And that forbearance shot a bolt of pure fear through her. She stopped only to scoop the puppy up and plop him beneath the covers next to the man, and then she was running to the kitchen.

Thank God! Mrs. McCleod had indeed left a kettle warming by the banked kitchen fire. Helen quickly made tea and took the pot, a cup, and plenty of sugar along with an ancient metal bed-warming pan back up to Sir Alistair’s bedroom. When she entered, panting from the quick climb up the stairs, his body was a still mound beneath the covers, and her heart gave a painful jolt.

But then he stirred. “I was beginning to wonder if the sight of my naked body had caused you to flee the castle.”

She snorted as she laid her full tray on a table beside the bed. “I’m the mother of a small boy. I’ve seen a naked male body many times, I assure you. I bathed Jamie just tonight.”

He grunted. “I’d hope that my form would be somewhat different than a boy’s.”

She cleared her throat to say primly, “There are some differences, of course, but the similarities are still there.”

“Humph.” She knew he watched her as she took the warming pan to the fire and scooped in glowing coals. “Then undressing me gave you no more worry than bathing wee Jamie.”

“Naturally not,” she said with what she thought was admirable aplomb.

“Liar,” he rasped softly.

She ignored that and brought the hot pan back to the bed. “Can you move over?”

He nodded, his face weary and lined. He managed to inch over on the mattress, and she threw back the covers to use the warming pan on the sheets. She tried hard, but it was impossible not to see the long line of his bared leg, hip, and side. Heat uncurled in her belly. Hastily, she averted her eyes.

When she finished, he rolled back and grunted, his eye closing. “Feels good.”

“Good.” She set the pan on the hearth and hurried back. “Try and sit up so you can take some tea.”

His eye opened, surprisingly sharp and focused on her bosom. “You’re soaked through, Mrs. Halifax. You need to attend to yourself.”

She glanced down and saw that her chemise and wrap were nearly transparent. Her pointed nipples were outlined quite clearly against the thin fabric. Goodness! But modesty hardly mattered at the moment. “I’ll attend to myself as soon as you’re settled. Now sit up.”

“I shall repay you for your officiousness later,” he warned, but he heaved himself against the pillow until he was half upright.

“You do that,” she replied as she heaped sugar into the cup and then poured steaming tea in it.

“I don’t think sugar will help your tea, Mrs. Halifax,” he drawled behind her.

“Oh, hush.” She turned and caught his gaze focused on her bottom. “It’s hot and sweet, and that’s what you need now. Drink.”

She held the cup for him and he sipped, wincing. “Your tea could take the rust off iron. Do you mean to kill me?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” she murmured soothingly. A small corner of her heart seemed to tug at his gruff words. He was so stubborn, so surly, and at the moment he needed her so much. “Take some more.”

He sipped from the cup again, his gaze all the while on her face, steady and disconcerting. Her fingers trembled as she watched his strong throat work. She hastily took the cup away and set it on the tray.

“Thank you, Mrs. Halifax,” he said. His eye was closed, and he’d sunk into the bed, but there was color in his face again. “I think I shall survive the night without you.”

She frowned. “Perhaps I should heat a brick or bring more tea.”

“God, please no more tea. You may retire for the night. Unless”—he opened his light brown eye and glanced at her sardonically—“you’d like to join me?”

Her eyes widened involuntarily at the blunt invitation, and for a crucial moment, she didn’t know what to say or do. Then she whirled and left the room, his laughter echoing behind her as she rushed to her own bedroom.

* * *

PERHAPS IT WAS the memory of his housekeeper’s lush breasts outlined in wet fabric the night before. Perhaps it was the lemon scent of her hair that seemed to linger like a ghostly presence in his rooms. Or perhaps it was simple biological need catching up with him. In any case, Alistair woke the next morning with the vision of her lush, red lips wrapped about his achingly hard prick. An overly vivid erotic dream, but alas, his flesh did not know the difference between reality and fantasy.