Law, Susan Kay (17 page)

"Did they catch whoever did it?" she asked carefully.

He continued examining her ankle, his attention absorbed by her
injury. Although she studied his expression, she couldn't detect even a flicker
of surprise or suspicion.

"No. Too slow. Were long gone."

Relief, sweet and seductive, flooded through her. Although she
knew it was far from over, for the moment she had to believe that everything
was going to be all right after all. If there were problems later, she'd
address them then. For now, she surrendered to the silky night and the
gentleness of the hands caressing her ankle.

Still cradling her foot in his lap, he reached up and began to
strip off his shirt.

"Oh my Lord, what are you doing?"

He'd evidently tumbled right out of bed when the alarm had been
given in camp, for all he was wearing was a dark pair of breeches, boots, and a
rough linen shirt hanging loosely around his hips. Nothing else. He mustn't
even have had time to grab a cape. He had to be freezing, running around with
so little covering. What she couldn't imagine was why he seemed to be planning
to wear even less.

"Going to pack your ankle in snow," he said
matter-of-factly. "Have to wrap it in something."

"Oh."

Her pain receded abruptly as her brain became occupied with much
more interesting things. Had there ever been a man like him? Moonlight and
shadow danced over all those lovely bumps and ridges of muscle; they swelled
and flexed as he pressed snow around her ankle with surprising deftness.

She didn't have enough air. She gulped in a breath.

He must have heard her, for he lifted his head at the sound.
"Hurt?"

"Uh, no, not much."

"Good." He wrapped his shirt tightly around the snow and
tied it securely. "There."

"What are we going to do about him?" She gestured at the
still figure of the young soldier.

Jon reached over and placed his fingers against the soldier's
neck.

"He's fine. He'll be waking up soon." He'd be waking up,
he'd stagger his way back to camp, he'd tell the captain about the woman he'd
found, and the captain would question Beth. Lord, what a mess. If only he'd
gotten there before the soldier had recognized her.

Well, there was little he could do about now. Perhaps later he
could find a way around the problem.

"Can you get up?" he asked

"I can try."

He bent down, slipped his arm around her shoulders, and helped her
to her feet. Balanced on one leg, she was unsteady and leaned against him for
support.

"Put a little weight on it."

She tested it gingerly, and almost immediately it gave out beneath
her. She would have gone down again if Jon hadn't caught her.

"I'm sorry. It's just not going to hold me. If I can lean on
you, maybe I can hop back."

He scooped her up quickly, holding her against his chest, one arm
beneath her knees, another around her back.

"Jon! What are you doing? I'm too heavy," she protested.

"Heavy?" he scoffed, bouncing her in his arms.
"Thistledown."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm certainly not light. I'll hurt
you."

He gazed down at her, his eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight.
"Not heavy. Just a nice armful."

"You can't possibly carry me all the way back."

He ignored her objection. "Where's your horse?"

He really was going to carry her. It was unexpectedly nice, to be
held securely against that broad, beautiful chest. Tentatively, she slipped one
arm around his back; the flesh was smooth and resilient against her palm, the
muscles bulging intriguingly as he shifted her in his arms.

"You're going to get cold without a shirt on."

The soft, seductive curve of her hip pressed against his belly;
the gentle swell of the side of her breast rested against his chest. He could
feel her hand stroking his back, gliding along his spine, and he wondered if
she was even aware she was doing it. He certainly was.

"I think the soldier dropped my cloak at the beginning of the
path," she continued. "We could go back and look for it."

"I'm plenty warm, Beth."

His voice was strained, almost harsh, and she frowned at him in
concern.

"I
am
too heavy for you."

"We're going, Beth. Going to tell me where, or should I
guess?"

She pointed to the far side of the clearing. "Through there.
There's a path. My horse is a mile or so back that way."

"A mile?" He was supposed to carry her for a mile? Hold
her that whole time, and not jiggle his arm down a bit and test the delectable
curve of her backside? Not curl his wrist just a smidgen and find the tempting
swell of her breast?

Cold. He needed cold.

"It's too far, Jon. Put me down now."

He didn't bother to answer, just took off across the clearing with
big, long strides that ate up the distance and betrayed no hint that he was
unduly burdened by the woman he carried.

How lovely, she thought. Her ankle still throbbed, but the ache
was distant, unimportant. Her senses were filled with so many much more
interesting things to concentrate on.

The rhythm of Jon's strides lulled her, like floating down a lazy
river, lending a quality of unreality to the night. Occasional flashes of
moonlight filtered through the branches, painting his face with odd, figured
shadows. The only sounds were those of his steady, deep breathing and his
footsteps crunching over the snow, and even that sound was so much softer than
she would have thought it would be.

Her world narrowed down to him. She let her head fall against the
curve of his shoulder; it nestled there so naturally. His skin was smooth and
warm against her cheek, and she couldn't resist finding out if it would feel
the same to her hand.

She placed her hand on his chest. His heart pounded against her
palm, a vibration that thrummed through her hand and tingled up her arm. She
wanted to explore, to find out if the rest of him felt as wonderful, as alive.

She could move her hand just a little, couldn't she? That wouldn't
be entirely brazen. Just an inch or so.

She let her fingers creep a trifle to the side. She poked him a
bit, just a little, so he wouldn't notice.

There was no give to his flesh at all. Just solid, hard,
beautifully rounded muscle. He was so strong; his arms didn't betray the
slightest tremor as he carried her along, and she was hardly a light little
slip of a thing.

***

Lord, he was in trouble. He could smell her as she snuggled in his
arms, that sweet drift of lavender melding with the crisp scent of cold and
snow. Springtime in the dead of winter.

Her hand was resting on his chest. Those long, elegant fingers
were spread out over his flesh, a fantasy he'd hardly dared have now coming
true. Those fingers that were so quick and agile, then slow and seductive when
she drew the music out of her instrument, and he wondered if they'd be just as
nimble on him.

Her palm glided over his chest in tiny increments, agonizingly
slow. Was he jiggling her as he walked, or was she doing it on purpose? He
didn't know, and right at this minute he didn't much care. Just as long as it
didn't stop.

Her fingers were barely an inch above his nipple now. What would
it be like if she dropped her hand that last little space and touched him
there? He felt his nipple pucker abruptly at the thought.

It was just an inch. That wasn't so much to ask, was it? He
pondered ways to get her to move her hand that crucial inch. He could nudge her
that way, somehow. Maybe with his chin. No, that wouldn't work. His neck wasn't
long enough.

With his hand? No good. He'd have to put her down, and he
certainly wasn't going to do that. His own hands were better occupied where
they were.

The ground dropped abruptly and he took a hard step down, jarring
them both. Her hand slipped down an inch.

***

He stopped walking. His chest was going in and out like one of the
bellows in Adam's smithy, and he was breathing like a horse that had been
ridden too hard.

Poor man. She'd been floating along, having a nice, interesting
ride, and here Jon's arms must be nearly ready to fall off.

"Put me down, Jon."

"Forget it," he said fiercely. "Which way?"

Bennie glanced around. He'd stopped where the trail split in two.
A massive, barren oak tree stood proudly in front of them.

"The left one."

He strode off down the left path.

"You can stop pretending I'm not too heavy for you."

He glared at her. It was such an uncharacteristic expression for
him she assumed it only proved the agony he must be in.

When he didn't answer her, she sighed and dropped her head back to
its resting place.

"You can stop pretending you're not cold, either," she
mumbled.

"What makes you think I'm cold?"

Darn. She hadn't really meant for him to hear her. Before she was
able to stop herself, she glanced briefly at where her hand still rested
against his chest.

His mouth quirked. "Doesn't just happen when you're cold, you
know," he told her.

Heat flooded her cheeks. "No?" she squeaked.

"Happens when you're too hot, too."

"It does not."

He stopped and stared at her. His face was in shadow, but his eyes
glittered brilliantly. "Guess you haven't ever been warm enough,
then."

His breath misted in the night air, curling like smoke from
between his lips, his breath drifting close to her, and she had the oddest urge
to lean forward and breath it in herself.

"Is it much farther?" he asked.

"Ah, no. Just around the next bend."

She must have been mistaken, for as he set off again, she was
almost sure she heard him mutter, "Damn."

Her horse was right where she'd said, tethered to a tree right
around the next curve. He set her gently down, keeping one arm around her as
she balanced unsteadily on her uninjured leg.

"Nice horse," he said, surveying the huge bay stallion
nickering in welcome.

"Yes, Puffy's a good boy, aren't you," she crooned. The
horse stamped and snorted in response.

"Puffy?"

"Puffy," she said defensively. "Anything wrong with
that?"

"Puffy," he repeated, his voice laced with barely hidden
laughter. "Yeah. Such a tiny, fluffy little pony."

"All right." She laughed. "When I got him, my
brothers kept proposing names like Avenger and Demon. I rebelled a
little."

"Just a little."

She rubbed the horse's nose companionably. "Well, Puff, let's
see if you can get me home, huh?"

Jon grabbed her by the waist and tossed her up on the horse before
she had time even to begin to worry about how she was going to mount. Jon tied
the reins and handed them to her.

"Well..." She smiled down at him weakly. "I guess
I'll be going, then." Her smile softened. "I don't really know how to
thank you. What you did—"

"Move forward."

"What?"

"Too far back on the horse. Move forward."

"But I've always sat here." He frowned at her. "Oh,
all right." After everything he'd done for her tonight, she could do this
little thing. She scooted forward a bit.

He hopped easily up behind her.

"Jon!"

"Don't think I'll let you go home alone, do you? Late. Too
dark."

"Jon, really, I can—"

He reached around her, plucked the reins from her fingers, and
started the horse down the trail.

Really, sometimes he was the most annoying man. If he wanted to do
something, he just went right ahead and did it, not acknowledging her
protests—perfectly legitimate protests at that—at all.

Although she had to admit, everything he'd gone right ahead and
done so far had been actually rather pleasant. She was suddenly glad that she,
fearing her brothers would take off without her, hadn't taken the time to
saddle her horse but had ridden bareback instead. This wouldn't have been
nearly as comfortable otherwise.

He held the reins in his left hand, and the inside of his upper
arm rested against the side of her—well, she knew his arm shouldn't be there,
but he was just making sure she was getting home safely, after all. The solid
length of his legs pressed along hers, and she could feel his muscles tighten
as he guided the horse.

His other hand was on his thigh; the back of his fingers rubbed
against her own thigh with the swaying gait of the horse. She was safely
supported from all directions, comfortable and protected. And since he was
behind her now, she didn't have to battle the temptation to keep her hands and
eyes off his bare chest.