Page 66 of Laird of Flint
Then she made the mistake of glancing down at his face.
Lord, he was handsome. As handsome as the Devil.
A subtle furrow creased his brow. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids. A quick intake of breath parted his lips. He was stirring in his sleep.
And now she’d given herself a fright, endowing him with the traits of a wild Northman.
How long was it until matins? How long before she should give him another cup of wine? Should she rouse him when the time came? Or would he wake up, screaming in pain?
She gulped.
The physician had laced his wine with opium. What if he was not himself when he awoke? What if hewasthe berserker she imagined? What if he thought she meant to harm him? What if he tried to harm her?
Should she give him four drops? Five? More?
In the next moment, his brow eased. His breath calmed. His eyes went still.
She exhaled in relief. Then she realized she’d let her imagination get the best of her. Sir Hew was not a villain. He was an ordinary man. He’d shown her nothing but courtesy. Decency. Generosity.
With a self-mocking sigh, she gazed down at his peaceful face, framed by a shining golden mane.
His hair looked soft. She liked the way it curled around his ears and caressed his neck. She wondered, while he was safely asleep, if she might…
With a tentative hand, she reached out and lifted one lock from his throat. She rubbed it gently between her fingers. Itwassoft. Velvety. Silky. Like the fur of a kitten. Or the down of a duck. Or—
Before she could finish the thought, her wrist was seized in his iron grip.
She squeaked in surprise and then dragged in a loud gasp. But she couldn’t wrench free.
His eyes were half open. His brows collided. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Drink,” he croaked.
Then, his strength spent, he released her. His arm dropped back down to the bed.
“Och. Aye.”
The distant bells for matins rang out then.
“’Tis time for more wine anyway,” she told him.
She poured the Bordeaux and stirred in exactly three drops from the vial. Then she sat beside him on the bed to help him drink it down. As she lifted his head, she noted again the soft texture of his hair, at odds with the hardened muscle of his body.
But she wouldn’t think about that. Especially since he would shortly have it tonsured. Nor would she think about the way his mouth opened eagerly to receive the drink. The way his brow creased in concentration. And the way his lids lifted drowsily, revealing smoky, glittering eyes that pierced her very soul.
He finished off the wine. By the time she returned the bottle of Bordeaux to the table and added more peat to the fire, he was snoring beneath the thick fog of slumber.
It was a soothing sound. When at last she climbed between the linens of her own pallet, the rough, measured music of his breath lulled her to a dreamless sleep.
Hew awoke in the dark to the soft sawing sighs of a woman. He smiled. One of his favorite joys was rousing after a tryst to the peaceful sounds of his satisfied lover. He was too drowsy at the moment to recall who the lovely lady was or what they’d done. But he’d doubtless made her happy.
It was only when he rolled onto his side, brushing his arm against the linens, that pain brought him fully alert. He grimaced as his hand throbbed and memory came flooding back.
He’d been burned. The Samhain bonfire had ignited Carenza’s leine, and he’d extinguished the flames with his arms.
The recollection magnified the sting of his flesh. Heat emanated from his arms. His blistered palm pulsed like boiling lead with every beat of his heart.
He clamped his teeth against the pain as he recalled more.
