Page 9 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 3
Pushing her way into the tent, she set the basket by the door.
Captain Fraser leaned forward on the desk, head resting on folded arms. Asleep. She breathed out in relief and paused. He was a beautiful man, she thought—tall and wide-shouldered, with a rangy leonine strength. His profile had a strong and classic grace, like an old Roman sculpture she had seen of an ancient athlete. Thick hair, sun-streaked brown, curled over his brow. The elegant curve of his nose sloped toward the surprisingly tender shape of his mouth.
His eyes opened, an intense flash of dark sapphire blue. “Ugh,” was all he said, and sat up like a groggy drunkard. Regret swirled through her again for dealing him this repercussion. He did not deserve it.
The man sat up, batting out an arm and accidentally sweeping papers, inkpot, the china cup off the small desk. He stood, stumbled, and the folding chair tipped and fell.
Bending, Kate grabbed the cup and a few pages, crumpling them in her hand, stuffing them in her pocket. She had given Fraser enough of the infusion to take him down for hours—he was weak, but still alert. She had to move fast. As she straightened, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.
She pushed at his chest, and her plaid slipped down, no longer hooding her head. The white cap pinned over her hair slid with it, exposing her face and red-gold hair.
“My God,” he said, slurred. “I have seen you somewhere before.”
“No,” she whispered. “Let go!” She wriggled, speaking English without thinking.
“Blast it, I am dizzy...what the devil did you put in the tea?” With an iron grip, he drew her so close that she craned her head to look up at him. “Too sweet, it was, with a hint of bitter. What have you done?”
“It will not harm you, though you will sleep some. Lie down, sir.” She pushed him toward the cot. He was unstable on his feet and nearly fell. She steadied him.
“You spoke Gaelic, but now—damn, I feel befuddled.” He teetered, buckled.
”Let me help you.” Kate fitted her shoulder under his arm to support him.
Leaning on her, he looked down. “Where have I seen you before?“
“You are dreaming. I am not here. Sit. Sleep.”
He collapsed to the mattress, feet dragging to the floor, and kept hold of her so that she tumbled down with him. His arms felt good around her. She wiggled away and got to her feet, struggling to lift his legs to the bed. He was tall and muscular, outweighed her, and was no easy task to move.
He lay sprawled on the cot, rucked plaid revealing the knotted muscles of one thigh. The red coat fell open, brass buttons gleaming. She pulled a blanket over him and stepped back, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her so that she fell into his arms.
“Oof,” she said, pushing up.
“Stay,” he murmured, sweeping his fingers through her hair, which was falling loose of its pins. Rose-gold strands spilled free in the lantern light. “Fairy gold.”
“No—please—” She shoved at him.
He resisted easily, despite his weakened state, wrapping her hair like a skein around his hand to pull her close. “You are the one,” he murmured. “The fairy queen.”
She caught her breath. Even if he realized who she was, he could not know her ancestry. The herbs had addled his brain. That was all. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I saw you in London,” he said, pulling her close. “We called you the fairy queen.”
“No matter. You will not remember this in the morning.”
“Fairy queen, I have caught you.” He pulled her close by her hair, his other hand cupping. “And now I’ll keep you.”
He kissed her, his lips warm and tender. Kate felt herself beginning to dissolve under that lusciousness. The sort of kiss to dream about—and she must escape it.
He might know her. She could not stay. But his fingers slid along her jaw to cradle and tilt her head and his mouth claimed hers again, deep and stirring. Heart pounding, she surrendered utterly. Just for a moment, she thought. Just that.
Never had she been kissed like this. Never. Its power swept through her, took her breath. Sinking into his arms, she savored this kiss and the next, then another, each more delicious, more gentle and tender and compelling than the last. She touched his cheek, the whiskery growth of a day or two like sand under her fingertips. Gliding her hand upward, she sank her fingers into his hair, thick and soft. His lips moved over hers, warm and vital and divine.
She opened her mouth a little, a plea for more. But he paused, then dropped his head back to the mattress and closed his eyes. She stilled, felt him succumb to sleep.
Leave,she told herself. Let him dream and then wake to wonder what had happened. She leaned toward him once more, longing, as if she were the one bespelled. He stirred and pulled her into his embrace, rolling to his side with her, kissing her again.
