Page 117 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Swamped by an unholy elation, she ineffectually chipped at the edge of the boulder, hoping to dislodge it,unable to cognate well enough to translate the words being hurled at her in rapid French.
Jean-Yves seized her, pulling her aside just in time before the boulder gave way and rolled down the mound of smaller stones, bringing a great deal of the blockage with it.
She called his name once more, this time it escaped as a pathetic moan.
Frantic, aware of how humiliatingly agitated she was, Alexandra yanked and pulled at rock and debris, aware that someone worked just as frenetically on the other side.
More so.
Her husband.
His voice reached her. Spouting commands at first. And then his tone gentled with a concerned intonation. And still, she couldn’t process the words. Not exactly. All she knew was that she had to get to him.
Finally, it was as though the rock wall between them disintegrated into dust, the smaller stones clattering down the mound as it gave way beneath their collective need.
They clawed only at each other then, driving their bodies together with a wild fusion. As though making certain no barrier of any kind could come between them again.
Alexandra was vaguely aware of a hearty applause. Of voices and cheers and more chaos.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She heard nothing but the strong, sure beat of his heart beneath her ear. She felt nothing but the molten heat of his skin poured over swells and mounds of steely muscle as he cocooned her in his strength. She didn’t breathe air anymore, but she filled her lungs with his scent, took it deep within herself until he overwhelmed every sense she could think of but for taste.
And that could come when they were alone.
She would kiss him. And, dammit, he would kiss her back.
“Alexandra.” She heard his voice both from his lips and from deep in the chest beneath her ear. It calmed her. Soothed the uncharacteristically feverish hysterics threatening to overwhelm her logic. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands down her arms, and up her back, searching for injury. “Sweet Christ. I couldn’t tell if you’d climbed the stairs in time. I feared you didn’t make it out.”
“I thoughtyou’dbeen crushed.” Her voice sounded small and plaintive against the wide planes of his chest.
Gentle hands pried them apart. Jean-Yves and another worker guided Redmayne to a rock upon which he could sit and catch his breath. Alexandra trailed after them, anxiously taking in every detail.
He was a mountain of dust and mud. It caked in the thick layers of his hair and even his beard, settling into the shallow grooves of his scars and the slight lines branching from his eyes.
In all her vast and exotic experiences, he had to be the most beautiful sight she’d ever witnessed.
He took the water someone offered and swished the dust from his mouth, spitting it onto the earth before taking another swig.
Alexandra hovered, drinking in the sight of him just as deeply until she noted one of the dirt-caked stains on his thigh was darker than the others caused by sweat.
She dropped to her knees beside him, reaching for the torn part of his trousers. “Oh, blast, you’re injured!”
He shrugged. “A rock landed on my leg, but it’s of no consequence.” He brushed a palm over her shoulder and down her elbow. “Did you sustain any injuries? Your hands, they’re raw—”
“Someone fetch me some water,” she ordered. “I’ll clean the cut and assess—”
“That’s not necessary, darling.” The patina of dirtcaused his piercing eyes to appear otherworldly as they glimmered down at her, containing both censure, and something softer. “It smarts like the devil, but it’s not serious. What I want to know is why you put yourself in harm’s way trying to dig me—”
“But you’re bleeding!” she interrupted. Nothing else mattered at the moment.
“Hardly.” He waved a hand over the wound, declaring it inconsequential.
Alexandra wouldn’t allow herself to be appeased. There was too much dirt caked around the tear in his trousers to tell if the wound was deep or not.
“Let me see,” she insisted.
“You’re not a medical doctor,” he reminded her mildly.
“It might need to be stitched.” She peeled back one side of the torn material. “I’ve stitched a wound bef—”
