Page 4 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
She gasped. “I’ve never seen hair quite that—”
“Red. Yes.” Color rose in his cheeks, but his eyes looked merry. “Now,” he linked his fingers and leaned down. “Step up. I’ll not need to touch more than the wee soles of your boots, though you may wish to steady a hand against my shoulder.”
She swiped at a bead of sweat on her lip. “Shall you put on your gloves?”
“Have you stepped in sh…manure?”
“Of course not.”
“Well then, my hands will clean up quicker than gloves.” He raised an eyebrow.
She eased in a breath. She must get back Papa’s case, and she must get to her destination. Both were important. Both were parts of the mystery that held the key to her future. And even if this man were to touch her improperly, what did it matter? No one would see.
What would Mama have done in her glory years?
His gaze caught her dithering and sent her blood higher.
“Well, and perhaps I can boost your maid instead.”
“My maid?”Mabel might well drop the box all the way into the brook just to have more of this man’s attention. “Right, then.” Nerves jangling, she lifted the skirt of her brown traveling gown and set a foot onto hands as firm as a granite stepping stone.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Put a hand to my shoulder and steady yourself.”
She flexed her knee, reached for him, and he propelled her high. Her other foot groped for his cupped hands, her fingers landed in handfuls of thick hair, and she wobbled against him.
“Steady, then,” he said, his voice muffled.
A gasp escaped her. He’d buried his face in her skirts at a level that sent damp heat washing through her.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
She wiggled and almost toppled.
A large hand clapped against her bottom. “Stop moving. I’ve got you.”
The words vibrated through her most private parts. Heat sparked in her everywhere, turning her brain to mush.
“I see it,” Mabel shouted. “Don’t drop her, sir. A bit to your right and she’s got it.”
He shifted a foot sideways, and Paulette gasped, cupping his ears.
They were big ears, on a big, thatch-haired head.
Her heart lurched, and she wobbled again.
“Hold on,” Mabel shouted. “A bit more t’other way.”
“Quiet, Mabel.Blast it, will youstop moving, sir?”
She bit back more oaths and caught her breath. The bank fell away to a tumble of leaves below, but just above her and a bit to the side, the wooden box nestled, looking secure.
It was not secure. She knew that. One slight nudge, one shift in her rescuer’s stance, one wobble on her part, and it would slide from her hands and she would lose her father forever.
He took a step and she swayed. His hand squeezed her bottom again.
Raw heat surged through her, and she shivered. “Stopmoving.” She gritted her teeth. “Andstopsqueezing me.”
“And you stop wobbling,” he grumbled.
