lass.”
With a bat of her hand, her eyes flashed open as she startled. Angus’ breath caught. Either those deep pools of emerald green were as mesmerizing as a silkie’s spell or he was teetering at the edge of his endurance. Though he was weary and his shoulder throbbed, truth be told, those intoxicating greens caught him off guard. Thick chestnut lashes made them ever so intense, though they filled with ire and stared at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Do not touch me!”
It was nary a wonder the woman was confused. After all, she’d been through a harrowing ordeal. Angus snapped his hand away and raked his fingers through his mop of dripping hair. “Och, with all due respect, miss, ye’ve been in my arms whilst we battled a tempest from hell. Ye cannot possibly think I would lift a finger to harm ye.”
Scooting away, she clutched her hand atop the ties at the front of her kirtle. “Nay!”
“Just strip down to your shift, lass. I promise to avert my eyes.” He placed his palm over her fingers. “What is your name?”
A resounding chatter of teeth was her only reply. While the spark in her expression told him she wanted to fight, he had no difficulty pulling her fingers away and untying the laces of her kirtle. As he worked, she closed her eyes, her tremorous shivers resuming.
“There’s a good lass,” Angus said, trying not to look, but unable to avert his gaze from magnificence.
Her linen shift clung to ideal feminine proportions. Ample breasts tipped by taut rosebuds swelled beneath, leading to a slim waist and full, voluptuous hips. Even her thighs were sculpted like a Greek goddess’. At their apex nestled a dark triangle that stirred his blood far more than it ought.
“We shall have ye warm and dry in no time,” he croaked, unable to mask the longing in his voice. With the Bruce occupying his keep, Angus hadn’t enjoyed the pleasure of a woman for months.
Though he was no stranger to the temptation of the fairer sex, Angus had never—and would never—taken advantage of an unwilling lass. He’d given his word and he’d stand by it. “This will set ye to rights.” He continued to ease her troubles, pulling her onto his lap.
But as he tried to wrap the tapestry around them, she pushed away. “Nay!”
“Bless it,” he growled, clutching his arms around her like a vise. “I’m trying to save ye from dying of exposure. I swear on my father’s grave, your virtue is safe, lass. Just stop fighting me.”
With his words, the woman collapsed against him, allowing him to finish. Together with the heat from their bodies, trapped by the thick woven cloth, in moments it already felt warmer. Angus stretched his feet closer to the brazier and sighed while the fire set to thawing his toes. In no time, the stowaway’s breathing became deep, indicating she’d dropped into the sanctity of sleep.
Raghnall returned with his arms full of rushes. “I’ll just spread these…” He stopped and gaped, giving a licentious waggle of his eyebrows. “The pair of ye look mighty cozy, m’lord.”
“Wheesht. Mark me, the lass would sooner dirk me in the back than allow me to revive her with my warmth. I’ve seen it in her eyes.”
The man-at-arms kicked the rushes to spread them out. “Then ye’d best sleep with one of your eyes open, m’lord.”
Aware her shoulder was driving into stone, Anya stirred. The goo in her arid mouth tasted like salt. She ached everywhere, yet she was absolutely ravenous.
She wriggled out from the wraps of a heavy cloth and sat up, expecting to see Angus Og MacDonald or his henchman standing over her with a dagger in his fist. After they’d plunged into the sea, she’d prepared to meet her end, losing consciousness and only regaining it once or twice since the big Highlander had pulled her ashore.
Surely, he was nowhere near as shockingly handsome as she’d first imagined. After all, she’d been frightened half to death. Without a doubt, Fairhair was the barbarian he was reputed to be. Though on the ship when he’d pulled the tarpaulin away and she’d tried to kill him, barbarian was the absolute last word that had come to mind.
One day, God might strike her dead for letting the vile Lord of Islay help her. If only she’d had the strength to fight, but in her hour of need, her body had failed her. It was a miracle she was still alive.
Anya glanced