A Highland Werewolf Wedding - By Terry Spear Page 0,13
in it.
That image quickly brought unbidden desires to the forefront. A woman wrapped in a man’s plaid meant she was his. With any other woman, he would have considered such a move as protection, chivalry. With Elaine? Mine.
“He hit me in the cheek,” she finally said, drawing him back to the current crisis. “At least he missed my eye. The place where he punched me is sore and will probably be bruised and swollen, but you know how we are. It’ll fade in a couple of days.”
Aye, much sooner than a human’s bruises. Yet her injury wouldn’t fade soon enough for him. “For your information, I didn’t need protecting. Why did you get in the way? He could have killed you.”
She snorted and he got the impression she thought he’d needed her protection.
He almost gave her a dark laugh, but shook his head instead and unlocked the car doors. She jumped into the passenger’s side and slammed the door. As soon as he removed his sword and was sitting in the driver’s seat, she said, “I’m freezing. Are you sure you don’t have a cell phone on you?” She glanced at his sporran, the medieval-era pouch still worn with kilts today, necessary since kilts had no pockets. Because of the formal occasion, he’d worn the one with the silver cantle decorated in Celtic symbols and horsehair tassels.
After pulling his door shut, he wiped the water from his face with his hand and turned the heater on high, though the air was cold initially and she shivered at the new assault.
He frowned at her. “No. I left my cell in the car. It would have been easier to get to it if I had an emergency.” Then he raised his brows. “When a vehicle nearly hit mine, and I had to make a quick detour, and I was running so late to the wedding, I forgot it.”
Feeling the anger concerning Vardon return in full force, with the burning need to settle the score still plaguing him, Cearnach gripped the steering wheel in his fists. “Turn your head so I can get a good look at your face.”
Dismissing his concern, she shook her head slightly. “It’s okay. We heal fast. Think nothing of it.”
“You can’t tell me you would have turned the other cheek so he could strike you there also.” His words were as cross as he was feeling. Striking Elaine went beyond what any civilized wolf should have done. It wasn’t the Middle Ages any longer. Bastard.
“No,” she said, giving him an annoyed look. “Of course I wouldn’t have turned the other cheek. But I know he didn’t mean to hit me, and I’m certain he regretted it.”
She couldn’t know Gaelic or what Vardon had called her. Maybe that would have changed her mind. As stubborn as she was, she wouldn’t turn her head so he could see where Vardon had struck her. Yes, they healed quickly, but her face would be swollen and bruised for a couple of days before it got better.
Her gaze still connected with his, she sighed. “Okay, though I probably shouldn’t tell you this. I…” She took another deep breath and stiffened a bit, yet her gaze didn’t waver from his and she said all in a rush, “I would have seized his dagger and threatened him with it if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
He paused, not expecting her to say such a thing. Then he smiled. “You, lass, are a woman after my own heart.”
She relaxed again and he wondered if she thought he wouldn’t like a woman who was willing to fight to protect herself. She would be wrong. Yet given the situation, he wanted to be the one defending her when he was there, not her shielding him.
He reached over and touched her uninjured cold, wet cheek. “Let me see.” He gently cupped her chin and moved her head so he could observe the damage. The skin was red from the punch, swollen, and already beginning to discolor into sickly greens and purples and yellows. He growled low. “I should never have let this happen.”
“You couldn’t have stopped me.” Her mouth was curved in the most devilish of smiles and her eyes sparkled.
She seemed to be of sturdy stock, like a bonny lass born and bred in the Highlands, but with the additional heart of a warrior she-wolf, alpha to the max. But he still wanted to do something, anything, to make the insult and the hurt go away.