Though he needn’t hold her in his arms, she was grateful he had. Her shoes had become more of a hindrance than a help as they slid through puddles and mud.
Philip’s strong arms cradled her as he strode toward the cottage and kicked at the door by way of knocking. They waited for one sodden second, enduring the rain as long as anyone might. He set her down and looked at her as though seeking confirmation she was all right.
She nodded.
He disappeared around the cottage and reemerged moments later. “It’s vacant.” A quick test at the door proved it was unlocked.
Cecelia cried out in delight as Philip swept her into his arms once more and spirited her over the threshold. The storm’s assault ceased immediately once inside the solid cottage. Philip pushed the door shut, and the sudden silence replaced the deluge’s roar in Cecelia’s ears.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out a table near a cold hearth, as well as a broken hutch that leaned heavily to one side in the corner. While the items appeared in decent condition, it was evident from the overall emptiness that no one lived in this home any longer.
Philip immediately went to the hearth and withdrew several logs from a pile, which he stacked in the grate. He pulled something from near the wall, and a flicker of a spark glowed to life. The dry tinder caught swiftly, and within seconds, a fire was snapping and popping to life.
Its warmth was a welcome sensation when Cecelia’s skin had become so cold and wet. There was not a place on her that was dry, and the scratch on her leg pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
“Your skirt is torn.” Philip straightened and came to her. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
She shook her head. “It’s a scratch, nothing more.”
“It could be more.” He frowned. “I’ve seen terrible injuries that feel as though they’re little more than a scratch.”
“I…” She fingered the tear in her skirt. “I believe it is rather high on my leg.” Even as she said it, she could imagine him lifting her skirt to examine her leg.
Desire throbbed to life once more, no longer dampened by the rain.
His shirt had been soaked through, leaving it transparent in places and clinging to his torso, revealing those strong arms she had but glimpsed when he dressed as Demetrius.
A flash of lightning flickered outside, followed by a boom of thunder. Cecelia shivered.
“Come closer by the fire and let me see.” He led her over to the hearth. “I assure you, I’ve seen a woman’s thigh before. Including yours,” he added with a wink.
Cecelia’s mouth fell open, and he laughed. “When we were children,” he explained.
When he put it that way, it made Cecelia feel rather like a ninny, especially when they had kissed with such vigor in the forest prior to the storm.
She settled a hand on the ripped fabric and bunched it into her palm, so the skirt began to rise up her leg. Philip knelt at her side and looked up as she slowly revealed first her stockings, then the silk ribbon where she tied the basic white cotton stockings above her knee. Cecelia’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, her awareness sensitive to everything from his scent of cedar and leather to the way he watched her. And how it made lust smolder inside her.
Her skirt drifted higher, revealing the outside of her naked thigh. Her skin was wet with rainwater and shone in the firelight. There was indeed a scratch that ran from just above her knee to her upper thigh.
Philip dragged his stare from her eyes, down her body to her injury. Her heartbeat caught, and longing pulsed hot and enticing in her most intimate place.
She wanted him to touch her, to caress her bare skin with his firm, gentle hands, to cup her bottom as he did when they kissed…except with her wearing nothing.
Silence pressed in the cottage, as heavy with expectation as it was with restraint.
“See?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s but a scratch.”
“I’m afraid it might scar.” He ran a fingertip along the injury. A fire seemed to spark from the connection of his touch.
She gave a soft gasp.
His hand ran alongside the injury from bottom, slowly—ever so slowly—to top, stopping just near the apex of her thighs. The air seemed much too thin to breathe.
“It’s a pity when your legs are so very fine,” he muttered, his voice thick with something that made the pulse of yearning slam harder within her.
She wanted his fingers to curl around her thigh, to edge closer to the heat at her core that threatened to incinerate her.
“You’re shaking.” He removed his hand and looked up at her. “I haven’t frightened you, have I?”
