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“Mere luck,” he countered, halting a few feet from her.
The crumpled tartan, the windblown hair, the irked scowl did nothing to alleviate the impact he never failed to have on her. Her heart skittered, her skin prickled, and her lips tingled with the too intense memory of that wretched kiss.
Her hands flew to her waist. “Wrong answer,” she defied. “I am a skilled rider.”
“In a strange country.” He did not give in to her argument.
Her chin lifted that half-inch telling of her defiance. “Not so strange now, is it?” A good argument as she had been there for weeks.
The afternoon sun glared on them. The heat had made her take off the riding habit’s coat to allow the warmth on her bared arms. They stood their ground in that battle of wills too full of undercurrents.
He measured her from her hatless, bun-coiled hair, down her coat-less riding habit to her boots. The bright cinnamon attention scalded every inch of her.
“Are you following the doctor’s recommendations?” His sudden change of subject had her eyes snapping on his.
Her mind reeled to get back on track with that onslaught of male energy tumbling down on her like a bucket of boiling tea. “Certainly.”
“How do you go about it?” he asked an octave lower.
Dark eyes widened on his, a furious tide of blush rising to her cheeks. “You mean for me to say—” She wished her high colour was due to embarrassment or even indignation, but it was something
far baser, hotter. Unconfessed.
“Everything,” he clarified, looking down at her with a focus so intense it kept her enthralled.
Her lungs gulped rarefied air while her tongue darted out to moisten lips that had not been parched before he arrived.
Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. She breathed once more and tried anew. “I-I turn my back to the mirror.” she started hesitantly, her insides morphing into molten sensation.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Oh, yes, the mirror,” he rumbled, as if the piece of furniture held an inscrutable secret she could not fathom.
“I lift my-my—” If only this stammering was shame. She could not even use it as an excuse.
His stare became so fixed on hers that it felt almost hypnotic. “Your what?” he demanded.
“Chemise!” she was able to blurt out despite all the air clogged in her throat.
“You undress down to your chemise?” Silky and rough.
“And, well…and the unmentionables.”
At this, his stubble-lined jaw ticked frantically, his breath coming ragged. “So?”
“I take a portion of the salve, twist to the mirror.” She paused again because the effort to suppress her arousal took every inch of her rational process.
“After you have lowered your…unmentionables, I gather,” he added.
“Yes.” It came out as a breath and she had to moisten her lips again. “Next, I spread it over the…bruise.”
A strong, square hand raised to scatter the pins from her hair. It fell in glossy ebony waves down to her waist. His fiery inspection took in the length of it, absorbing the view as if he stood before a work of art.
“Do you fantasise about me doing it for you?” If he was going to allow her to torture him with the highest refinements of agony, she might as well do it completely, Fingal thought, not caring he was at the combustion point.
Her wide gaze came to his, magnificent hair all around her. “No.” And the dark orbs shuttered.
He breathed a disbelieving chuckle. “Liar.”
Her expressive eyes blinked several times before going back to his. “I am not.”
