AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He came out of the cottage with his jacket pulled over his head. His long boots made easy work of the quagmire. By the time he reached her, she was on all fours, cowered by the storm. A beast of a man, she quickly deduced, he towered like a stallion over her, his shoulders twice her width. Without a word, he scooped her up as if she weighed nought, hung her over his shoulder, and picked up the saddlebag in his other hand.
On any other occasion, she would squawk in protest at his manhandling of her personage. Today, with her head dangling limply, she was too tired to cry out in alarm. Inside, he would have a nice wife who would feed her broth and wash her clothes. Then together, they would find Mary, and Dara would be on her way.
The door closed behind him. He carried her over to the fire and lay her down on the rug.
“Stay,” he said, as if to a dog. He possessed a deep voice.
She was too exhausted to move. She closed her eyes. There were noises she recognised—the stoking of the fire, the crackle of the blaze, then the hiss as the sap in the wood took the heat. He poured water into a vessel. It clanged as he placed it on or near the fire.
She might have fallen asleep. But abruptly, she jerked. He was touching her. Somehow, with her semi-conscious, he had removed her cloak and outer gown. She was floppy, like a ragdoll, and weak. She could not decide whether to resist him or not. She opened her eyes. He was bent over her, kneeling at her side. He had stripped off his own wet coat and taken off his boots. A bowl of water was next to him. He dipped the cloth into it and used it to wipe the grime from her face.
“Thank—”
“Hush,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take these sodden clothes off you and clean the filth that sticks. Tis farm muck and best removed quickly.” He peeled away her petticoats.
Astounded, too shocked to speak or protest at his unashamed handling of her body, she lay dormant. She let him undress her. No man had ever touched her so. She stared at him, her lower lip trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. What if he... was that how it happened, an acquiescence in the midst of kindness?
He had big hands. A square chin and sculptured cheekbones. Set above them, two dark eyes, long eyebrows that formed two rich crescents, and a mop of damp nutmeg hair. The shadow he cast over her was enormous, she was a waif beneath him, and stood little chance if she chose to resist him. He touched the laces of her bodice.
“It’ll have to come off. Nothing will dry on you. You’ve nothing to fear. I won’t harm you.” He pulled on the threads and the bodice quickly unravelled.
She was breathing rapidly, sucking in air as if the bodice was being tightened, not loosened. Underneath was her last layer of protection: a thin cotton chemise that went no lower than her knees. The bone-latticed bodice was discarded, joining her gown. She glanced down to her chest. Two pert nipples stuck up under the wet fabric, every one of her ribs was visible. Her hollowed stomach was a pool where the wetness had gathered.
Next, he turned his attention to her stockings.
“Sir,” she whispered, “have a care.”
“They’re torn.” Without warning, he ripped them off, snapping the silk threads. He reached up her thigh to the garters, to draw them down. She went stiff, completely rigid under his hands. With her arms and legs bare, she was close to nakedness.
He wrung out the cloth and stroked it down her calves, bathing away the mud that was drying on her skin. The water was warm, soothing. His touch was light and efficient. He cleansed her ankles and feet, lifting her legs to circle around them.
Her arms he handled gently. Tiny goose bumps rose behind the cloth. He dropped the cloth into the bowl and settled on his haunches, examining her. Satisfied she was clean, he rose, fetched a towel.
“Take off that sodden thing and dry yourself. I’ll make you some broth.” He left her side, and began to bang around inside a cupboard, fetching a bowl.
Dara rose onto her knees and examined the cottage. There was one room. One living space with a truckle bed wide enough for two positioned in one corner, a brick oven and fireplace along the back wall, a tall pine dresser displaying some rudimentary china pieces, and an oak sideboard. In the middle, a solid-looking table with four chairs, and a broad rocker and accompanying stool.
“Sir, where is your wife?” she asked. With his back to her, she swiftly undressed and wrapped the generous towelling around her midriff, hiding her breasts and hips from him.
“I have no wife.” He turned and placed a crockpot on the hearthstone, carefully stepping around her.
“No sisters?”
“None.”
“You’re alone.”
“Aye.”
She swallowed hard. “My horse bolted.”
“We’ll go look for it tomorrow.” He stirred the pot.
“Tomorrow,” Dara stuttered.
“I’m keeping you here. You can’t go out in that weather. You’ll drown before you’ve crossed the yard.” Above his head, the rain pounded on the thatch, but the room was dry and warm. “Will you be missed by anyone?”
She should say yes, but impulsively, she shook her head. “Nobody who cares. I ran off from a convent. The nuns hate me. They’ll be glad to see the back of me. I’m an orphan.” The lies came easily.
