He wore naught but a nightshirt—and bandages—and she only her night rail. Annista found that—well, oddly titillating.
She regarded him steadily and with inquiry until he said, “I canna get comfortable. I keep thinking I should be out there, searching.”
“Aye, so.” Annista understood. The same impulse prodded her. “We ha’ men on watch. And ye need to heal.”
“At first light, I will go out on Chieftain once more.”
She did not try to argue the absurdity of that, asking only, “And should ye encounter him?”
Alan shrugged uneasily and grimaced.
“Ha’ ye taken the draught the physician left?”
He shook his head.
“I will mix it for ye.”
“Nay—” he began, but she ignored him. Moving swiftly, before he could protest further, she rose from the bed and scurried around to his side where the cup, powder, and ale had been left.
Only the fire lit the chamber, and she did not pause to think how she must appear, flitting against its radiance, until she caught him eyeing her. Then she wondered if her thin night rail might not be transparent, the light shining through it.
If so, why did she not feel more self-conscious about it? What had become of her modesty?
Swallowed, perhaps, in events. She had no time for it. Besides—
Part of her liked how he was looking at her while pretending he was not, his glance almost as intimate as a touch. So much so that when she’d mixed the draught she perched on his edge of the bed, nearly atop him.
“Here. Drink it down.”
“I do no’ wish for something that will mak’ me drowsy. At first light—”
“Aye, I ken. ’Tis no’ first light yet. Foolish man,” she glared into his eyes, “will ye no’ ease the pain?”
Before he could object, she tipped the cup to his lips. This brought them into closer contact, her breast pressed to his shoulder.
He drank. Winced at the taste.
“Foul, is it?”
The rascal—he had his gaze fastened on her bosom where the loosened ties permitted a glimpse of what lay beneath.
Impulse prompted what she did next—impulse and perhaps devilry. When he’d lowered the cup she quite simply pressed her lips to his.
Tasting.Tasting.
“Aye,” she said then, running the tip of her tongue over her own lips. “It is bitter.”
But he was not. Beneath the sharp piquancy of the draught lay a deeper and far more seductive flavor.
His gaze met hers—his eyes, smoky gray shaded by fringed black lashes—wide. Then his arms were around her, and he drew her to him.
“Annista,” he groaned.
The remainder of the draught spilled. It splashed over the coverlet unheeded as Annista reached for him with both hands, even as she tried to spare his wound.
He seemed to care naught for it, because he drew her closer and closer. Crushed her breasts against that very wound. And he was kissing her, kissing—
As if naught existed in the world besides his lips on hers. As if naught mattered save the two of them meeting, meeting body to body and spirit to spirit. As if this had been meant ever since Annista drew her first breath.
