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Crying with relief, he jerked his cock free. He turned to run from the dryad, but his legs gave out and he collapsed on the ground, sprawling in the wet mud. The abandoned Coleman lantern still burned where he’d left it, casting its dim radiance in a small circle around it. In its light, Dermot could clearly see the sticky black mud for what it was—his blood mixed with the dirt of the forest floor.
He looked up, just in time to see the dryad fleeing back into her tree. The woman who had saved him hung the glowing blue crystal from one of the branches, then turned to face him.
“Help me,” Dermot croaked. Then the last of his strength deserted him, and he sprawled face down in the bloody mud.
Chapter Two
Eileen pushed back the hood of her cloak and surveyed the scene. She’d managed to intervene before the dryad had killed the man, but it had been a close thing. He was sprawled face down in the mud made from his own blood, his shirt slashed to tatters, and his otherwise fine looking ass scored with bloody welts. He’d tried to fight at the end, rather than being completely under the dryad’s spell. Eileen hoped he’d continue to be a fighter, because he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
She gazed at the pool of bloody mud and shook her head. “Fertile ground, indeed. Come springtime, we’ll see how many new dryads your foolishness has seeded.”
She picked up his discarded pants, then bent to pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and staggered upright. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders to help support him, she led him to her cottage.
“It’s a good thing for you I found you when I did. Dryads plant their seedl
ings in mud formed from the decayed leaves of their tree and the blood of their human mate. It’s the rare man who survives the encounter.”
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “That was never mentioned in the legends.”
“It wouldn’t be, now, would it?”
They reached her cottage, a traditional square stone building with a thatched roof. The only obvious concession to the twenty-first century was the satellite dish attached to the chimney.
She pushed open the door and led the man through the living room and kitchen, and into the small bathroom.
“Into the shower with you,” she ordered. “That mud’s got to come off so I can clean your cuts.”
She slid his arm from around her shoulder and stepped back, so he could remove the remains of his shirt. It was the first time she’d gotten a good look at his face.
Even with mud caked in his wavy dark hair and smeared across his classically proportioned face, he was handsome. And vaguely familiar. She didn’t know any Americans, which his accent clearly proclaimed him to be. Even if he hadn’t spoken, who but an American would be wandering around the woods in designer slacks and dress shoes?
There’d been some sort of posh wedding held at one of the nearby estates. Helicopters and limousines had been ferrying guests from Gatwick and Shannon for two days. He must be one of the rich and famous wedding guests. That was why he looked familiar. She’d probably seen his picture in the news.
He winced as his tattered shirt ripped free of the blood congealed on his body, then kicked off his muddy shoes and socks and stepped into the shower. Eileen turned the shower massage to a warm mist, and opened the taps.
Dirt and blood washed down his back, pooling around his feet. With the filth rinsed away, she could finally see the extent of his injuries. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Vicious welts crisscrossed his back and sides, but it looked as if his shirt had protected him from the worst of the dryad’s attack. His ass was red and starting to swell, covered in welts and shallow cuts, but only three or four of them seemed at all deep. Some antiseptic and bandages would take care of those. It would burn like hell, but maybe that would teach him not to go sticking his cock into places where it didn’t belong.
While the gentle mist of water dissolved the last of the mud and blood sticking to his back, she distracted herself from the sight of his naked body glistening beneath the steaming water by shaking out her cloak and carefully hanging it over one of the pegs on the wall. It was smeared with mud where his arm had rested across her shoulders, and where his side had pressed against her. The sight reminded her of the strength she’d felt in his lean muscles, even though they’d trembled with exhaustion. Strength enough to sire a dozen dryad saplings.
“Turn around,” she snapped. “You’ll be needing to rinse all the blood off before I start fixing you.”
Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, he slowly pivoted to face the spray. Muddy blood coursed down his chest in thick streams, dividing to flow down either side of his swollen erection, encased in drying amber.
Eileen’s eyes widened, as she realized what this meant. She’d freed him from the dryad’s embrace before he’d come. The good news was, there would be no young dryads sprouting in the spring. The bad news was, if the dryad’s sap hardened around him, he’d be dead well before spring.
She needed to sit him down and clean off the sap, but where could he sit with his ass torn to ribbons? The hard wooden chairs in the kitchen were out of the question. The ergonomic chair in her study was designed for long hours in front of a keyboard, but would make cleaning his cock extremely awkward. Then she remembered the boudoir chair in her bedroom, the normally useless piece of furniture good only for collecting laundry. The soft round seat, high cushioned back, and lack of arms made it perfect for what she needed to do.
She picked up a washcloth and swiped it over him, washing away the last of his grime, then turned off the shower. As he stepped onto the braided rag rug, she handed him a towel.
“Follow me.”
She led him into her bedroom next door, and sat him on the boudoir chair. He collapsed onto the cushioned pouf of rose-patterned chintz and stared dully ahead, the towel grasped limply in one hand.
Leaving him there, Eileen gathered a fresh washcloth and an enameled basin filled with warm water. He was sitting exactly as she’d left him when she returned.
“Spread your legs,” she ordered. “I have to clean your cock. The dryad’s sap is stuck to it.”
He looked down with mild interest. “Is that why it didn’t shrink?”
