A Little Magic(63)

“Who does?” he murmured. “You’re cold.” And he’d done nothing to tend to her. He would see to her comfort, he decided, and then…He would simply see.

He scooped her off the couch, faintly irritated when she pushed a hand against his shoulder defensively.

“I’m sure I can walk.”

“I’m more sure I can. You need dry clothes,” he began as he carried her out of the room. “A warm brew and a hot fire.”

Oh, yes, she thought. It all sounded wonderful. Nearly as wonderful as being carried up a wide, sweeping staircase as if she weighed nothing.

But that was a romantic notion of the kind her mother lived on, the kind that had no place here. She kept that cautious hand pressed to a shoulder that felt like a sculpted curve of rock.

“Thank you for…” She trailed off. She’d turned her head just a fraction, and now her face was close to his, her eyes only inches from his eyes, her mouth a breath from his mouth. A sharp, unexpected thrill stabbed clean through her heart. The strike was followed by a hard jolt that was something like recognition.

“Do I know you?”

“Wouldn’t you have the answer to that?” He leaned in, just a little, breathed. “Your hair smells of rain.” Even as her eyes went wide, he skimmed his mouth from her jawline to her temple. “And your skin tastes of it.”

He’d learned to savor over the years. To sip even when he wished to gulp. Now he considered her mouth, imagined what flavors her lips would carry. He watched them tremble open.

Ah, yes.

He shifted her, drawing her ever so slightly closer. And she whimpered in pain.

He jerked back, looked down and saw the raw scrape just below her shoulder, and the tear in her sweater. “You’re injured. Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so before?”

Out of patience—not his strong suit in any case—he strode into the closest bedchamber, set her down on the side of the bed. In one brisk move he tugged the sweater over her head.

Shocked, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Don’t you touch me!”

“How can I tend your wounds if I don’t touch you?” His brows had lowered, drawn together. She was wearing a bra. He knew they were called that, as he’d seen them worn on the television and in the thin books that were called magazines.

But it was the first time he had witnessed an actual female form so attired.

He liked it very much.

But such delights would have to wait until he saw what condition the woman was in. He leaned over, unhooked her trousers.

“Stop it!” She shoved, tried to scramble back and was hauled not so gently into place.

“Don’t be foolish. I’ve no patience for female flights. If I was after ravishing you, t’would already be done.” Since she continued to struggle, he heaved a breath and looked up.

It was fear he saw—not foolishness but raw fear. A maiden, he thought. For God’s sake, Flynn, have a care.

“Kayleen.” He spoke quietly now, his voice as soothing as balm on a burn. “I won’t harm you. I only want to see where you’re hurt.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Certainly not.”

He seemed so insulted, she nearly laughed.

“I know of healing. Now be still. I ought to have gotten you out of your wet clothes before.” His eyes stayed on hers, seemed to grow brighter. And brighter still, until she could see nothing else. And she sighed. “Lie back now, there’s a lass.”

Mesmerized, she lay on the heaps of silk pillows and, docile as a child, let him undress her.

“Sweet Mary, you’ve legs that go to forever.” His distraction with them caused the simple spell to waver, and she stirred. “A man’s entitled to the view,” he muttered, then shook his head. “Look what you’ve done to yourself. Bruised and scraped one end to the other. Do you like pain, then?”

“No.” Her tongue felt thick. “Of course not.”

“Some do,” he murmured. He leaned over her again. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Look here. Stay.”

Her eyes drooped, half closed as she floated where he wanted, just above the aches. He wrapped her in the quilt, flicked his mind toward the hearth and set the fire roaring.

Then he left her to go to his workshop and gather his potions.



HE kept her in the light trance as he tended her. He wanted no maidenly fidgets when he touched her. God, it had been so long since he’d touched a woman, flesh against flesh.

In dreams he’d had her under him, her body eager. He’d laid his lips on her, and his mind had felt her give and arch, her rise, her fall. And so his body had hungered for her.