He looked down. They were cut, bloodied, briars still embedded.
Without thought he dropped down on one knee. “Look what you’ve done, you daft little—”
Her knee shot up to his chin, snapping his jaw shut. He fell forward to both his knees, and saw from the corner of his eye her skirt swinging toward his face. Strange, the material was hard as rock as it crushed into his temple.
“Christ, witch!” By the time his eyes focused again, she’d abandoned the rock hidden in her skirt, run to the horse, and was in the saddle, trying to calm its rearing. Court loped forward, fell for the reins, and snatched them just as the horse was tensing to run. She had known she needed a horse.
He grabbed her by the waist, dragging her down in a froth of silk, petticoats, and flailing arms and legs. After he caught his breath and the world righted itself, he growled, “Ye wanted a bath?”
Her eyes grew wide. While she thrashed, he stalked to the closest pool, then dumped her into the frigid water. She sputtered, rose, and slipped back in repeatedly, soaking herself.
“You’ll pay for this, MacCarrick!” She scraped her thick hair from her face. “Sleep with your eyes open, you bast—”
He plucked her out of the water to swing her over his shoulder. He walked like this, leading the horse, water flooding down on him from her skirts, as she screamed and writhed the entire way back to the lodge.
After he gave the reins to a perplexed Liam, Court adjusted her on his shoulder and ignored her blows to his back. Gavin, sitting back in a chair, smoking his pipe, nodded his approval. “Really the only way to travel with that lass.”
In her room he set her down, more gently on her feet than she deserved. She didn’t wince or cry out. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled up one foot behind her at a time as he would a horse. A single small cut on her foot. She must’ve smeared the blood around to make it look worse. What a calculating—
She sucked in a breath between her teeth. She’d begun shivering, her teeth chattering.
“Get out of the dress,” he ordered as he set her away. When she didn’t move he said, “Be changed by the time I come back,” and slammed out of the room. Five minutes later, he barged in to find her shivering more forcefully, lips pale, yet still in that wet dress. “Damn it, lass, I’ll strip you down if you will no’ take it off yourself.”
At that she reached forward to pummel his shoulder. “C-Can’t! You ignorant brute!”
He whirled her around. The ties in the back were tight and intricate. She’d been stuck in this thing. With a frustrated growl, he set to work, but gained no headway. The laces were swollen from the water, and his hands were fumbling, clumsy against her slim back.
“Stay here,” he barked, then stomped outside to his saddle bag for his hunting knife. When he returned with it, her eyes went wide, though she had to know what his intentions were. Was she truly afraid of him? Was the sight of him with a knife—albeit a very large knife—so frightening? When he again turned her, she resisted. “Stay still.” She didn’t. “If you doona I may end up cutting you.” More struggling. “What is it?” he bellowed.
“I-I don’t want you to s-see.”
In the midst of all this, she now chose to be the prim little lady again. Where was that lady when she kneed his chin? “You’re no’ in a position to get what you want. You forfeited any say you had when your rock met my temple. Understand?”
“I-I can manage!”
In a low, menacing voice beside her ear, he said, “In five seconds, I’m taking this thing off even if I have to put you face down on the cot, your wrists in my hand and my knee on your arse.”
She went perfectly still but for her shaking. Carefully, he rent the dress. It sagged, but she caught it up to her front. Another cut and her petticoats plunked heavily to the floor. “Step out of them.”
She shook her head.
“You prefer on the bed, Annalía?”
She stepped out of the material. He peeled the sodden dress from her, leaving her in her corset, pantalettes, and shift.
All of which were wet, two to the point of transparency.
It was as though she’d hit him again. Her body was slight but strong, and she was rounded, perfectly rounded, in all the right places. Her nipples were hard and pink, pressing against the clinging fabric. His mouth watered thinking of how he longed to lick them, now when they were wet, and he scrubbed a hand over his mouth as he took a step toward her.
She crossed her arms over her chest, hands on opposite shoulders in an X, and cried, “Not again!”
Her expression was one of complete disgust. His desire for her brought out disgust, yet she was ready to bed Pascal. Had chosen Pascal over him. He hid his anger and gave her a bored look. “I’m a man—you’re a woman I want to tup. Get used to it.”