As Carissa readied a spot close to the hearth, Ronan took the rocking chair and turned it around and sat with his back to her, waiting for a stinging comment from her.
“A wise move, Highlander,” she said with a hint of a laugh. “But don’t expect the same of me. I’ll take great pleasure in watching you.”
Damn, if she hadn’t backed him into another corner. He couldn’t very well go without washing. Just hearing the cloth scrub against her flesh had him itching to take a cloth to his own skin. And he fought to keep that thought in mind, trying to avoid any image of her nakedness from invading his senses.
He’d find a way to wash up without her sitting there staring at him.
She was petite like Hope.
Where had that thought come from? But now that it had popped into his head, he couldn’t get rid of it. Carissa was as petite as Hope. Thinking on it, he realized that their fingers were similar, long and slim. But their voices were not at all alike. Hope’s was soft, more like a whisper, where Carissa’s was bold and her tone direct.
He shut his eyes, the darkness bringing back memories of his time with Hope. He had never looked upon her, his eyes swollen shut and healing slow. But he felt as if he’d know her when he saw her, though he never had the chance. Now, thinking on it, he recalled how soft and wavy Hope’s hair was, and long. He had loved running his fingers through the thick, silky strands, the waves bouncing down along his arm and making his flesh tingle.
And then there were her lips, plump to the touch and taste, much like Carissa’s. The thought startled his eyes open. He didn’t like the comparisons he was making. The two women were not at all alike.
But there were similarities, and why had he only just noticed them?
Them. That was the key, there was more than one.
He shook his head. But there were also differences. One difference was their voices, another was…
He thought…this was nonsense. Complete nonsense.
Carissa and Hope were two different people. Hope was kind and caring. Carissa was coldhearted and selfish. But both were masks that could easily be worn.
Was he mad? Thinking the two women could be one?
Impossible!
His mind was playing tricks on him. Being stuck here with Carissa was causing crazy thoughts. He missed Hope, ached for her, and in his pain, his mind played tricks on him. Hope had been real, and she had loved him as he loved her. He would have never fallen in love with his enemy. Carissa would never have been able to hide her harsh nature. He would have known.
He closed his eyes again and rested his head back, recalling the stolen moments he had spent with Hope. He most loved the nights she would come to him and lie beside him, their fingers entwined—long, slim fingers.
“Damn,” he mumbled and sprang out of the rocker, almost upsetting it as he turned and, too late, realized his mistake.
She was stark naked, the firelight dancing off her damp skin. Wisps of her long, blond hair escaped the comb that tried to hold the chaotic waves, falling along her slim neck and framing her face. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire, or perhaps more from the passion he saw spark in her eyes. That she was exquisite was undeniable, that he was tempted to take her was undeniable, that he would…never.
He marched right past her, his hands fisted tightly at his sides to keep him from reaching out and snatching her into his arms. He clamped his mouth shut, for fear he would be too tempted to taste her nipples, which taunted him with their round, hard peaks. And he kept his eyes averted from the curvaceous lines that he was certain promised paradise on earth, or more likely endless damnation.
Instead, he swiped his cloak from the peg, and said. “You had best get dressed. It’s going to get mighty cold in here as I bring in stacks of firewood.”
He shut the door hard behind him and stood a moment, grateful for the sharp wind that bit at his face. He needed his ardor cooled, and he wouldn’t stop refurbishing the woodpile in the cottage until he was doused like a cold campfire.
Carissa hurried into a clean linen shift and donned a dark green, wool skirt and blouse. She dug out knitted black stockings from her bundle of clothes and pulled them on. She was sitting on a chair by the fire combing her hair when he entered.
He didn’t glance her way. He took the chopped wood over to the spot where the bed had once been and stacked the wood on top of the pile that was already there. Then he turned and marched out the door, again not casting a glance in her direction.
Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged her hair up on her head, forcing one comb to hold all the thick waves in place. She didn’t bother with the few that escaped, fearing if he returned, he would see her hands trembling.