Page 15 of Recurve Ridge

“Mari Merripen.”

He raised an eyebrow, the arched sort that featured in a double-page magazine spread.

And now I knew his name.

A sense of power flushed me from head to toe, as though he’d divulged his deepest secret. Maybe I banged my head in my mad dash through the woods, or perhaps he’d given me a sedative that scrambled my thoughts. I clung to the threads of false evidence that I hadn’t yet broken and tried to convince myself life would return to normal. Not a single word of my mantra rang true.

I dropped my gaze to his chest, imagining the hard ridges of muscle that had pressed against me with every step through the forest. The hard ridges my palms had been molded against, and now I wanted to see if I imagined it right, the phantom caress of his bare skin against mine.

So freaking broken.

The thought of him naked sent a shiver rampaging violently over my skin. I clutched at my elbows to hold it in, but there was no chance that he didn’t notice me gawking at him like a lovelorn teen deprived of contact with another living person.

What the hell was wrong with me? I’d been assaulted, I lay naked in a strange—albeit beautiful—man’s bed, and now I wanted to screw everything in sight?

Broken, broken, fucking broken.

His lips formed my name, though no sound came with it. “Did your parents hate you? I’ve heard the English can be like that.” Rolling off his tongue in a smooth glaze of honey and whiskey, his musing brought me back.

I spluttered at him, my mouth hanging half open. “No! I mean, well….” A smile tilted the corners of my lips, then, to my horror, formed into a grin. “Maybe a little.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He coughed, the corners of his mouth twitching around his raised fist. “I thought you might prefer to wake up clean, feeling fresh. If I’ve made a mistake, then I am sorry.” His dark gaze held me captive as he trailed one calloused finger down my cheek.

One part of my screwy brain wanted to know what else that finger could do.

The other part declared outright that this man never made a mistake. An exact dose of confidence coated every aspect of his being, just like another man I knew but refused to give brain-space to, now or ever again. Refocusing on Robe, I studied the hard angle of his jawline exposed through the edges of his beard, the way he tilted his head down, watching me with a mixture of concern and amusement. His attitude spoke of a man kind enough to remain shy of the line that would transform him into a royal asshole. I hoped.

God complex much?

While I obsessed over a man I didn’t know, maybe I could adddelusionalto my growing list of pathologies to declare before a cute doctor handed me a nice white jacket and led me into a cozy padded cell.

I wiggled again, and he leaned closer. Air evacuated from the small space between us. Even beneath the blankets that pinned me, my skin rippled with the anticipation of his touch, craved it.

That didn’t help at all.

“No, you made no mistake in cleaning me. I feel….” I inhaled a breath of him that went straight to my head.Leather, coffee, pine, and forest spice.He might have washed me, but he clearly hadn’t taken the same liberty for himself in any recent capacity, or maybe the woodsy essence just clung to him. A flush ran through me at the thought of him beneath the covers with me—or with no covers at all. “I feel smooth and clean. Thank you. Did you use lotion? Did you shave me?” My brow dipped at the suggestion, and I knew I should be horrified.

I added another line to my mentalbrokenlist.

“Arnica. For the bruises. My sister sends baskets of feminine goodies in the hope I’ll convince someone to share my reclusive existence. It hasn’t worked yet.” Robe shrugged. “My en suite is yours alone, whenever you need it. I’ll share with the boys. Use the products. Be comfortable.” He hesitated, then stroked one fingertip over my cheek as I watched him with widened eyes but didn’t shy away. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I’ll get you some clothes.”

Overstepped what? I didn’t have boundaries anymore. The ones that once existed had become twisted, maimed things that were better off bulldozed than trying to repair the gaping holes left behind.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

My voice thickened with emotion that he… thatanyonecould care after what happened. The thought overwhelmed me, choking the tender skin of my swollen throat. Another emotion flushed through my body, and this time it had no connection to his proximity.

Shame.

His gaze shifted from the fathomless void I’d become accustomed to seeing to resemble a normal man’s gaze rather than that of a mountain god. Staring at Robe Huntingdon was like looking into the sun after contemplating a black hole—both terrifying and enlightening.

“Well, Mari Merripen, stay and have coffee with me. The bar is that way. You have nothing to fear here, from me or from anyone in my house. Rest. Recover.” He offered me a lopsided grin. “And when you’re ready, come out and meet the rest of my household.”

A refined accent clung to his words, as though he belonged to another time. Robe’s cultured speech threw me. For a man who lived in the literal sticks, his education clearly far outweighed my Catholic school days. It would be as easy to imagine him as an NYC suit as to think he came from old money and had been afforded a full education, despite the contrary evidence of his choice of living situation staring me in the face.

Paired with his neat beard, relaxed but confident demeanor, and the fact that he appeared tocareabout the woman he rescued despite the way she had been ripping up his trees, I watched the rabbit hole open beneath my feet and prepared to dive in headfirst.

I am in so much trouble.

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