Page 41 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Well then,” her voice turned sweet as honey laced with poison. “Take off yer shirt.”
The entire group of recruits went dead silent. Ian blinked at her as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“What did ye just say?”
Rhona folded her arms across her chest, enjoying the way his eyes widened slightly. “If ye willnae let these lads volunteer, then ye can have the honor of being our demonstrative patient.”
Och, dear… did I just order the Laird of Clan Wallace tae remove his clothes?
The thought should have terrified her, but instead, she felt an oddly exhilarating rush by his shocked expression.
For a moment, Ian simply stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Then, to her complete surprise, his lips twitched just slightly upwards in amusement.
“Ye’re serious.”
“Serious as death’s door. The lads need tae learn how tae bind wounds on different parts of the body – arms, ribs, stomach. That cannae be demonstrated properly through a shirt.” She gestured toward his broad chest with clinical authority. “So either strip, or stop allow me tae continue with me lesson.”
The recruits watched this exchange with the fascination of spectators at a Highland games, their heads turning back and forth between their laird and the fierce woman who just dared challenge him in front of his own men.
Ian’s eyes met hers across the circle, and Rhona saw a glimmer of something in his expression – a recognition perhaps of her clever maneuvering
“Ye’re enjoyin’ this,” he said quietly, beginning to unlace his shirt.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” Rhona replied innocently, though her pulse quickened as he pulled the linen over his head and tossed it aside.
Bleedin’ blazes…
The sight of Ian’s naked torso hit her with the physical force of a battering ram to the chest, driving the air from her lungs and turning her knees to water. She’d seen men without shirts before – working in fields, training in courtyards – but none ofthemhad looked like they’d been forged by the gods, like a weapon meant for both war and worship.
His torso bore the marks of a warrior – lean strength, and battle-tested resilience, marked by scattered pale lines of old battle scars that only enhanced his dangerous appeal. Celtic ink marked his left arm – symbols of heritage an honor set in intricate patterns that spoke of clan pride and warrior’s tradition, while a delicious tuft of dark hair traced patterns across his pectorals before disappearing beneath the waistband of his kilt, and when he moved, every muscle shifted with predatory grace.
Focus, ye daft woman!
Her mouth had gone as dry as Highland dust.
“Right then,” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite the chaos churning within her. “The first thing ye need tae learn is how tae bind a wound on the upper arm.”
She reached for her supply of clean linen strips, acutely aware of Ian’s proximity as he settled onto the wooden stool she’d indicated to. The morning sun glistened off his skin like molten gold, highlighting the definition in his shoulders and the way his biceps flexed as he adjusted his position.
This was a terrible idea.Absolutely the worst decision ye’ve ever had in yer entire life, Rhona!
The thought screeched and reverberated through her mind as she approached with the bandages, but she couldn’t stop herself from moving closer to him. This was madness – pure, unadulterated madness that would surely be her undoing.
Heaven help me, I cannae look away.
The traitorous admission whispered through her defenses like smoke through cracks in stone. She’d spent weeks trying to convince herself that whatever this feeling was, whatever she felt for Ian Wallace was nothing more than displaced gratitude, a prisoner’s desperate attempt to find kindness in her captor. But standing here, watching the morning light dance across his skin like molten gold, she could no longer deny the truth that had been steadily building in her chest like a gathering lightning storm.
Her body wanted him. Not just his protection or his consideration, buthim, the man who’d taught nervous boys swordsmanship, who’d spent countless hours guarding her welfare, who looked at her as if she was more precious than useful. The realization should have terrified her. Instead, it only made her more determined to maintain what little distance remained between them.
“Now, when bindin’ an arm wound,” she began, her voice slightly breathless despite her best efforts, “ye want tae start below the injury and work yer way up. Like this.”
When her fingers made contact, she felt him go very still, as if her touch had turned him to stone.
What was happening, she wondered, her pulse quickening with uncertainty. Was he feeling what she was? She shook her head, pushing the dangerous thought away andplaced her hands on Ian’s left arm, just above his elbow, immediately regretting every life decision that had brough her to that particular moment. His skin was fiery beneath her palms, smooth over the taut muscle, and she could feel his pulse beating steady and strong.
“The key is tae maintain pressure without cuttin’ off blood flow tae the area,” she continued, wrapping the linen around his arm with practiced precision. “Too tight, and ye’ll cause more damage. Too loose, and the bleedin’ willnae stop.”
Her fingers brushed against his skin with each pass of the bandage, and she found herself painfully aware of the way his breathing had grown slowly uneven. The recruits watchedintently, but Rhona focused entirely on the man beneath her hands, on the warmth radiating from his body, and the faint scent of leather and pine that always seemed to radiate from his skin.
