Page 45 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
Davina gathered the remnants of her roll of bandages and fastened the lid on the tinctures and creams. Replacing them in her basket, she was about to head back to the infirmary when Everard emerged from the house. A little imp inside her was disappointed to see he had regained his shirt.
His bow and the leather quiver containing his arrows were slung over his shoulder, and he was sheathing his broadsword in the leather strap on his shoulder.
“I wished tae thank ye, lass.” He took the basket, his hand folding over hers as he did so.
Something like a bolt of lightning shot through her as their hands met, causing her breath to hitch in her throat.
“Would ye permit me tae walk ye back tae the infirmary?”
Almost lost for words, she shook her head. “I… dinnae wish tae keep ye from yer archery.” She glanced at the bow slung casually over his shoulder. “’Tis a fine hunting bow ye carry.”
“Aye it is.” He grinned at her and raised a curious brow. “And how daes a gentle lass such as yerself ken one bow from another?”
“I once had me own bow and arrows.” Her heart leaped, a sliver of memory swimming in her mind. “Mayhap I learned as a child. I cannae remember. But when I was at the Priory I would sometimes hunt small prey fer the cooking pot. Rabbits, hares, squirrels.” She gave a soft laugh. “I pride meself on having a good eye fer a target.”
He gestured toward the target on its stand at the end of the grassy butt some distance away. “Would ye enjoy some target practice this morning? I would fair enjoy a challenge tae me skill since young Ulric is abed and cannae compete.”
“Ye’re joking, me laird?”
“Nay. I’m well serious. Ye could test yer skill against mine in a contest. If ye win best of five, I’ll give ye a wee pouch of coins tae spend at the next fair in the village.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. What a joy it would be to make her own purchases at the fair. Why, there was a comb she’d longed for, a scarf, a pair of dainty carved-bone earbobs They could be hers if she won this wager.
“I’ll agree tae yer contest, me laird.” She flung him a look full of mischief. “But what will be yer reward if ye happen tae win at this game?”
He hesitated for a moment, scratching his head thoughtfully. “Ah lass. I could ask ye tae make me a potion that would make me handsome.”
She shook her head at that, looking up at him through her long, dark lashes. “Nonsense, me laird. Ye’ve nae need fer such a potion. Ye’re handsome already.” She felt a surge of heat to her cheeks.I am flirting with him.
He hesitated a moment and she caught the light in his eyes.
“So, what d’ye desire should ye win?”
Everard was almost in a daze.
Observing the way the lass had attended the giant so tenderly, watching her elegant, slim, hands stroking Ulric’s leg as she felt around the swelling, her fingers splaying over his ankle, and then slipping so delicately along his foot and around his toes, had aroused him in a way he’d never before believed possible. It had started a most god-awful throbbing in his groin, and it was the devil of a job to divert his thoughts to poor Ulric’s pain in order to keep at bay the threatening hardness of his manhood.
Of course, it was unseemly of him to contemplate those sensuous hands of hers onhisbody, slowly strokinghisleg, gently probing higher, and even taking his shaft and sliding…
He coughed.
She was close enough to catch her delicate rose scent. If only he could throw his arms around her, and kiss her with all the hunger that was building inside him.
She would be horrified if she had even the slightest inkling of me wicked conjuring.
He managed, at last, to disentangle himself from his rampaging thoughts and return to the game at hand. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “Well lass, if ye think me handsome enough that I’ve nae need fer one of yer potions, mayhap I could steal a wee kiss from ye, instead.”
Now, not only was she was quite certain this was flirting, she reveled in it. It set the blood rushing in her veins and her heart hammering a fierce beat against her ribcage.
She tossed her head and a wealth of auburn curls spun at her neck. “Well, if that is all ye wish as the winner of our contest, I cannae refuse it.”
“A contest it is, then.” Laughing, he placed her basket on the rock, unhitched his broadsword and took the bow and quiver from his shoulder.
He brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead. The blue of his eyes had deepened as he met her gaze.
“Daes this contest have rules, me laird?” Her palms were suddenly damp, and her mind was racing. What kind of madness was this, accepting the MacNeil’s challenge?By God’s bones, he must surely be the best archer in all the islands. And he’ll take his prize.
A kiss.
