Page 7 of Kilty as Sin
She eyed the rope doubtfully. “Using his magnificent strength? What about my feet? I want to keep them.”
“And I have nae interest in listening to that bullshite about why ye saidow.” By the Virgin, she couldhearhis smile! “I’ll make sure ye’re no’ hurt, lass.”
There was something about the way he said it… Still gripping the rope, Grace tipped her head back to look up at the Hunter.
“Ye promise?”
He nodded. “I swear. Now”—his tone turned brisk, as the first big plops of rain began. “Wrap the rope around yer forearm and rock back and forth—nay, no’ like that.” He demonstrated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Slowly. Like this.”
Grace hated how helpless she felt, stuck here at a man’s mercy. But hewastrying to help, and the rain was beginning to come harder. So, she concentrated on shifting her weight slowly, until—
“Can ye feel water seeping in around yer feet?” he asked.
She nodded. “I think so. There seems to be more around my left foot.”
“Aright, then begin to wriggle yer right foot a bit, eh? We’re trying to create space around yer feet and legs.”
Now that he’d explained it, Grace understood. As she rocked, she bit her lip in concentration, wriggling her toes and making circles with her feet, trying to loosen the mud. “Weare, are we?” she muttered.
The Hunter didn’t respond but tipped his head slightly as if looking up at the raindrops.
“Fine, fine,” she muttered, rocking faster. “I think I’m loose—oooh!” She’d tried to pull out her right foot, but the movement had pressed her left foot deeper into the mud.
The man made a noise like a snort, then nodded. “Aright. That rope’s tight around yer forearm? Dinnae help at all, lass, ye understand? Just let Horse drag ye out.”
Before she could respond, he slapped the horse’s side, and the animal stepped backward. Grace’s shoulders wrenched in their sockets as the rope pulled.
“Relax!” the Hunter called.
When she allowed herself to go limp, she was surprised at the results. Aye, she fell face-forward into the muck, but the horse pulled her from the quagmire with relative ease. She felt her shoes slide from her feet, and there were tugs at her stockings, although she thought they remained on her feet.
Wet peat caked the front of her as she was dragged over the bog to firm land, but the rain had begun to pelt her back, as well, so it seemed to even out. She was miserable.
But she was free!
…until the Hunter reached out and grabbed her bound wrists.
Between one heartbeat and the next, she’d gone from being dragged prone across a peat bog to being lifted bodily and slammed against a chest almost as hard as armor. The collision knocked out what little breath she had left in her lungs and panic spiked.
But then he murmured, “I’ve got ye, lass,” and she realized that as hard as his chest was, he really was quite warm, which was helpful, what with how cold things had become.
Aye, the cold. That was why she was shivering, wasn’t it? Cold.
With firm, confident movements, the Hunter pulled the rope out of her hands, then cut through her bindings and stood, lifting her in his arms. Grace told herself she was light-headed from the lack of sustenance that day—and the cold, of course—and not because she was in danger of swooning.
Rain pelted the top of the man’s helm, causing an awful racket, as he strode toward the patiently waiting horse. “Let’s find some shelter, eh?” he murmured, intent on his task. “And get ye dry, now ye’re safe.”
Safe.
Was she?
Safe, with him?
Grace’s fingers rose of their own accord and found the jaw beneath the helmet. None of his skin showed, but her fingertips brushed against stubble. He’d frozen at her motion, and now she traced his jaw toward his mouth, and brushed her fingers across his lips.
Safe.
She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his expression, couldn’t see his eyes. But she could feel him.
