LITMIR.BIZ

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have to do. He spread it over her and tucked the bottom edge under her feet. There. She’d be fine in no time. He paced the earthen floor, occasionally glancing at her still form.

      “Ah, Christ.” He ripped the plaid away again and took a deep breath. It had to be done—and he had to do it. If he didn’t, she might die. Fine. It wasn’t as if he’d never handled a naked woman before. He’d handled plenty—more than he cared to remember.

      So why did he hesitate?

      He swore under his breath and picked at the tie that gathered her shift about her shoulders. ’Twas impossible with one hand. With no small effort he flexed the fingers of his burned hand and attacked the tie again. There, he’d done it. Now to get the bloody thing off her.

      He lifted her with his good arm and tugged at the shift. His injured fingers screamed, but he gritted his teeth and continued. He managed to bare her to the waist, then laid her gently back upon the furs.

      “Good God.”

      She was beautiful.

      Gilchrist swallowed hard and let his gaze rove over her. For the barest moment he watched her pink-tipped breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.

      Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the hideous juxtaposition of his fire-scarred hand against her milky flesh. ’Twas revolting. Thank God she was unconscious.

      He pushed the roil of emotions from his mind and finished the job. In a matter of minutes he had her wrapped in the dry plaid and hung her shift to dry on a tree root that breached the craggy wall of the cave.

      As an afterthought he lifted her head and shoved a rolled-up fur under her neck for support. When he drew his hand away he saw the blood.

      “What’s this?” He ran his fingers gingerly over her scalp until he found the spot, swelled big as a wren’s egg. She’d hit her head. He dabbed at the spot. The bleeding was slight, naught to fear. But the injury itself…

      There was no telling when she would wake—if she woke at all.

      Something smelled good—delectable, in fact.

      She was hungry. Nay, she was starving. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Someone had forgotten to shade the window. She squinted and rolled toward the brilliant morning sunlight.

      Then she saw him.

      God’s blood! She shot from the crude pallet of furs into a crouch, her heart hammering, her head throbbing. The plaid that covered her slipped to the ground. She felt gooseflesh rise on her naked skin. Quickly, she snatched up the garment and wrapped it around herself, then skidded backward away from the entrance to the—why, ’twas a cave!

      What on earth had happened?

      She flattened herself against the uneven rock wall and scanned the interior, eyes darting over every shadow. She was alone, except for the hare roasting on a spit over the small fire—that’s what had smelled so good—and except for…

      Him.

      She crouched lower and crept forward, stopping just short of the blinding sunshine that lit the cave’s irregular entrance. She caught a whiff of something else here—horse, though she did not see one.

      Once her eyes adjusted to the intensity of the light, she could see the man clearly. He was big, well made—and had not a stitch on! Under normal circumstances she would have averted her eyes. But the circumstances, from what she could tell, were far from normal.

      He was bathing, in what appeared to be a good-size spring. ’Twas a pretty place, alive with greenery and shoots of new heather and—What was she thinking? She was in danger. She must get away. She must get to—to where?

      Her head pounded and a brief bout of dizziness threatened to knock her off her feet. She pushed back against the cool wall and took a few deep breaths. There, ’twas better now.

      Splashing sounds drew her attention back to the spring. The man was pulling himself up onto the bank, but ever so slowly. He turned, awkwardly, in an attempt to seat himself on the bed of new grass that graced the water’s edge.

      Then she saw what her barely focused eyes had missed the first time—he’d been burned, and badly. Mother of God. She let her gaze trace the angry red path the flames had blazed across his body.

      ’Twas only on the one side, the right, that he’d been hurt, from upper thigh, across the hip and up the length of his torso. His face had been spared, but his arm and hand had seen the worst of it.

      She watched him as he slowly unfurled his fingers, flexed them, then made a crude fist. He did this several times, grimacing against the pain she knew must be unbearable. ’Twas a miracle he lived at all, really. Someone had healed him—someone highly skilled.

      He braced himself with his good hand, then leaned back a little and tilted his face to the sun, eyes closed. She crept forward a few steps more to study him closer.

      He was handsome, almost strikingly so. His face was clean-shaven; for some reason that seemed odd to her. ’Twas strong, angular, and framed by a mass of long, fair hair. She narrowed her eyes and—aye, she was right. He had thin braids, one at each temple. Never had she seen them on a man.

      She let her gaze roam over the well-muscled expanse of his chest. ’Twas lightly furred with darker hair that tapered lower. Her cheeks grew hot and her pulse quickened as she took in the rest of him.

      God’s blood, what am I doing? I’ve got to get away—

      He opened his eyes.

      She gasped and flattened herself against the wall of the cave. Too late—he’d seen her. Oh God, what now?

      He sprang to his feet and grabbed the pile of garments lying next to him. She must flee—now! But where were her clothes? There wasn’t time to find them. She pulled the plaid tighter around herself and shot from the cave. In two strides he cut her off. She whirled in the other direction then stopped short. Before her rose a sheer rock wall, impossible to scale.

      She was trapped.

      Eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps, she backed into the sanctuary of the cave, pulling the plaid tighter around her body. She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t! She must find a weapon, something with which to defend herself.

      She turned and ran toward the fur-covered pallet and the small fire that blazed near it. She kicked up the bed-covers and rummaged through a pile of food and cooking gear—nothing! Something moved behind her. She whirled.

      There he was, clothed now in a dark hunting plaid, coarse shirt and boots. A dirk was belted at his waist and she could see the hilt of his sword peeking up over his shoulder. He looked every bit a warrior. His expression was hard, unreadable, and whatever he intended she couldn’t fathom from the cool blue eyes that now studied her.

      He took a step toward her and her eyes widened. He read her fear. She could see it in his face, in the way he tilted his head and arched a brow. Another step, then another.

      She scanned her immediate surroundings, looking for something, anything—there! She crouched and with the back of her hand sent the spitted hare flying from its position over the coals. She seized a brand from the fire—one that glowed red-hot at its tip—and rose to meet her assailant. She brandished it before her, her gaze locked on his.

      He stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked from her to the brand and narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”

      She frowned. His voice—Something was not right. She backed up a step, and he took another toward her.

      “Woman, I said put it down.” His face was rigid, his jaw set, yet tiny clues belied his confidence. She watched the lump in his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard. A fine sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.

      The brand. Why, he was afraid of it! The realization sparked her courage. She lurched forward and thrust the fiery end of her weapon at him. ’Twas a mistake. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.

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