"Attacked. Set on fire. Small group snuck in." He didn't seem overly concerned. Perhaps it hadn't been as bad as she'd thought.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No. Minor burns, a little smoke. That's all."
Had he made the connection? It would be so obvious to anyone else: her presence, the way she was dressed, and the attack on the British. But his mind didn't seem to run along the lines of deception and plotting and intrigue. Perhaps he wasn't suspicious of her presence. She didn't want to say, or ask, anything that would cause him to think about it too carefully. Yet she had to know.
"Did they catch whoever did it?" she asked carefully.
He continued examining her ankle, his attention absorbed by her injury. Although she studied his expression, she couldn't detect even a flicker of surprise or suspicion.
"No. Too slow. Were long gone."
Relief, sweet and seductive, flooded through her. Although she knew it was far from over, for the moment she had to believe that everything was going to be all right after all. If there were problems later, she'd address them then. For now, she surrendered to the silky night and the gentleness of the hands caressing her ankle.
Still cradling her foot in his lap, he reached up and began to strip off his shirt.
"Oh my Lord, what are you doing?"
He'd evidently tumbled right out of bed when the alarm had been given in camp, for all he was wearing was a dark pair of breeches, boots, and a rough linen shirt hanging loosely around his hips. Nothing else. He mustn't even have had time to grab a cape. He had to be freezing, running around with so little covering. What she couldn't imagine was why he seemed to be planning to wear even less.
"Going to pack your ankle in snow," he said matter-of-factly. "Have to wrap it in something."
"Oh."
Her pain receded abruptly as her brain became occupied with much more interesting things. Had there ever been a man like him? Moonlight and shadow danced over all those lovely bumps and ridges of muscle; they swelled and flexed as he pressed snow around her ankle with surprising deftness.
She didn't have enough air. She gulped in a breath.
He must have heard her, for he lifted his head at the sound. "Hurt?"
"Uh, no, not much."
"Good." He wrapped his shirt tightly around the snow and tied it securely. "There."
"What are we going to do about him?" She gestured at the still figure of the young soldier.
Jon reached over and placed his fingers against the soldier's neck.
"He's fine. He'll be waking up soon." He'd be waking up, he'd stagger his way back to camp, he'd tell the captain about the woman he'd found, and the captain would question Beth. Lord, what a mess. If only he'd gotten there before the soldier had recognized her.
Well, there was little he could do about now. Perhaps later he could find a way around the problem.
"Can you get up?" he asked
"I can try."
He bent down, slipped his arm around her shoulders, and helped her to her feet. Balanced on one leg, she was unsteady and leaned against him for support.
"Put a little weight on it."
She tested it gingerly, and almost immediately it gave out beneath her. She would have gone down again if Jon hadn't caught her.
"I'm sorry. It's just not going to hold me. If I can lean on you, maybe I can hop back."
He scooped her up quickly, holding her against his chest, one arm beneath her knees, another around her back.
"Jon! What are you doing? I'm too heavy," she protested.
"Heavy?" he scoffed, bouncing her in his arms. "Thistledown."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm certainly not light. I'll hurt you."
He gazed down at her, his eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight. "Not heavy. Just a nice armful."
"You can't possibly carry me all the way back."
He ignored her objection. "Where's your horse?"
He really was going to carry her. It was unexpectedly nice, to be held securely against that broad, beautiful chest. Tentatively, she slipped one arm around his back; the flesh was smooth and resilient against her palm, the muscles bulging intriguingly as he shifted her in his arms.
"You're going to get cold without a shirt on."
The soft, seductive curve of her hip pressed against his belly; the gentle swell of the side of her breast rested against his chest. He could feel her hand stroking his back, gliding along his spine, and he wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. He certainly was.
"I think the soldier dropped my cloak at the beginning of the path," she continued. "We could go back and look for it."
"I'm plenty warm, Beth."
His voice was strained, almost harsh, and she frowned at him in concern.
"I am too heavy for you."
"We're going, Beth. Going to tell me where, or should I guess?"
She pointed to the far side of the clearing. "Through there. There's a path. My horse is a mile or so back that way."
"A mile?" He was supposed to carry her for a mile? Hold her that whole time, and not jiggle his arm down a bit and test the delectable curve of her backside? Not curl his wrist just a smidgen and find the tempting swell of her breast?
Cold. He needed cold.
"It's too far, Jon. Put me down now."
He didn't bother to answer, just took off across the clearing with big, long strides that ate up the distance and betrayed no hint that he was unduly burdened by the woman he carried.
How lovely, she thought. Her ankle still throbbed, but the ache was distant, unimportant. Her senses were filled with so many much more interesting things to concentrate on.
The rhythm of Jon's strides lulled her, like floating down a lazy river, lending a quality of unreality to the night. Occasional flashes of moonlight filtered through the branches, painting his face with odd, figured shadows. The only sounds were those of his steady, deep breathing and his footsteps crunching over the snow, and even that sound was so much softer than she would have thought it would be.
Her world narrowed down to him. She let her head fall against the curve of his shoulder; it nestled there so naturally. His skin was smooth and warm against her cheek, and she couldn't resist finding out if it would feel the same to her hand.
She placed her hand on his chest. His heart pounded against her palm, a vibration that thrummed through her hand and tingled up her arm. She wanted to explore, to find out if the rest of him felt as wonderful, as alive.
She could move her hand just a little, couldn't she? That wouldn't be entirely brazen. Just an inch or so.
She let her fingers creep a trifle to the side. She poked him a bit, just a little, so he wouldn't notice.
There was no give to his flesh at all. Just solid, hard, beautifully rounded muscle. He was so strong; his arms didn't betray the slightest tremor as he carried her along, and she was hardly a light little slip of a thing.
***
Lord, he was in trouble. He could smell her as she snuggled in his arms, that sweet drift of lavender melding with the crisp scent of cold and snow. Springtime in the dead of winter.
Her hand was resting on his chest. Those long, elegant fingers were spread out over his flesh, a fantasy he'd hardly dared have now coming true. Those fingers that were so quick and agile, then slow and seductive when she drew the music out of her instrument, and he wondered if they'd be just as nimble on him.
Her palm glided over his chest in tiny increments, agonizingly slow. Was he jiggling her as he walked, or was she doing it on purpose? He didn't know, and right at this minute he didn't much care. Just as long as it didn't stop.
Her fingers were barely an inch above his nipple now. What would it be like if she dropped her hand that last little space and touched him there? He felt his nipple pucker abruptly at the thought.
It was just an inch. That wasn't so much to ask, was it? He pondered ways to get her to move her hand that crucial inch. He could nudge her that way, somehow. Maybe with his chin
. No, that wouldn't work. His neck wasn't long enough.
With his hand? No good. He'd have to put her down, and he certainly wasn't going to do that. His own hands were better occupied where they were.
The ground dropped abruptly and he took a hard step down, jarring them both. Her hand slipped down an inch.
***
He stopped walking. His chest was going in and out like one of the bellows in Adam's smithy, and he was breathing like a horse that had been ridden too hard.
Poor man. She'd been floating along, having a nice, interesting ride, and here Jon's arms must be nearly ready to fall off.
"Put me down, Jon."
"Forget it," he said fiercely. "Which way?"
Bennie glanced around. He'd stopped where the trail split in two. A massive, barren oak tree stood proudly in front of them.
"The left one."
He strode off down the left path.
"You can stop pretending I'm not too heavy for you."
He glared at her. It was such an uncharacteristic expression for him she assumed it only proved the agony he must be in.
When he didn't answer her, she sighed and dropped her head back to its resting place.
"You can stop pretending you're not cold, either," she mumbled.
"What makes you think I'm cold?"
Darn. She hadn't really meant for him to hear her. Before she was able to stop herself, she glanced briefly at where her hand still rested against his chest.
His mouth quirked. "Doesn't just happen when you're cold, you know," he told her.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "No?" she squeaked.
"Happens when you're too hot, too."
"It does not."
He stopped and stared at her. His face was in shadow, but his eyes glittered brilliantly. "Guess you haven't ever been warm enough, then."
His breath misted in the night air, curling like smoke from between his lips, his breath drifting close to her, and she had the oddest urge to lean forward and breath it in herself.
"Is it much farther?" he asked.
"Ah, no. Just around the next bend."
She must have been mistaken, for as he set off again, she was almost sure she heard him mutter, "Damn."
Her horse was right where she'd said, tethered to a tree right around the next curve. He set her gently down, keeping one arm around her as she balanced unsteadily on her uninjured leg.
"Nice horse," he said, surveying the huge bay stallion nickering in welcome.
"Yes, Puffy's a good boy, aren't you," she crooned. The horse stamped and snorted in response.
"Puffy?"
"Puffy," she said defensively. "Anything wrong with that?"
"Puffy," he repeated, his voice laced with barely hidden laughter. "Yeah. Such a tiny, fluffy little pony."
"All right." She laughed. "When I got him, my brothers kept proposing names like Avenger and Demon. I rebelled a little."
"Just a little."
She rubbed the horse's nose companionably. "Well, Puff, let's see if you can get me home, huh?"
Jon grabbed her by the waist and tossed her up on the horse before she had time even to begin to worry about how she was going to mount. Jon tied the reins and handed them to her.
"Well..." She smiled down at him weakly. "I guess I'll be going, then." Her smile softened. "I don't really know how to thank you. What you did—"
"Move forward."
"What?"
"Too far back on the horse. Move forward."
"But I've always sat here." He frowned at her. "Oh, all right." After everything he'd done for her tonight, she could do this little thing. She scooted forward a bit.
He hopped easily up behind her.
"Jon!"
"Don't think I'll let you go home alone, do you? Late. Too dark."
"Jon, really, I can—"
He reached around her, plucked the reins from her fingers, and started the horse down the trail.
Really, sometimes he was the most annoying man. If he wanted to do something, he just went right ahead and did it, not acknowledging her protests—perfectly legitimate protests at that—at all.
Although she had to admit, everything he'd gone right ahead and done so far had been actually rather pleasant. She was suddenly glad that she, fearing her brothers would take off without her, hadn't taken the time to saddle her horse but had ridden bareback instead. This wouldn't have been nearly as comfortable otherwise.
He held the reins in his left hand, and the inside of his upper arm rested against the side of her—well, she knew his arm shouldn't be there, but he was just making sure she was getting home safely, after all. The solid length of his legs pressed along hers, and she could feel his muscles tighten as he guided the horse.
His other hand was on his thigh; the back of his fingers rubbed against her own thigh with the swaying gait of the horse. She was safely supported from all directions, comfortable and protected. And since he was behind her now, she didn't have to battle the temptation to keep her hands and eyes off his bare chest.
It was almost too bad they were only three miles from New Wexford. She wriggled, settling back more comfortably into her perch.
He groaned loudly, as if he were in intense pain. Perhaps he'd been hurt back in the chaos at the camp after all, and she hadn't even noticed. How insensitive of her.
"Are you all right, Jon?"
No! He clamped his molars together before the word escaped. Lord, this was getting worse all the time. After carrying her all that way, her body jiggling against him with every step, he'd figured riding behind her on a horse had to be easy.
He'd figured wrong. She nestled so easily between his thighs, fitting him as no other woman ever had. He was acutely aware that he now had a free hand, a hand that could so easily slip up, down, over, around—any of those places sounded mighty good to him.
"I'm fine," he ground out. Fine, as long as she didn't start wondering what the hard lump against her lower back was. "Just a little, um..." Stiff, his mind supplied. "Tired," he said quickly.
She yawned. "Me, too. It's been a long night."
He slipped his arm around her waist. He could do that. It was pretty safe.
"Comfortable?"
"Mm-hm."
He tightened his hold on her. "Go to sleep, Beth. I won't let you fall."
CHAPTER 11
"Beth?" he whispered, her soft curls stirring against his lips as he spoke. She'd been asleep for at least ten minutes. He'd immediately known when her body relaxed in his arms. The knowledge that she trusted him enough to keep her safe while she slept was curiously appealing. Now they'd reached their destination, and he was reluctant to disturb her.
They were in front of the Dancing Eel. The windows were shuttered and the place was quiet, as if all the occupants were peacefully sleeping—or were absent entirely. He would have been content to stay there with her, warming her with his body, letting her rest, but he knew he had to get back to the fort. In the madness that had reigned when he left, no one would notice his absence, but he didn't know how much longer that would be the case. It was equally necessary he get to Ben Walters, the young soldier he'd clocked on the head, before Ben's tale spread too far through the ranks.
He could count on Captain Livingston not to act precipitously. The captain wouldn't give orders based merely on a woolly-headed youngster's dubious identification of a woman he'd seen only briefly in the dark. Unfortunately, Jon wasn't quite as sure of some of his fellow soldiers. Those who'd been injured, discomfited, or downright insulted by the attack might find it necessary to investigate rather vigorously. Jon intended to dissuade them.
"Beth. It's time to get up now, Beth," he said more urgently.
"Mmm?" She arched sleepily, a sinuous stretch of muscle and limbs, like an elegant cat awakening from its afternoon nap. He ground his teeth together; the slow sway of her body against his with the rhythm of the horse had left him perilously close to the edge of his control. Now, her unconscious sensuality was near
ly more than he could take.
"We're home."
"Home?" Apparently suddenly aware of the way she was snuggled up against him and of his body pressed against hers, she straightened her spine abruptly, putting as much distance between them as their positions on the horse allowed.
"Oh. Well, then." She started to swing her leg forward over the neck of the horse.
"Stay there."
He slipped easily off the back of the horse and scooped her into his arms before she had a chance to protest.
"Really, Jon, I'm sure I can stumble my way into the tavern. It's only a few steps."
He tightened his arms around her. "Not going to start arguing this again, are you?"
"No, of course not. It's simply that I've asked far too much of you already tonight, and—"
"Didn't ask. Now quiet."
"But Jon—"
"Arguing," he said warningly.
She shut her mouth. She wasn't stupid. If the man was going to insist on carting her around some more, who was she to object? Especially when he did it so competently. Since this was as close to a romantic gesture as any man was ever likely to make to her, she might as well enjoy it fully.
If only the door was just a little bit farther away.
When he reached the Eel, Jon turned, set his upper back to the door, and gave a shove. The door gave easily, opening smoothly on its oiled leather hinges, and he stepped inside.
The tavern was illuminated by a single lantern. Four of her brothers were there, slumped around a table staring glumly into their tankards. Looking bedraggled, worn, and worried, they swung their heads toward the new arrivals.
"Bennie! Thank God, it's Bennie!" One of them— one of the younger ones, Jon thought, although they all rather looked the same—jumped to his feet, toppling his chair in the process.
"Calm down, Henry. I'm fine. I take it you all are safe, too?"
Henry dragged a hand through the loose curls of his hair, which looked startlingly blond against the blackness of his smudged face. "Well, of course we are. But you—it took you so long to get back! Where have you been?"
"Yes, Elizabeth. It might be rather interesting to hear, at that." The man's voice was laced with amusement. It was Brendan; this brother, slender and dark, Jon remembered, if only because he was so different than the other Joneses.
Law, Susan Kay Page 12