Authors: Baring It All

Megan Frampton (6 page)

She fell into Alasdair’s arms.

It was not an elegant rescue, the kind where the noble prince gathers the humble milkmaid gently in his arms and consecrates the moment with a kiss. Her elbow landed smartly on his head, his arm muscles stretched and protested under her weight, and for a moment he was convinced they were both going to end up in a heap on the sawdust-strewn wood floor.

He staggered, sliding her down his body until her feet touched the floor and she was able to stand on her own. He reached up to rub the sore spot on his head, and then clasped her by the arm to keep her from falling over. “Are you all right?”

She shook his hand off and nodded, but he wasn’t sure she had really heard the question. He needed to get her out of here before she emerged from her stupor.

Before she realized what had happened to her.

And then what the hell was he going to do?

“Come along,” he said. He could hear his own rough tone, the voice he’d used with green recruits. He was lucky he was staying in the inn upstairs—she had clearly been drugged, and was unsteady on her feet.

They mounted the small wooden staircase in silence, Alasdair holding her upright as she shuffled along. He dug into his pocket for the room key, and then held her close to his body as he opened the door.

He held the door open for her, then slammed it behind them and gestured toward the narrow bed. “Sit down there.”

The covers were in disarray from where he’d thrashed about in the throes of one of his nightmares, but of course she didn’t notice. She sat where he’d indicated, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Some of his men had worn that same look in battle. He sat down beside her, unutterably weary. So much for his glorious plans of oblivion.

He could tell when she began to emerge from whatever it was that had possessed her—her eyes, the stormy dark blue of an angry sea, began to focus. Her pupils narrowed. Her entire body began to tremble.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She was shaking so hard it jarred him, and he put his other arm across her chest to gather him to her. Then he began to lie down, still holding her, wrapped up in his body.

“Shh,” he said, wishing that she had someone else to take care of her. The bed was narrow, barely big enough for his large frame, much less another person. He tried to make himself as small as possible—not easy, considering his size—while also trying to keep himself as distant from her as he could.

He had no idea how to calm her. He could hear her teeth chattering, even though her body was warm next to his. He tried not to think about how warm she was, in fact, nor how soft her skin was, nor how her bottom was tucked into his groin.

He was not doing a very good job of not thinking, he knew. But at least he wasn’t
acting
on his thoughts.

He could do nothing but lie there next to her, holding her as she began to thrash in earnest. He instinctively flung his leg over hers, holding her down, and clasped her even tighter in his arms.

She felt so good there. So right. Though he knew it was wrong to imagine it, he thought of her turning to him, offering him her mouth, allowing him to caress her breasts, her stomach, allowing him to pleasure her.

And he would find solace in burying himself inside her, her warm sheath offering a welcome respite from his pain.

He slid his hand down her arm—so soft, her skin. Her hair tickled his nose. It was redolent of some sort of floral, but of course he didn’t know what.

And her body lay against his, the warmth and softness and utter femininity of her causing his senses to whirl.

And still he did nothing but murmur and try to soothe her.

Eventually, the shaking eased, and she lay still in his arms.

“Did I do … was there …?” She spoke in a quiet voice.

“No,” he said. “Nothing happened.” He took his leg off hers, and she turned her head, regarding him with a steady, serious gaze. Not timid, then, despite what she was going through. Frightened, of course, he could see that in her eyes, but not terrified or weak. He could bet she hadn’t gotten herself into this situation—it had been forced on her. He felt a grudging sense of admiration for her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mary.” Her voice was already stronger.

“Well, Mary, welcome to hell.”

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