Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

Still bent in a crouch, he shifted on his feet and rummaged through one of his packs. Honed muscles rippled as he moved. Swiveling back, he held a long length of rolled linen bandages.

She extended her hand for them.

He did not give them over.

“Sooth, sir, I can manage.” He still didn’t move. “If you will but give them to me.” She gave her hand a little shake, indicating she wanted the linens now.

“My lady, I have bandaged more limbs and wounds than you have heard spoken of in conversation. Allow me.”

It sounded like an offer, but it was clearly an order, and he expected to be obeyed.

She scowled. “Are we to argue about bandages now?”

“If you insist.”

Their eyes met.

“Well then,” she said mildly. She told herself it was wisdom that made her acquiesce. Care, self-preservation, the recognition that pitched battle would not only be futile, it would be dangerous.

But it was neither care nor clear sight, and it was certes not wisdom that told her to do as he bid.

It was the way he was looking at her. The way his hand felt when he’d touched her. The way her body had responded.

The hope that it would happen again.

And the knowledge that if she refused, he would never try to touch her again.

She had no reason to think such a thing of this man who had already done all manner of imprudent, improper, and ill-advised things, up to and including kidnapping her. No reason to think anything honorable existed inside him at all.

But then, she did not think it. She knew it, to the marrow of her bones.

If she refused, he would never touch her again.

My last chance.

She was in league with an outlaw now. And he wished to tend her ankle.

Propriety be damned.

She extended her foot and he curled his hand under the heel.

Her body, as if it had been waiting for this touch its whole life, blossomed like a fiery flower of desire. Petals of want cascaded down her chest and belly, cold and hot and shivery.

He pulled the cool, damp linen around the back of her ankle. Her head tipped back on a rush of air.

“This is bad,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have run.”

“You said you were bound by nothing. I had no choice.”

“I also said you were in no danger from me.”

“I did not know I could trust the word of a brigand.”

Their eyes met. “I do not break my word,” he said, sounding so sure.

But all men did. It was their way.

“I am ransom, rogue,” she said softly. “My entire life has been ransom. I know its taste well. You are fed and fattened and fashioned just so. Then you are sacrificed.”