Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

She caught it easily and loosened the drawstring.

“The clothes will be too big, but they will have to do.”

She slid one hand into the open sack and withdrew plain men’s clothes, brown leather breeches and long tunic, the colors of which weren’t visible in the night.

Hesitating, she lifted her curious eyes to his. “Why?”

“Your dress is like a beacon, white as the moon on a dark night!”

“But we outran the guards.”

“It matters not,” he said, eager to be off again. Being alone with her was dangerous. “Just be quick about it.”

Stubbornly, she shook her head. “I cannot!”

“Aye, you can and you will, m’lady,” he said, watching her lips purse in mulish denial. “Or I will do it myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare—” she said, and he took a menacing step forward.

But instead of skittering away, she stood her ground, and when he brought up a hand to untie the ribbons at her throat, she didn’t flinch.

“Do not touch me,” she whispered, but her breath was as ragged as the night, her pulse fluttering wildly below her ear.

His own heart beat a desperate, tremulous rhythm.

“Then undress yourself.”

Silently she defied him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered and instead of loosening the ribbons, he slit them through.

The fabric gaped and Megan’s hands fluttered nervously. “Leave me be.”

“Put on the men’s clothes.”

“I won’t be ordered about like some kitchen wench who—oh!” He cut the ties again, pieces of the ribbons floating to the ground, and the thick velvet fabric parted farther to expose the swell of her breasts, white in the slight moonglow, heaving in mute fury. Ah, they were beautiful, soft and round and large enough to fill his palm, but he didn’t let his eyes rest on their plump, unwitting invitation too long. Instead he lay the blade of his weapon between them to the next set of ribbons. “Shall I go on?” he asked, his voice but a rasp.

“Nay!” she whispered, and when his gaze reached hers again, he saw her rage, but there was more in her indignant stare, more than ire and mutiny. Unless he was mistaken, he recognized desire, hot and wanton, steal fleetingly across her face. “You’re a true bastard of the lowest order.”

“Aye, m’lady. Now, at last, we understand each other.”

Muttering under her breath, she snatched up his bag of clothes, stalked off to a nearby tree, and started to disappear behind its thick trunk.

“Come back here,” he ordered.

“But you asked me to change.”

“How am I to know you won’t run off?”

“To where?”

“I’ll not be spending the rest of the night chasing you down.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“I dare not take the chance.” Silently, he followed her until he could see her beneath the empty branches. She was working feverishly, quickly removing her mantle, surcoat, and tunic, stripping off the white velvet, standing in only her chemise. His gaze fastened on the cleft of her breasts, dark and dusky and deep, and his blood heated as she bent over to step into his breeches and pull them over long, supple legs. Tying the length of twine about her small waist, she was able to keep the breeches from falling to the ground, and then she struggled into his tunic, the shoulders far too wide, the sleeves and hem much too long.

“Better,” he said, and her head snapped up.