Nipple? Spilling his seed?
That dream had been far more dangerous than she’d imagined. Now her own thoughts were betraying her, mocking her.
She didn’t want to ride him, nor feel his body join with hers. She didn’t even like him!
…right?
Groaning again, she did her best to salvage the pastry dough.
“What’s wrong, lass?’
She whirled about and had to swallow yet another groan.
It was Brodie.
Of course it was Brodie!
He spent every day in her kitchens tormenting her. And after that thoroughly embarrassing kiss, when she’d thrown herself at him, desperate for his touch, he was invading her dreams.
And now he was bothering her in the middle of the night.
She scowled. “What are ye doing awake?”
Without seeming to notice her irritation, he hobbled closer, his crutch shoved under one arm. “This is the third morning I’ve heard ye wake far earlier than usual, and pass my door on yer way here.” He nodded around the dim, cavernous room as he stepped much too close to her. “But this is the first time I’ve heard ye groan in what sounded much like misery.”
Meaning…what exactly? She gaped at him. Was he saying, the last two mornings, he’d followed her and just…watched her?
Oh, Blessed St. Jennifer, she hadn’t done anything too embarrassing such as pick her nose or scratch her arse, had she?
“I woke ye?” she blurted, standing there with flour up to her wrists, trying to drown out the terrible thought of having embarrassed herself in front of him.
But he shook his head. “I’m a light sleeper after my years with the Hunters. After so long, lying in that sickroom, I ken the normal noises and what is out of place.”
He’d said it so casually, but it reminded her he was a warrior and was trained to use his body in ways she could only imagine.
Imagine…
Unbidden, her gaze swept over him, trying not to appreciate what she was seeing.
Trying…and failing.
Brodie McClure was a big man, wide at the shoulders, with forearms as impressive as Craig the blacksmith’s. But despite Wynda’s measurements, Fen knew the muscles weren’t what made Brodie attractive. Nay. It was his…dangerousness.
He was a wild animal, one which was wounded now, caged, and angry as hell.
She could see it in the way he held himself and in the way he gripped his crutch. In the light from the candles and the hearth she’d stoked back to life, she could see the tenseness in the corded muscles of his neck and how his jaw worked silently.
His eyes were dark, even in full daylight—like when she’d kissed him—and she had to assume his hair was black as well, although she’d never seen it. He kept his head shaved around the network of scars which crisscrossed his left temple and scalp, and his skin was darker than any other person at Oliphant Castle.
He was stunning. He was terrifying. He was—
Dreamy.
What? Nay. She’d meant to think infuriating.
Och, for certes, that’s what ye were thinking, aye.
Speaking of infuriating, sometimes she wished her subconscious would just keep its thoughts to itself.