The Irish Warrior

of his companion’s burning, curving, pink-tinged body? A minute? Three?

They had days ahead of them. He groaned.

With poor grace, she flung her leather tunic and leggings on, grumbling. “Is that better?” she demanded when she was done.

How would he know? He wasn’t looking at her.

“’Tis just fine,” he replied shortly.

She sat back in the boat and glared.

Chapter 22

Senna’s glare, set and determined though it was, did nothing to provide a solution to a single problem in her life.

She did not want to be in this boat, with Finian, not being touched. And that was madness. But something burning and insistent had been awakened inside her. She wanted him to touch her, was practically desperate for him to. That was ridiculous, and perhaps a sign of impending madness.

Rather than worrying about Rardove and his fury, or how she was going to salvage the business, or how she would ever get home again, and if she had a home to go to in any event, all her attention was focused on how to get this Irishman to touch her.

Damn the whisky.

All ensuing conversation that afternoon was desultory at best. It was getting toward late afternoon, and Senna was dying of heat. And boredom. The boat slipped effortlessly down the small river. Whenever a village appeared in the distance, Finian made her lie down flat again. Otherwise, nothing happened. Little talking, no touching.

And the heat.

“Can we pull to the side?” she suddenly asked.

He looked at her like she was mad. “Are ye mad?”

“No,” she said very slowly, as if he might not understand. “I am mucky. I stink.”

He sniffed. “Ye do not.”

“You are mad. I’ve been lying in muck.”

“We’re not stopping.”

Dour silence ensued.

“Just the tunic,” she said a few moments later.

The look he shot her was murderous. “Don’t.”

She threw him an equally warning glance. “I’m hot.”

And it was hot. At this moment, probably the hottest it would be all day.

“Don’t.”

“I’m dying of the heat.” She panted plaintively, to demonstrate. He looked away.

“If any of yer clothes come off, Senna, I’ll roll ye into the river.”

She gasped. “Just the—”

“Splash,” he said ominously. She drew back. “Have ye learned to swim yet, in the last hour or so?”

“Of course not.”