Page 48 of The Moorwitch
His jaw locks, then suddenly he lifts me, and I find myself clinging to his neck while he trudges toward the bank. It seems to take a century, him slogging through chilly dark water and me shivering in his arms. Of course he has to be as strong as an ox. Of course he has to hold me against a chest like an iron slab. Fates damn him. I am intensely conscious of his hand, carefully positioned an inch below my breast. Ofcoursehe has to be bloody respectful, as if his honor meant anything to me after tonight.
“Do not expect an ounce of gratitude for this,” I stammer through chattering teeth. “This was your fault. And that pond appeared out of nowhere!”
He lets me down at the bank, and I take a few steps, my wet skirts twisting around my legs. I am shaking with mortification more than thecold. My cheeks could light a match. At least the darkness hides most of it. Captain noses my leg, as if to be sure I’m unharmed.
Mr. North growls under his breath as he twists his shirt, water pouring from the fabric. It sounds suspiciously like “Troublesome, meddling woman.”
“Don’t think this erases our discussion!” I assure him.
“Discussion?” He looks up, his wet hair swinging around his temples. “Is that what that was? Because it felt like an ambush.”
“Oh, no. You arenotthe victim here.” I spread my hands wide, as if addressing an entire classroom of bloody-minded, boulder-chested Scotsmen. “And I am not finished with this conversation, sir.”
“I can see that,” he says in a strangely coarse tone of voice, as if a rock has lodged in his throat. “And I would be delighted to continue our argument indoors. We can shout till dawn if it would please you. But please ... cover yourself first. Otherwise, it makes it very difficult for a man to stay angry.”
He grabs his coat and thrusts it toward me.
I look down and realize then that the soaked linen of my nightgown is clinging in ... deeply inappropriate ways. I wrap myself in his coat, feeling my face turn several degrees hotter. “Right. I’m going inside.”
He picks up the extinguished lantern. “Shall I go ahead, in case any more ponds decide to appear out of nowhere? Savage things, ponds. Quite unpredictable.”
I push past him and storm toward the house, fighting against the heather. He was right about one thing. It is difficult to stay angry when one is soaked to the bone, freezing, and stumbling through the dark.
“There’s a path here, you stubborn thing!” he calls.
Ignoring him, I forge ahead, but he reaches the house first and opens the door for me. I go past him without a word and go straight to the kitchen, where the fire is low, but still warm. Captain flops onto the floor and pants, watching us with his eyes masked behind his long hair.
Standing in front of the fire, I let out a sigh and hold my hands to the coals, water dripping from my skirt and pooling on the floor.
Mr. North stands behind me, dripping and disheveled and looming like a great bear. I toss him a black look over my shoulder. “What?”
“Would you mind scooting aside a wee bit?” he growls. “Perhaps share a man’s own hearth with him after he’s just saved your bloody life?”
“I was hardly at death’s door,” I grumble. But begrudgingly, I edge to the left, and he fills the empty space beside me, his eyes closing as the heat from the low flames rolls over him. I eye him sidelong, my skin still prickling with fury. Water trickles down the thick locks of his hair and runs down his jawline. The soaked fabric of his shirt leaves little to the imagination, hugging the planes of his chest and outlining the rolling muscles of his back. The front of it is snagged on the waistband of his trousers, revealing a small triangle of bare skin and the dark, fine hairs on his stomach.
Fates.
The nerve of the man, honestly. How dare he be such a beast, and then stand there looking like ... likethat? And he had the audacity to askmeto cover up?
“Shall we strike a truce?” he asks softly, his eyes parting open.
I snap my gaze away, glaring instead at the fire. “A truce?”
“Until morning, at the least. Otherwise I feel I shall be forced to sleep with one eye open, lest you hex me in the night.”
“Not an unwarranted fear,” I mutter beneath my breath.
“Tea?” Mr. North asks. “To seal our truce and warm us up.”
I harden my jaw, not wanting to give in. But the fire’s heat can only reach so deep, and my bones feel limned in ice. “Let’s call it a pause.”
“As you like. And another thing ...”
He leans toward me, and I catch my breath as his hand moves to my face. For a moment, I’m filled with the wild notion that he’s about to kiss me. My eyes drop to his lips, and heat roars through me like wildfire. My body reacts before my mind can form a coherent thought, my toes curling on the stone floor, my breath suspending somewhere between my lungs and my lips ...
“Just this,” he says, and he gently peels some sort of pond weed from my neck and tosses it into the fire, where it hisses on the warm coals.
Oh. Rose, you fool. Of course he wasn’t about to ...