“Nothing of the sort, you buffle-headed simpleton.” She shoved the blankets aside and sprung from the chaise. “How long will you berate yourself for naught?”
Crouching, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Stop all that useless drivel, Mr. Edwards, for you have not failed me, nor yourself. And you are most certainly not useless. Never think such. And, oh my blazes, but your skin is sweltering!” A light sheen of perspiration slicked the skin beneath her touch. “What happened to your shirt?”
Her hands flattened upon the heated flesh and swept outward, then came back and clutched.
You are touching a nearly naked man! Leave off. Call for the swooning-water!
Not about to faint and miss a second of this glorious experience, she found her palms eagerly stroking across his muscles… His skin… The firm, powerful presence beneath her fingertips enticing her to do so much more.
“My shirt? ’Tis snowing again. Between that and exertion, it quickly became soaked through.”
You cannot keep on…fondling this man!
Oh, aye. She could.
Brazen hussy! You’ll regret—
Nay, she wouldn’t; Anne was certain of it. Never more certain of anything in her life. For the precious few magical hours spent with her recovering soldier and coarse-mouthed gamekeeper continue to be the most thrilling of her life.
“Idiotic man, why did you not gather your cloak?” It remained, spread, on the floor beside them. “Have you not the sense God gave a goose? For would it not have shed the moisture?” She couldn’t quit touching him. Every inch of slick, hot skin proved a new discovery that sent flashes of heat sizzling through her stomach.
“Did not want to wake you,” he muttered, as though remaining still beneath her ministrations pained him. “Have left my cloak here every time but realize now—”
“Have you a fever? Did walking so far in the storm sicken—”
“Nay.” Ed spun toward her, tried to grab both her exploring—damning—hands with his and failed to achieve his goal. Ended up securing only one prize—one hand he clasped to the center of his chest, over his thumping heart. But he was unable to secure her other—and she kept petting him, blast it. Running fingers in caresses and soft, soothing strokes everywhere she could reach while her lips kept berating, questioning.
“Nay what? Have you sickened, you foolish, foolish—”
“’Tis not a fever,” he told her hoarsely. He cleared his throat but somehow that action only firmed her palm against the center of his chest. “From honest, fruitless labor, throwing off the topmost logs that had fallen, seeking dryer ones beneath… To no avail.”
“Out in the cold? In the freezing temperatures? Without a shirt? My, what an idiot!”
“Mary, you—”
“Ann,” she added.
“Maryann, blast it, you have got to mitigate this horrid habit of yours you have of maligning others with your mouth! Y-your mouth…” His lips sought hers, met and lightly held. Pressed for more—but she wasn’t finished exploring.
Her fingers brushed across his forehead, his temple, down the side of his neck, toward the knit-together end of his arm— She couldn’t touch him there. “Nay! Do not—”
She did anyway. Caressed, searched. Stroked right over—right on top of where cut bone was covered by sewn flesh… Didn’t hesitate nor stop. Feathered over his pectorals, down his quivering stomach—and kept harping at him like a fishwife. “What sort of loon, after an exhausting, trying day, spends time playing with firewood when he should be resting? Sleeping? Are you an imbecile in truth?”
“’Twas not playing,” he all but growled.
“My—” The front of her palm curved against his forehead. Then she flipped it over to the back. “Are you certain you have not become fevered?”
“The only thing fevering me is you, Mary.”
“Ann,” she gasped, her hands now clutching the bare skin of his back, bringing his chest flush against hers.
When had he released her?
When your body decided it was ready to twang, thrum and strum again, you fool! Or did you not notice?
Oh, he had noticed all right. Now gritted teeth and fist to keep from tossing her to her back and climbing over her…
To keep himself from—