Enraptured (13 page)

He grabbed a colorful, knitted afghan from the back of the armchair beside the fireplace. Violet rose and took it, wrapping it tightly around her. She felt stronger, less vulnerable now, but she was aware of an odd twinge of loss as well.

Coll picked up a poker and prodded the fire into life, tossing in another brick of peat. The flare of light tinged his skin red and gold. Violet watched the movement of muscles across his back, the sharp outthrust of shoulder blades. He was a powerful man; it was even more obvious without the
covering of his clothes. She should, she thought, be intimidated by his size and strength. Instead she was . . . excited.

Coll turned back to her, and Violet glanced away, embarrassed at being caught staring. He set the poker in its stand with a clang and strode from the room. When he returned, he had donned a shirt and carried a folded blanket. Draping the blanket around Violet's shoulders, he went to pour water into a kettle and hang it over the fire.

“What happened? Why did you come running out without anything—um, I mean, dressed in—” He did not look at her as he pulled out cups and the tea tin.

“Someone broke into the house.” Violet avoided the subject of her attire.

“What?” Coll whipped around. “Into Duncally? Who? Why?”

“I don't know. I didn't get a good look at him—though I doubt I would have recognized him anyway.”

“A thief. Bold, to steal from Mardoun.” His eyes narrowed, and he stiffened. “Or was he—did he come into your room? Did he hurt you?”

“No—I mean, he did hit me, but that was later.”

“He
hit
you?”

“Yes. Don't shout. I ran after him out of the house, and he must have hidden behind the door. He popped out and knocked me on the head.” Her hand went up, searching for the soreness.

“Where?” Coll grasped her shoulders and dragged her closer to the candle on the table, his eyes running over her face and hair.

“On the back of my head.” Violet gingerly laid her fingers on the spot.

Coll let out a low curse and planted her on a chair beside the table. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I just did.”

Coll made a disgusted noise and strode off, returning with a bottle and a cloth, as well as a kerosene lamp, which he set down beside her on the table. Turning up the wick, he examined her. “Aye, you'll have a bump, all right. 'Tis fortunate your head is so hard.” He poured a dark liquid from the bottle onto the cloth and began to dab at the wound.

“Ow!” Violet shot him a dark look.

Coll slanted back an amused glance and continued to treat her. “I dinna see any blood.” His big hands were surprisingly gentle. When he finished working, he slid one hand down over her hair before pulling it away. The touch sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with either the cold or the pain in her head. “I don't think there's a cut, but just in case, that will help heal it.”

He turned away to pour hot water over the tea leaves. “Now.” He set the pot on the table beside Violet, then put a stool directly in front of her and sat down on it, staring into her face. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why were you chasing this fellow about the house?”

“I woke up. I must have heard a noise. Then I heard a clang. He must have dropped something or knocked it over.”

“In your bedchamber?” Coll kept his voice level but his face was hard as stone.

“No, no. It was nothing to do with me. The noise was down the hall. I got up and looked out. At first I didn't see anything, but then a man came out of one of the rooms closer to the stairs.” She shivered involuntarily at the memory of that shadow slipping silently along the hall. “It scared me.”

“Scared you so much you gave chase to him.”

“I couldn't just let him get away, could I?”

“Aye, you could. A sensible woman would have. He could have hurt you—worse than he did.”

“I didn't have time to think. I yelled at him and he ran, so I went after him. He ran down the stairs and out the front door.”

“So you took off into the night after an intruder? Unarmed? Wearing naught but your night rail?”

“I told you, I didn't stop to think about it! Would you have sat there twiddling your thumbs and let him get away?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“I know, I know, you're twice the size I am and you're a man, so it's all right for you to want to thwart a thief, but not a weak woman like me.”

“I would never call you weak.”

“Anyway, I wasn't unarmed. I grabbed a candlestick from one of the tables.”

A short bark of laughter escaped Coll. “A candlestick!” He sat back, crossing his arms, and regarded her with a blend of amusement and exasperation. “All right, so you ran after the fellow, wielding your fearsome candlestick . . .”

“And when I stepped out the door, he hit me from behind.” Violet sighed. “I should have thought of that.”

“Ah, but your blood was up.”

“I realize that you derive a great deal of amusement from my mistakes,” Violet began tartly. “But I fail to—”

“Nae, not that!” Coll took her hands. “I have no joy at seeing you injured. You must know that. It is your spirit I enjoy.” He glanced down as if surprised to see her hands in his. He frowned. “You dinna tell me he hurt your hands as well.”

“Oh, that. I fell down when he knocked me on the head, and the stone scraped my palms.”

Frowning, he poured more of the brown liquid on the cloth and began to wash her palms. His head was bent over his task, and Violet was free to watch him. His hair glistened in the glow of the lamp, a mingling of gold and silver that fell carelessly across his forehead. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her fingers. The medicine stung, but she scarcely noticed, too aware of Coll's nearness and his warm, work-roughened palm beneath her hand.

He set the rag aside, his hands sliding slowly from hers, and as he leaned back, his eyes dropped down her. He drew in a sharp breath. “Dinna tell me you ran all that way in your bare feet.”

Self-consciously Violet tucked her unshod feet beneath her chair. “Well . . . yes.”

“You're a madwoman.” Coll dropped to one knee and shocked her by taking her heel in his hand to examine the sole of her foot.

“I doubt the intruder would have waited for me to put on my stockings and shoes.” Violet jerked her foot away, feeling at once foolish and jittery and surging with heat. “I'm fine.”

“Naturally.” Coll walked away.

Violet contemplated her feet. They looked obscenely naked. She had never really thought about her feet before, but she realized now that they were too bony and white. Altogether unpleasing. Not only were they ugly, they were
dirty.
And scratched. And Coll had touched them. No other man had ever touched her feet. Indeed, no other man had
ever
seen
her feet. He must think her an awful heathen. What sort of woman would go running out as she had, clad in only her nightgown, pursuing a thief, paying no attention that it was raining and she wore no shoes? A madwoman, as he had said.

The feel of his fingers had set everything inside her churning, just as it had the other night. Violet closed her eyes. She could not let him see how he affected her. She must not embarrass herself again. She heard Coll returning and cut her eyes toward him. He placed a large bowl on the table and poured water into it. Picking up the brown bottle, he added a dollop of medicine to the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Someone has to tend to you.” He poured the remainder of the water from the teakettle into the bowl. “Since clearly you dinna have any care for yourself.”

He knelt, setting the large bowl on the floor in front of her, then lifted her feet and put them in it, astonishing Violet so much that she could not get out even a squeak of protest. The water was blissfully warm on her feet, and unconsciously Violet sighed with satisfaction. Coll cast an amused glance up at her, but said nothing as he picked up a cloth, wet it, and, holding her heel in his hand, began to wipe the cloth gently across the sole of one of her feet.

A sizzle of shock ran through Violet, and her foot jerked in his hand. Her heart began to hammer. “What are you doing?”

“Shh. Dinna fret, lass. I'm only cleaning your cuts and scrapes. You must have been a sore trial to your nurse.”

“I was not. I was a perfectly proper child.” When Coll cocked one eyebrow in disbelief, Violet laughed. “Oh, very
well. You are right; I was utterly horrid and messy and always sticking my nose into everything. My aprons were dirty and my ribbons untied, and I did not possess a pair of stockings without ladders.”

He chuckled. “Just as I thought.” Coll's hand was gentle as he worked, and though the cuts stung, his touch was soothing. “Och, your poor feet. You'll have more than a few bruises tomorrow. Hold still.” He gripped her heel tightly and plucked out a thorn.

“Ow!”

“That's the worst of it. You were lucky not to slice them to ribbons. The pine needles cushioned the path, though I'll warrant you met a few pebbles.”

“I did once or twice.” Violet shifted in her seat. She was having trouble focusing on his words. His actions were simple and impersonal, and she knew she should not interpret them as anything but kindness. But each stroke of the cloth sent tendrils of heat through her, and the curve of his palm around her heel made her nerves dance.

She should object. Tell him that she would do this task herself. But she could not force out the words. However wrong it was, however unknown and startling to her, she did not want to stop the sensations coursing through her. The tenderness and strength of his fingers, the focus in his face as he worked over her skin, the caress of the cloth, and the heat of his hand—all stirred her beyond measure.

Violet wanted him to continue. Indeed, in some dark, secret place, she wanted him to go farther, to slide his hand up her ankle to her calf. She wanted him to rise onto his knees, positioning his large body between her legs as he glided his hands up under her gown. Her skin tingled at
the imagined touch, anticipating his fingers awakening flesh that had never known a man's touch.

She would not have guessed she could feel as she did now, the heat pooling low in her abdomen, the ache blossoming between her legs. Heat flooded her face; it was all she could do to keep her breathing steady. She could not let him see what he did to her. If he realized the wanton direction of her thoughts, it would be even more humiliating than his rejection of her the other night. At least then she had had the excuse of being inebriated.

Coll had gone as silent as she. Wordlessly he moved his attentions to her other foot. Did she imagine that his fingers trembled slightly on her skin? Could it be that he felt the same thing she did? Perhaps he, too, imagined caressing her, moving his hand under her skirts and discovering the texture of her skin.

She swallowed, looking at him. His eyes were turned down, watching his fingers with an intense concentration. The light of the lamp gave a golden glow to his skin; his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his mouth . . . ah, but his mouth was tempting, his lips darkly colored and full. He would taste intoxicating.

The memory of their kiss filled her head, swamping her senses with the remembered scent and taste and feel of him. The smooth pressure of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, his hands sliding beneath her cloak and spreading out over her body. She remembered the blazing heat of his arms encircling her, his body pressing into hers, fiery even amidst the chill of the autumn night. She remembered, too, the wild, exultant feeling rising up in her, threatening to sweep her away from all reason and sense.

Coll lifted his head and the full force of his gaze pierced her. His hands tightened on her foot. She was certain he was about to surge up and take her in his arms, envelop her with his heat and power. She leaned toward him.

He turned away and rose lithely to his feet.

V
iolet's stomach dropped in bitter
disappointment. Whatever she might feel, Coll did not feel the same. Not looking at her, he emptied the water bowl, then busied himself with washing and tidying up his supplies. Violet clasped her hands in her lap and studied them as she tried to shove her wayward thoughts back under control. When he returned, she had managed to school the turmoil from her face. She could only hope that he had not seen the desperate desire in her eyes earlier.

They sipped their tea, silence stretching between them awkwardly. Coll shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat. “I wonder who would break into Duncally. What was he after?”

Violet was relieved to have something innocuous to discuss. “I would think it is an ideal place to rob. Almost deserted. Full of expensive things.”

“True. But it's an enormous risk to take, stealing from the earl. He'd be facing transportation—if he was lucky.”