Brazen Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

to fill her lungs, she drew in a huge breath, let it out long and slow.
    Staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, “Damn—that was good.”
    Then she glanced sideways at the man—her fallen angel—lying facedown in the bed beside her. “I might have to rethink my policy on men.”

Two
    December 11, 1822
    Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey
    L innet woke when she usually did, which in December meant an hour before dawn. Oddly relaxed, unusually refreshed, she stretched, savoring the unexpected inner glow, then raised her lids—and found herself staring at a stranger’s throat.
    Tanned. Male. Incipient alarm was drowned by wariness as full memory of the previous day, and the night, flooded her mind.
    She jerked her gaze upward.
    To a pair of midnight blue eyes.
    Propped on one elbow, he was looking down at her, his regard shrewd, assessing, and curious.
    “Where am I?”
    His voice matched the rest of him—disturbing and deep. Just a little gravelly, with the hint of an underlying burr.
    “More importantly,” he went on, “what are you doing in my bed?”
    She struggled to sit up, thanking her stars that before she’d fallen asleep the second time, she’d had the sense to pull down her nightgown, tie her robe tight, and stuff the extra blanket down between them, a barrier between his body and hers. “Actually, you’re in my bed.”
    When his winged black brows flew high, she hurriedly added, a touch waspishly, “You were injured, unconscious, and it’s the only bed in this house long enough, and judged sturdy enough, to accommodate you.”
    For a moment, he said nothing, then murmured, “So there are other beds?”
    She was tempted to lie, but instead nodded curtly. “I was worried by your continuing chill, and decided it was wisest to . . . do what I could to keep you warm through the night.”
    Flicking the covers aside, she slid out of the bed, tugging her robe and gown firmly down as she stood.
    He watched her like a predator watched prey. “In that case, I suppose I should thank you.”
    “Yes, you should.” And she should go down on her knees and thank him—not that she ever would. Cutting off the distracting memories, she glanced at the bandage around his skull. “How’s your head?”
    He frowned, as if her question had reminded him. “Throbbing . . . but not, I think, incapacitating.”
    “You’ll feel better after you eat.” Crossing to her armoire, she opened it and looked in, ignoring the weight of his steady blue gaze. He hadn’t remembered—she felt sure he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort of man to hold back if he had.
    As she pulled out a gown, he said, “You haven’t yet told me where I am.”
    “Guernsey.” She glanced back at him. “The southwestern tip—Parish of Torteval, if that means anything to you.”
    His frown darkened. “It doesn’t.” His gaze drifted from her.
    Shutting the armoire, she opened a drawer and drew out a fresh shift. Turned back to him. “What’s your name?”
    “Logan.” He looked at her, after the barest hesitation asked, “Yours?”
    “Linnet Trevission. This house is Mon Coeur.” Turning back to her chest of drawers, she added stockings and chemise to the pile in her arms, then crossed to where she’d left her half boots. Picking them up, she glanced at the bed. “So—Logan who?”
    He looked at her, looked at her, then he softly swore. Swinging his legs from beneath the covers, he sat up on the edge of the bed.
    Well-shaped feet, long, muscled calves dusted with black hair, broad knees, taut, heavily muscled thighs. Linnet gave thanks for the corner of the sheet that draped across his lap. Unconscious, with half his torso hidden by bandages, he’d been an impressive sight; awake and active, his impact was mind-scrambling.
    She needed to get out of the room, but . . . she frowned as he dropped his head into his hands, fingers gripping tight.
    “I can’t remember.” The words were ground out. Then he looked down, at the bandages