Charming the Chieftain Read Online Free PDF Page A

sweetness. “Why yes, I believe I did.”
    Eyes narrowed, he scowled.
    “God on high, is it possible for you to form any other facial expression besides that cursed frown?”
    He was serious when he answered. “I am no’ frowning.”
    “If the face you sport signifies your delight, I would avoid any cows unless you enjoy curdled milk.”
    That he possessed the audacity to deny his displeasure and then use her title in a snide tone deserved her rude rejoinder.
    He gripped the back of his neck with both hands and transferred his weight to one leg. “For Christ’s sake, lass, you’d try the patience of a saint.”
    “Ha.” She clucked her tongue. “Do not delude yourself. You’re no more patient than I, nor will you ever be sainted.”
    He threw his hands in the air. “Do you want my help or no’?”
    “I believe that is what I have been — ”
    Before she could finish, he whirled her about, hooked two fingers into the lace neckline and wrenched the bodice until the flimsy material gave way. Another firm tug split the fabric down the front seam and shredded the gown.
    “What are you doing?” she demanded.
    “Helping you undress.”

Chapter Four
    Appalled by the amount of exposed flesh, she slapped her palms on the swell of her breasts. It proved a futile effort — akin to tossing a tankard of ale on a grass fire. Thankfully, the rest of the ruined garment hung down in pieces shielding her womanly bits. She did notice his eyes follow her hands. Well, she assumed so, if the bright flush across the bridge of his nose was any indicator. Distracted, the soft thunk atop her foot almost passed unnoticed. Then she remembered shoving the comfort-stone down the vee of her gown when she fled the estate. Frantic, she fell to her knees and sifted her fingers through the long grass, her nakedness forgotten in an effort to find her cherished stone.
    His voice softened to a kind tone. “Here, lass.”
    He reached down and tried to pick her up, but she shook him off and clawed the grass.
    “No, please, I must find my stone.” She spoke in a broken whisper.
    “You have to find your … stone?”
    “Yes, yes, my stone,” she answered, aware her voice carried a shrill edge.
    Gentler than she thought him capable, he knelt down, covered her hands with his and gave a light squeeze.
    “Be still.”
    His quiet authority caused her to look up. Unwavering blue eyes captured gold, and his composure calmed the butterflies that lined her stomach, as sudden exhaustion replaced panic. She slid to the side, knees bent, and crossed her arms over her breasts. She didn’t blame him when he walked away from her. Ashamed by her display, she averted her eyes from her nakedness. Moments later, his legs came into view and he draped a plaid about her shoulders. His scent enveloped her at once. It smelled of sandalwood, leather and him.
    A surprised “oh” formed her lips and she whispered, “Thank you.”
    She cast her eyes about looking for any signs of pursuit, but the only disturbance was the occasional
hu-hooo
of the Tawny owl.
    “Slow your breathing, lass.”
    “But Warford … ”
    “Let me worry about him. You need to calm yourself if you’re to have any breath left.”
    As he spoke, his long fingers fiddled with a leaf of heather before he plucked the sprig and presented it to her. Her eyes widened and she snatched it from his hand, balanced it on her right shoulder and chanted.
    “Be there evil in the air, spreading darkness everywhere, behold heather on shoulder bent, and guard us from evil intent.”
    He scratched the back of his neck. “Woman, what are you about?”
    “Ridding the area of malevolent spirits,” she reasoned, and dug a shallow hole to bury the weed.
    She stole a glance at him. Although he stayed silent, his attention had not wavered in the least. By now, most people either accused her of witchery, or made the sign of the cross and ran from her as if she offered the plague. He did neither.
    “How do you