room.
Brice tossed another log on the fire and the flames danced and leaped as they licked at the dry bark. The room was suddenly bright from the glow of the fire.
At the foot of the bed Brice removed his tunic and shirt and she heard them whisper through the air as he tossed them on a nearby chair. The pallet sagged as he sat and tugged off his brogues.
When he pulled down the linens her heart began a wild hammering. Was the man actually going to sleep in the same bed with her? She had thought, nay, hoped, that he would be gentleman enough to sleep on the settle across the room.
The dagger in her hand was damp and slippery.
She was wearing only a sheer night shift, which Cara had brought earlier. Her gossamer gown and kid slippers had been taken away at Cara’s insistence. On the morrow they would be clean and ready for their mistress. But their mistress, Meredith thought with a smile, would be miles from here. She would borrow a cloak and boots from Brice Campbell’s wardrobe.
Patience, she counseled herself. Despite these unexpected changes in her plans, the dogs, the man in bed beside her, she must bide her time. She must wait, pretending to be asleep, until Brice Campbell relaxed his guard. If he had any warning, all would be lost.
From the warmth of his breath on her cheek she knew that he was facing her. She dared not chance a look at him. If his eyes were focused on her, he might detect the slight flickering of her lids. She would have to wait until the fire burned low and his breathing became even.
Her lids were heavy. Her body begged for the blessed release of sleep. But though the urge to sleep was nearly overpowering, she resisted. Her only chance to escape would be to plunge the dagger into Brice Campbell’s heart and disappear into the dense Highland forests.
He shifted slightly and his thigh came into contact with hers. She lay perfectly still, willing herself not to move.
How strange to be lying, not in her marriage bed, but in the bed of a brute who had taken her captive. How warm his flesh where it pressed hers. The thought left her shaken. She must not allow herself to think of him as a man. He was a cruel savage, who would rue the day he had tangled with a MacAlpin.
He sighed and moved a foot. Before she could recover her wits he brought his foot down, dragging the fur coverings from both of them.
From beneath veiled lashes she chanced a quick look around. The dagger was clearly visible if he would but open his eyes. She held herself rigid, afraid to breathe, afraid even to swallow. By the light of the fire the dagger’s blade glinted ominously. There was no place to hide it.
He moaned and dropped an arm about her waist. Her gaze flew to his face. His eyes were tightly closed. Gathering courage, she allowed her gaze to scan him.
God in heaven. The man was practically naked. She was so stunned she started to push away before she realized what she was doing. At the movement his fingers closed around her waist, dragging her closer.
The hand holding the dagger was slick with sweat. She clutched it between herself and him, praying that she would not drop it in her nervousness.
Sparks shot from the fireplace, sending a tiny explosion of light into the room. Reflexively he moved, bringing himself even closer to her. His face rested just beside hers, his lips brushing a tangle of hair at her temple.
The nearness of the man was driving her to distraction. All her carefully laid plans were unraveling. With his lips pressed to her temple she was unable to think, to even move. Saliva pooled in her mouth and she forced herself to swallow. The sound seemed overloud in the quiet of the room.
He murmured something in his sleep and tightened his grip on her, drawing her firmly against him. Never in her life had she been this close to a man. Even one with all his clothes on.
With each breath his hair-roughened chest brushed against her breasts, creating a tingling sensation deep inside her. She was
Matt Margolis, Mark Noonan