Highland Tides Read Online Free PDF Page B

coming down with some dire affliction.
    She hurried to catch up to the corpsman. She’d deemed it preferable to enlist his help rather than the regimental surgeon. This lad wouldn’t know he was treating a suspected rebel. She’d told him his patient was one of the hundreds of government soldiers imprisoned at Inbhir Nis by the Jacobites and freed after Culloden. It wasn’t as if Braden’s injuries were life threatening. Ogilvie’s was what she’d meant to say.
    She tapped on the door and entered without leave, taken aback by the presence of two men in the chamber. She recognized her uncle’s valet, the ever-efficient Daniel, but who was the striking bald nobleman? It wasn’t until he smiled nervously that it dawned on her. She stared. Heaven only knew where Simone had found the trews, the slashed waistcoat, the frilled shirt, the brogues, but everything seemed to fit perfectly. “I didn’t recognize you without the beard,” she exclaimed.
    Daniel bowed and left, toting his paraphernalia.
    The young soldier cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”
    “Aye,” she said hoarsely, frustrated she’d lapsed into common speech. “His wrists, and ankles,” she mumbled.
    Braden frowned, but then seemed to understand when he caught sight of the jar of salve in the soldier’s hands. He perched on the edge of the bed. “I’ll take off my boots. They’re a wee bit snug.”
    The corpsman went down on one knee at his feet. He glanced at Charlotte for a brief moment when Braden got the boots off, revealing the lacerations left by the manacles, then unscrewed the top off the jar and applied the salve.
    “Cold,” Braden quipped, reaching for the jar.
    Charlotte only half noticed, her attention fixed on his bare feet. His toes were longer than any she’d ever seen, though she had to admit she hadn’t seen many men’s feet—in fact none at all. Writing as Charles Tobias, she had described Pilgrim Peter’s lower extremities in her picaresque novel and it struck her like a lightning bolt she’d had no idea what she was talking about. She’d believed men’s feet were like women’s, only bigger. How wrong she’d been. There was a strength there that—
    Tearing her gaze away she hurried to the other side of the bed, needing to put something between her and this fascinating man. The soldier salved Braden’s wrists then left quickly.
    “I suppose I should wait,” Braden said as he stood and turned to face her, adjusting the trews.
    Still lost in thoughts of his feet, she had no idea what he meant. “Pardon?”
    “The salve. I should wait until it dries before I put the boots back on.”
    He must deem her a gaping simpleton. “Aye.”
    Drat!
    “Yes. It will only be a minute or two. Everything fits I see.”
    He spread his arms wide, reminding her of his elation in the bailey at being free. How safe she would be in those arms.
    What? The wretch has nothing. He’s a nobody.
    Yet he grinned as if all was well with the world. “I’m nay used to coverings on my legs. Stockings and my great plaid have always done the job.”
    She’d heard of Highlanders who spurned trews, but surely in the winter they provided more warmth? She realized she was craning her neck to see his legs over the bed that stood between them like the Rubicon. The trews hugged his frame, making his legs look even longer, his thighs more powerful. Her eyes edged towards the bulge at his groin. He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable under her gaze. Perhaps the trews were a mite too tight. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and gripped the edge of the mattress as the chamber spun.
    To her consternation, he hurried to her side and took her hand. “Are ye ill, Lady Charlotte? I hoped mayhap my company might not be as odious now I’ve washed away the stench o’ the jail, and Daniel has shaved off the wee cooties.”
    His touch jolted her again, and made her knees tremble. She had a lunatic urge to reach up and trace a fingertip along his newly