Surrender To Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

winter chill permeated the room, enough to keep one from feeling so warm. Yet his skin roasted her palm.

    She trailed her fingers down the plane of his cheek, over the dark bristle, telling herself that the texture of his flesh, so unlike hers, did not intrigue her in the least…that the man did not. Her nails gently scoured the stubble over his hard jaw, enjoying the sensation.

    “No!” His sudden hoarse cry caused her to jerk her hand back.

    “Stop!” he shouted. “Not her! Leave her be!” With his eyes still closed, his head tossed wildly against the pillow. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice quieter, smaller, almost like that of a child. “So sorry.”

    Astrid felt his despair as keenly as a blade to her skin, could not stop herself from reaching down to stroke his burning brow.

    His hand flashed out with the speed of wind, ripping a cry from her throat. Hard fingers locked around her wrist, the pressure excruciating. With a tug, he brought her tumbling over his chest.

    With a cry, she pushed against the feather mattress on either side of him, arching her back, staring down into eyes that glowed through the room’s gloom, lucid and awake, a pale blue, frosty as ice-covered water. Clearly, he had escaped whatever nightmare had held him in its grip.

    Inhaling through her nose, she grasped for the composure that always carried her through. Of course she had never found herself in a situation like this before. Since Bertram, she had been careful to keep men at arm’s length. Her life was difficult enough without adding a man into the fray.

    “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in that velvet voice, the deep, guttural incantation unidentifiable to her ears.

    His gaze skipped beyond her, assessing their surroundings. “Where am I?”

    “You don’t remember?” Astrid asked, her voice a breathless croak. “Earlier today? The highwaymen on the road?”

    “Highwaymen?” he echoed, scowling, dark brows drawing tightly over his eyes.

    She studied him carefully. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his eyes seemed to look through her. Grimly, she acknowledged that he was in the grip of fever.

    Adopting the voice she heard Jane use when talking to Olivia, she said gently, “You’re ill. Release me, so I can tend to you.”

    His brow furrowed as if trying to decipher her words.

    “Release me,” she repeated, “and I can help you.”

    His fingers came up to her arms, flexing into her flesh, and for a moment she thought he would hold her all night.

    “Please,” she added, her voice a ragged whisper. His hands loosened, dropping to the bed.

    Clambering off him, she relit the lamp on the small dresser and slid her boots from underneath the chair. Sitting, she slipped them back on her chilled feet.

    With one last glance at the man lying on the bed, head moving listlessly on the pillow, she slipped from the room in search of Molly.

    The inn was quiet as she made her way down the worn wood steps. In the taproom, a few men lingered over tankards, huddled in their cloaks and tartans, tossing her speculative looks as her gaze searched the room.

    Failing to spot Molly, she moved on until she discovered a set of stairs leading down into the kitchen. She descended the steps to a toasty room that smelled of grease, yeast, and sweat.

    Two maids slept on pallets near the fire, shadows dancing over their still forms, the outline of their bodies like shadowed hills in a distant horizon.

    “Molly,” she whispered, recognizing the dark braid over one of the women’s wool blankets. Creeping closer, she shook the servant awake. Molly sat up with a startled snort.

    “I need your help.”

    The groggy-eyed maid nodded and slipped on the shoes waiting for her beside the hearth.

    Following Astrid back up the steps, she grumbled over the loss of her warm pallet as they made their way to the second floor.

    Once in the room, Molly leaned over the man, pressing both hands to his face. He opened his eyes and looked