Winter Heat Read Online Free PDF Page A

her clothes. Everything was still damp.
    “Not today, though,” he added.
    “We must go now,” she insisted, though reason told her she couldn’t walk anywhere in this weather, at least not until her stockings and shift had dried.
    “No. It’s snowing too hard, the wind is too strong, it is too cold, and you are still recovering. You must eat. I’ll cook something.”
    “But—”
    His eyes narrowed into slits. “You must eat.”
    Maggie snatched the ends of the plaid around her, closing them over her front, and raised her chin at him.
    His gaze remained fixed on hers, but a subtle smile played over his lips. “You know I’m right.”
    She scowled, resisting the urge to stamp her foot.
    He turned away and reached for his shirt, which hung on a peg beside the fire. Muscles rippled across his back, and Maggie stared, fascinated despite herself. When the shirt slid over his broad shoulders, she could no longer see his spectacularly muscled torso. Disappointment washed through her before she ruthlessly thrust it away, reminding herself that this man was a complete stranger.
    She continued watching in silence as he rebelted his plaid then folded it over his shoulder and pinned it in place. Two steps took him to the table in the center of the room, and he rifled through the items piled on its top.
    “Is this your cottage?”
    Busy opening a small sack of oats, he didn’t look at her. “No.”
    “Whose is it, then?”
    “I don’t know, but I expect him to return once the storm abates.” Taking a pot from the table, he strode to the door. When he opened it, a blast of snow and cold whipped through the room. Quickly, he knelt to scoop some fresh snow into the pot and then stepped back inside, closing the door firmly behind him.
    His dark gaze speared her. “Tell me if you become cold again.”
    She was already cold. Keeping her lips pressed firmly together, she nodded.
    Kneeling beside the hearth, he hung the pot on the hook over the fire. “What’s your name?”
    “Margaret MacDonald. Everyone calls me Maggie.”
    He inclined his head and reached out to her. “Come, Maggie.”
    Lured by the promise of warmth, she stepped around the bed and sat on its edge, extending her legs toward the flames.
    “Why do you think the owner will return?”
    He gestured at the table with his chin. “Someone brought supplies in anticipation of his arrival.”
    “Oh.” She gazed at the tabletop, at the bottles of whisky sitting upon it, and realization dawned. This must have been where Innes Munroe had intended to bring her. He’d had it all planned—he’d wanted to take her somewhere isolated so she couldn’t escape. So no one could hear her scream. How long had he thought to keep her here?
    Until she gave everything to him, no doubt. Her body, her soul. Her independence. A shudder racked her body. In an instant, Logan was at her side. “Cold?”
    “No.” But the tremble wouldn’t go away.
    Tentatively, he reached toward her, and when she didn’t pull away, he tugged her close, fitting her against the side of his muscular body. This time, she didn’t fight him. It was Innes who scared her, she realized, not this man. As big and intimidating as Logan Douglas was, if he’d intended to hurt her, he would have done it by now.
    He was, in his harsh, masculine way, attempting to comfort her. To help her.
    “Shhh.” He patted her head awkwardly, but his touch was gentle and more soothing than she would have expected. “You needn’t fear him any longer. I won’t let him hurt you.”
    Logan touched his fingertip to the wound Innes’s dagger had inflicted on her chest. The light skin-to-skin contact sent an unexpected prickle of desire rolling through her. Her breath caught, and for a suspended moment, she froze. And then her wits returned in a rush. She jerked away, tamping down the unfamiliar sensation.
    She crossed her arms and gazed at the flames licking at the bottom of the pot. Logan sat beside her in