Daughter of the Sword by Jeanne Williams Page B

very pleasant dream.
    Uneasy at his gaze, Deborah asked how he was that morning.
    â€œMuch better, now that you’ve come.”
    Deborah viewed him with suspicion. “You wouldn’t eat on purpose!”
    â€œYour mother,” he said blandly, “is a charming and estimable woman, but it’s seeing you that makes me ready for nourishment.”
    â€œThat sounds like rubbish, sir!”
    â€œNot a bit! You make me eager to gain back my strength, Miss Deborah. Not,” he added reflectively, “that being ministered to by a lovely woman doesn’t have its rewards. But on the whole, I prefer to have two sound arms!”
    â€œI hope you heal quickly, sir, though doubtless the creatures you hunt should be grateful for a respite!”
    His eyes traveled to the pulse beating in her throat. “I don’t shoot my sweetest quarry. I must admit, in fact, that it sometimes turns and hunts me again.”
    â€œWill you have mush, gruel, or preserved plums?”
    Rolf chuckled. “And sometimes the object of my hunt pretends it’s not pursued. Then, when I catch up to it quickly, it cries foul and swears it was never warned.”
    â€œI’m warned!” Deborah turned on her heel. “Now, Mr. Hunter, I’ve come to wait on you, but Mother needs my help. Will you have some food or wait till she can come to you?”
    â€œCruel!” he groaned. “I did expect more gratitude.”
    â€œI’m grateful. Your aid last night cancels your … your rude behavior earlier! But you like to fight, Mr. Hunter. You seized the occasion with gusto. You must pardon me if I feel you acted in accordance with your natural bent.”
    â€œThen aren’t you glad I happened to be on your side?” he asked jauntily after the merest furrowing of his brow.
    â€œI’d be gladder yet if you didn’t seem to glory in a chance at killing.”
    â€œYou mean I should hate a fight the way Dane does, agonize before and after?” Rolf laughed derisively. “It all came to the same act in the end. Both Dane and I killed last night—protecting you and your family, remember.”
    â€œI … know.”
    Remembering the shrieks of pain, the tumble of wrecked bodies, she began to tremble, then turned her face so he couldn’t see her tears.
    â€œDeborah.”
    She blinked and tried to subdue the lump in her throat. “Shall I bring you something to eat?”
    His hand closed on her wrist, more compelling in that he lacked the strength to maintain the grip if she resisted. “Sweet Deborah.” His voice was a caressing whisper. “Forgive me. I’m a rogue. Bring that mush or gruel or whatever you have and I’ll eat it up like a model patient.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it gently, and let her go.
    He ate the bowl of mush and milk, opening his mouth obediently as Deborah fed him. She distrusted his meekness but was too grateful for it to challenge. Avoiding those deep green eyes that never left her face, she concentrated on her task. He didn’t try to talk. That made their closeness more intimate. She felt pressed upon by his watching, his silence, and she was glad when the last bite was gone.
    â€œWould you like coffee?” she asked, rising from the stool.
    â€œWhatever you’ll give me.”
    â€œThere are also milk and buttermilk.”
    â€œCoffee, please.”
    She brought him a cup of the makeshift brew and asked if he needed anything else. “Could you fluff a little coolness into the pillows?” he asked.
    Deborah took them. They were of the finest down, a luxurious contrast to the shuck mattresses. As she stepped behind Rolf to arrange them, he leaned back suddenly, cheek against her breast.
    â€œThe sweetest resting place,” he murmured.
    His breath warmed her through the cotton, sent a prickling of gooseflesh over her. For a fraction of a second Deborah couldn’t move.