Flame by May McGoldrick Page A

prize.
     
    ***
     
    Honestly, there wasn’t a shred of modesty in
the man.
    Frowning at him from across the room, Joanna
decided that he could also probably sleep on a row of spikes. She
stood still and watched as he sighed in his sleep, shifted a bit,
and settled again. The giant had to be uncomfortable, his
chin on his massive chest, his muscular arms folded and resting on
the flat of the swordblade lying across the tub. Joanna tried to
ignore the laird’s bare knees and legs sticking out of the water
and, instead, focused on his face. The wet hair smoothed back from
his brow. The eyes closed in a scowling but still extremely
handsome face.
    She spotted some fresh droplets of blood on
the side of his head. She wondered if these were from his mishap in
the gorge.
    Controlling an urge to move closer and
inspect the wound, she decided that he certainly didn’t seem to be
in pain.
    He shifted again, and one long arm moved,
tumbling outward over the staves of the tub as he turned his
shoulders slightly. The Lord forgive her, she thought, she could
make a habit out of coming here every night and watching him sleep.
And she was certain she could get away with it, too. The giant
slept like the dead.
    Tonight, after peeking into the bedchamber,
Joanna had waited for quite a while in the passageway, assuming
that the man would eventually finish with his bath and retire. When
he hadn’t, she had even gone down into the kitchens and found some
supper. And here he was, still in the tub, fast asleep.
    She had made some noises before entering the
chamber--scratching at the woven mat on the floor, tapping on the
wood panel--but to her delight, the Lowlander had continued to
slumber peacefully on in what must be, by now, very cold water. So
she had ventured in.
    Laying the painting down carefully, Joanna
kept her eyes glued to his face and slowly knelt beside the tub.
His long arm dangled limply over the side, and she placed his
dagger on the rush mat--a breath away from his knuckles.
    He had clearly thought himself smart enough
to outwit her. And he almost had. If it hadn’t been for her
quickness, she would have been caught, for when she had reached up
for the portrait, Joanna was shocked when the dagger, tip down, had
plunged downward toward her face. The villain had propped the
weapon on top of the frame, knowing it would be a hazard, or at
least an alarm.
    It had been a miracle that she was able to
catch the dagger in the palm of her hand without dropping the
painting. It was almost ironic to think that the dressings she wore
to hide her hideous scars had kept her hands from being further
damaged. At least they had kept her from capture.
    Joanna raised herself to her feet, trying not
to let her gaze dwell on the rest of him. She turned away, knowing
that she was getting far too impetuous. This game of coming back to
his room to take the portrait was far too daring. But she knew it
was something else as well. It was but an excuse she was using to
look in on him. To be close to him. She had to be losing her mind,
she decided.
    She started toward the panel. She absolutely
couldn’t allow herself to get attached. She couldn’t. And she
certainly couldn’t afford to be caught. Glancing one last time in
his direction, watching the rise and fall of the drying mat of hair
on his broad chest, a sudden concern swept over Joanna.
    The water that he was slumbering in had to be ice cold by now. Whatever would happen if he
caught a chill? Who would take care of him if he were to come down
with a fever? He would be a much easier target to destroy then.
    With that thought in mind, Joanna stepped
back into the passageway. Holding the painting in her hand, she
slammed the panel shut. As she fled through the darkness, the
sounds of his curses, vividly descriptive and loud, brought a smile
to her lips.
     
    ***
     
    The fact that a hush fell over the crowd in
the Great Hall when he entered was no surprise to Gavin Kerr. The
buzz of conversation as