Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] by All My Desire Page A

stare.
    Then he ran a slow, measuring gaze over her. As he studied her, something strong and primitive began to throb through her body, something unwelcome but undeniable. It had to be a weakness caused by fatigue. Whatever it was, it was wrong and she would not acknowledge it.
    She shifted the blanket so that it was wrapped around her breasts, leaving her shoulders and arms free, tucking in one end so that it would stay. She pulled on his tunic, which smelled of horse and leather and him, as she well recalled from when he had held her on the gelding. She would probably never forget how it felt to be clasped in his powerful arms then, or when he had embraced her and forced his hot kiss upon her.
    Or when they had been on the ground, his body pressing against hers, his lips sliding across her mouth and his hands moving with slow, sure leisure over her. Her heart had pounded and her whole body had been hot with fear.
    As he stood here now, her heart began to pound and her body to warm just the same, but she was not afraid. She could not name the feeling coursing through her as she inhaled his scent, the memory of his strength and passion coming to her whether she willed it or not.
    She told herself to attend to her task, and forget that he was there.
    The tunic fell to mid-thigh and the sleeves covered her hands. She tied the lacing at the neck, which nonetheless hung low enough to expose the tops of her breasts. She could roll up the sleeves, and as for the length....
    She reached up under the tunic and pulled the blanket loose, then retucked it about her waist, so that it became a long skirt. “Now that I am more decently attired, you may go.”
    He frowned and made no move to leave. “I should have guessed it wouldn’t matter what you wear. Your beauty has nothing to do with the clothes on your back.”
    A strange feeling stole over Isabelle and, flushing, she looked away. Other men had told her she was beautiful, other men with rich, deep voices and warriors’ bodies. Why was it, then, that this time—for the first time—she truly believed that in a man’s eyes she was beautiful?
    Perhaps it was his annoyance.
    “I hope you’re not intending to put me back in that sack,” she said, determined to forget his compliment, such as it was.
    The corner of his lips lifted. “There’s a thought.”
    “I nearly suffocated.”
    “It wouldn’t be for long.”
    She crossed her arms and prepared to denounce him, until she saw what looked suspiciously like mischief in his blue eyes. “You aren’t, are you?”
    “It’s tempting, but I don’t think I could make it up the bluff with you over my shoulder.”
    “Thank God! Now go away.”
    He bowed with a mocking—and unexpected—elegance. “As you command, my lady, I obey.”
    She sniffed and didn’t look to see where he went or to whom he spoke; it was enough that he had left her alone.
    She didn’t want to be anywhere near him and his disconcerting eyes or full lips. She wanted to be as far away from him as possible.
    She wanted to be home, where most men—except Connor—treated her like an overgrown child.
    Ingar shouted, and the Norsemen who were awake roused their companions. Together, with the same unexpected brisk efficiency they had demonstrated before, the crew began to disassemble the yard and mast.
    As the Norsemen went about their task, Isabelle kept her eyes on the shore, even when she heard DeFrouchette return. She tensed, ready to maintain her air of haughty defiance.
    It wasn’t DeFrouchette. Regardless of whether or not he was in the way, Osburn picked his way to the prow, nearly tripping over a large coil of thick rope before he turned to lean his back on the curving wooden decoration. His face was deathly pale, and tinged with green, whether from the effects of the wine or the rocking motion of the ship, she wasn’t sure. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his fine clothing wrinkled and his blond hair disheveled.
    “The land is not