Sea of Fire by Carol Caldwell

me. You can stay in my room.”
    She hesitated.
    He apparently understood her concern for he said, “Your virtue is safe with me, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
    It wasn’t exactly what she was concerned about. Yet, he need not know that his mere presence set her nerves on edge. The idea of being in a man’s room was another notion. Certainly, he had to know it wasn’t proper. Was dressing as a friar who gallivanted around the city at all ungodly hours proper? Nay. She deserved his improper suggestion. She sighed and followed him to his bedchamber.
    “Wait,” he ordered and left the room.
    Seconds later he returned with nightwear for her.
    “Here. In case there’s nothing in your trunk, you’ll be more comfortable in this.”
    She stared at the lacy nightgown, suddenly embarrassed. “Thank you, I do have something, but I’m too tired to change. What I have on will do me. Good night,” she said and plopped onto his bed.
    He stared at her a moment. “Good night,” he said and closed the door.
    Christian was too handsome for his own good. Though she was certain his intentions were strictly platonic. The idea of being in nightwear with him nearby was much too uncomfortable a situation for her. Besides, if she were to leave in a hurry, she couldn’t stop to change clothes.
    She snuggled into the pillows and breathed in deeply. Instantly, she regretted the action, for they smelled the same manly scent of Christian—a pleasant scent that somehow made her feel euphoric. She remembered his kiss and how she wanted him to kiss her again. She was so tired. She was not thinking wisely.
    When she was certain Christian was asleep, she would flee. She rolled to her side and studied his bedchamber. It was a richly decorated, masculine room with ash paneling and draperies in forest green and gold. The bed linens and coverings she rested upon, though trimmed in a wide eyelet lace in the same forest green, exuded manliness no less than the wood-handled hairbrush and brass razor she spotted on a corner washstand. There were paintings of the sea and tropical places in various sizes on every wall. A marble statue of an unusual bird balanced on one foot occupied an obvious place of honor on a small side table near the bed. Another large, green glass creature, that resembled a small whale, sparkled in the semi-dark room from atop his wardrobe closet. She guessed he must have been a traveler, for the items reminded her of nothing she had seen in Ireland.
    She yawned and struggled to keep her eyes open. The second she decided to rest them for a mere moment, she was sound asleep.
     

Chapter Six
     
    Christian paced the floor in the passageway outside his bedchamber. An hour had passed. Should he go inside, or not? He didn’t trust Sister Friar. First chance she got, she’d try to escape him. Surely, she was asleep by now. Hell. He swung around and quietly opened the door. He listened a moment. When no form of protest greeted him—it would, too, from the feisty lady—he closed the door behind him and took up a morocco leather armchair that faced the bed. He’d stay where he was until she woke in the morn.
    Having decided this, he made himself comfortable and untucked his shirt from his breeches. Next he undid the cravat, opened his shirt, and tugged off his boots. Christ! He was damned tired himself, he thought and sat back in the chair.
    Elizabeth slept so soundly, her breathing could barely be heard as she lay face down on the bed. His gaze wandered over her slim shape and stopped at her posterior. One of her knees was brought up close to her chest which caused the wooly friar’s robe to stretch across the fullness of her well-defined bottom.
    He recalled the time he’d kissed her and held her close to him. There wasn’t much to the lady, but she definitely had appeal.
    Christ! He stood and tugged his breeches away from his sudden arousal. Had he lost his mind? The wench was here because he didn’t trust her.