Джулиана Маклейн: In My Wildest Fantasies

"Let me see that, too," he said.

His voice was heavy and smooth as velvet, and it sent luscious gooseflesh tingling down the side of her body. He reached for her arm and felt around the bones. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"This?"

"No."

"What about this?" He massaged the muscle just above her elbow.

She hardly recognized the deep, sultry sound of her voice in response. "That feels quite nice actually."

His head was bowed down, but his eyes lifted knowingly. A dark brow lifted, and he grinned again. "Yes, it does feel quite nice."

He continued to work his hand over her elbow while his horse stood by in the quiet forest, discreetly tasting the grass and flicking his ears at insects. Rebecca's body grew warm and pleasantly weak from the gentleman's touch.

"Do you suppose this is proper?" he asked, lifting his eyes again with that same seductive expression. "We haven't been introduced, you know, and we are very much alone."

She wet her lips and pondered the fact that they were indeed alone in the forest and he was touching her intimately, and she had no idea where her father was. Anything could happen. He could seduce her. He could sweep her off her feet and into his arms, carry her to the coach and toss her down upon the soft, leather upholstery, kiss her neck and hands, overwhelm her with terrifying passions she'd never known, and ravish her without mercy….

She swallowed hard.

"You are correct, sir. We have not been introduced, so I suppose it is not proper at all. I confess-you have me quite unsettled."

"I don't mean to unsettle you." He was quiet while he tested her upper arm. "Please allow me to give you this reassurance-there is nothing to fear. I only wish to be certain you are not hurt."

But despite his assurances, there was still something so incredibly erotic about the way he spoke to her and touched her, and the way it made her feel hot and lazy inside.

"I do appreciate your concern."

He continued to massage down the length of her arm all the way to her wrist. "You're very lovely. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No."

"No?" He sounded surprised, then his gaze narrowed. "How old are you?"

"I am seventeen, sir."

His hand went still upon her arm, then he gently lowered it, setting it away from him with a sigh. "Much too young for an elbow examination, I'm afraid."

"How old are you?" she asked, quite unable to restrain her curiosity.

"That's a bold question for a well-bred young lady like yourself."

"It's the same question you asked me," she argued.

"Yes, but I'm not a well-bred young lady."

She let her eyes sweep over the broad width of his chest and the visible power in his shoulders. "No, you certainly are not."

They stood gazing at each other for a moment until he looked across the green bog, those powerful shoulders heaving with another sigh. "I suppose I must turn your coach around and return you safely to your father. He is no doubt concerned."

"Yes, I am sure he is." She realized with some chagrin that while this extraordinary man had been touching her, she had forgotten about her father completely. "I am fine now."

But her teeth had begun to chatter.

Without the slightest bidding from her, he removed his heavy, fur-trimmed greatcoat and slung it around her shoulders. "This will keep you warm."

She felt the heat from his body inside it and smelled the enthralling fragrance of his cologne. "Thank you," she said. "And thank you also for coming to my rescue."

He touched the brim of his elegant top hat before he swung himself up onto his horse again. "I assure you, it was nothing at all."

Oh, no, nothing at all, to come galloping after a runaway coach and pull a distraught young lady out of a bog, then make her forget all about the pain in her head and elbow and the fact that her skirts were dripping wet with that cold, sticky slime.

He clicked his tongue, walked his horse back into the water, and took hold of the harness. "Onward, now," he said.

While he led the team in a wide circle and back up onto the grass, Rebecca admired his form without the coat. Wearing a fine black dinner jacket and crisp white shirt with a dark, crimson necktie, he was even more perfect than she could have imagined, for there was an incredible strength and vigor in his shoulders and in the defined lines of his torso and hips.

As soon as the wheels were on dry land, he rode closer and dismounted again. "Allow me to assist you."

She glanced uneasily at the coach. "The horses won't bolt again?"

"Not while I am leading them."

He certainly knew how to instill confidence.

"Then I must thank you." She took his hand and stepped back inside.

She settled into the seat and covered herself with his coat to keep warm. He closed the door with a firm click, but opened it again a mere second later and said, "I am twenty-four."

She stared numbly at him as he smiled. He closed the door again.

A moment later, they started back along the road to where her father was surely waiting in a tizzy.

She shook her head when she thought about that. Her father's tizzy. Surely it could be nothing compared to hers, for it could never have been so frightfully wicked, yet so wonderfully breathtaking at the same time.

"Thank the Lord!" her father said, looking her up and down from head to foot as she stepped out of the coach. "What happened? You're all wet!"

"I am fine, Father," she replied.

"The horses turned off the road and into a bog," the gentleman explained as he dismounted from his own horse. He removed his gloves and strode toward them, glancing briefly at her father's misshapen hand upon his cane. "May I enquire about your driver, sir? Where is he?"

"I am afraid I do not know. We thought he might have stopped to retrieve a bag that fell from the coach before you came along."

"Did he not tell you of his intentions?"

"No."

Tapping his fine leather gloves against his palm, her handsome rescuer looked up at the baggage tied down on the roof. "Everything appears to be secure, even after what just occurred." He turned to look in the direction from which they had come. "Wait here, please. I'll be back shortly."

He started walking.

"Well, at least you're all right," her father said, glancing briefly at her. "This gentleman, was he…Was he helpful?"

"Very helpful, yes," she replied, sensing her father's concern and doing her best to alleviate it with a show of indifference. She could not possibly tell him what really occurred, not to mention how much she'd enjoyed it. "I'm fine, Father."

A few minutes later, they heard footsteps returning, and curiosity compelled Rebecca to start walking toward the sound.

"Where are you going, child?" her father snapped. "Stay here beside me, if you please."

She stopped in the center of the narrow road, but remained exactly where she was with her back to her father, anxious to see her magnificent hero returning. At last he appeared, carrying Mr. Smith over his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes.

"What in the world happened?" she asked.

He continued walking toward her, but addressed her father, not her. "I regret to inform you, sir, it was not a piece of baggage that fell from your coach. Your driver has had too much to drink and tumbled over the side."

"How can you be sure?" Rebecca asked, following them back to the coach. "What if he is ill?"

He carried Mr. Smith around to the front of the coach and managed with a grunt to tip him over the driver's seat rail. The unconscious man fell backward across the cushioned bench, his arm falling limp and resting on the footboard. He snorted and groaned.

"I found the empty bottle a few feet away from him," her gentleman-hero explained as he wiped at his hands. "And he smells like a distillery."