Sarah McCarty - Sam's Creed

He favored his leg as he brought the fish over. “Good for a man to know where he stands.”

From where she sat, it seemed he wouldn’t be standing much more. The firelight highlighted the paleness of his face and the lines carved deeper at the corners of his eyes. He was hurting and tired. Because of her. She motioned to the boulder across the fire and against the wall. “You will sit and let me tend to your wound.”

“I will?”

“Yes.” Standing, she brushed the dirt from her skirt. “Unless it is your wish for your wound to fester and for you to die.”

His gaze burned a path from her head to her toes. “I can’t say that I’m anxious to meet my maker just yet.”

The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, but oddly enough, not scared.

She pointed to the boulder. “Sit.”

“Is that an order?”

It had been, but maybe ordering a man like Sam around was not such a good idea. She crossed to the saddlebags and rummaged around. “You should think of it as a reasonable request.”

He followed her with that miss-nothing gaze of his. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in response to the look—so strong that it felt like a touch. Her fingers closed over a silver flask.

“When you were thinking of this reasonable request, did you stop to think I’d have to remove my pants to accommodate it?”

She had, but thinking ahead did nothing to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks. She had never seen a man naked. It wasn’t done for a young woman of her station, but Sam did not need to know that. “I will do my best to preserve your modesty.”

While gaining as much of an eyeful as she could. She was very curious about the male body.

Sam didn’t answer immediately. His boot sole scuffed over the sandy cave floor. A glance wasn’t any more revealing as to his mood. The press of his lips could be anger as easily as it could be amusement. He was a very hard man to read.

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Uncorking the flask, she took a sniff. The odor of strong drink made her eyes burn.

Sam grunted as he sat down. “That you can pass on over.”

She tapped the cork back into the bottle. “You will drink it if I do.”

His holster scraped rock. “That’s sort of the point.”

He was always so on guard. “I will need it to clean your wound.”

“Like hell.”

Frowning over her shoulder at him, she pulled out a flat packet tied with rawhide. “There is no need for such language.”

“You ever had rotgut poured over an open bullet hole?”

“I am not so foolish as to throw myself in front of a bullet.”

It angered her that he had. Even more that he wasn’t taking the wound seriously. People died from infection.

“Duchess, I was saving your life. That makes me a hero, not a fool.”

She opened the packet and found a needle and catgut inside along with plenty of strips of material for bandages. She didn’t want to think how dangerous Sam’s life must be that he carried such things with him. Nor did she like how little catgut there was compared to bandages. He must be injured often. She snapped the packet closed and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “You were needlessly reckless.”

“That’s my job.”

He said that as if it was the truth, but she did not think so. Grabbing up the items, she headed back toward him. He watched her the whole ten steps. There was something in his eyes that had not been there before.

She dropped to her knees by his injured leg, wincing as her muscles protested. She was not used to riding so much. “I think you are too enthusiastic in your doing of this job.”

The soft leather of his glove skimmed her temple, tangled in her hair before curving behind her ear, taking the annoying strand of hair with it. “Pardon me, duchess, but what you know about about my job wouldn’t fit on the head of a pin.”

She carefully placed her hands on his thigh, feeling very bold. Women of her station did not get this close to strange men. It was nothing like touching her leg. There was no softness beneath her fingertips. Just rockhard muscle. Which only led her to wonder how else men were different. “I do not think I need to know a ranger’s job to know what I see.”

“And what do you see?”

Muscle bunched under the press of her fingertips. She glanced up, catching his gaze. The answer just popped out. “Trouble.”

For one heartbeat Sam didn’t react, and then he laughed, a deep soft sound that slipped over her nerves like warm honey. She slid her hands higher toward the blood-soaked bandage.

“On that you’ve got the right end of the stick.”

“So maybe I have the right end of other sticks, too.”

“I wouldn’t lay money on it.”

She noticed he didn’t deny it outright. Sam Mac-Gregor was an honest man, if maybe a little evasive. The makeshift bandage was stiff with dried blood. It took her a few minutes to work the knot free.

When she parted the edges, she had full view of the hole in his pants and a glimpse of the raw wound beneath. Her stomach heaved. She swallowed it back. She no longer had the luxury of weakness.

“I think I will decide for myself where to put my money.”

And right now everything she had was riding on Sam. Placing the dirty bandanna on the floor, she indicated his pants. “As I have laid my money on you, I would appreciate your help.”

The humor clung to his expression as he pushed his hat back. “You want me to shuck my pants?”

Her blush rose and her mouth went dry. “This would be helpful.”

Again the brush of his fingers over her temple. And then his fingers were under her chin, lifting her face up. Her senses tuned to the four points of pressure, the softness of the leather glove, the scent of his skin, the cool blue of his eyes.

“You ever ask me that with something more lighthearted in mind, I’ll have them off before you can blink.”

It took her a second to process the meaning through the intensity of awareness arcing between them. He was telling her no. She blinked the cobwebs from her mind. That was unacceptable. “They need to come off now.”

So she could get to that ugly-looking wound, among other things.

The fire popped. The aroma of roasted fish drifted closer. Isabella wrinkled her nose. Sam grinned. His thumb touched her lips.

“Hand me the flask and the kit.”

He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired, and hungry, and I’m not wearing long johns.”

Now, that was an interesting fact. “You cannot treat yourself.”

His smile broadened. His thumb pressed harder. Her breath caught as her lips parted. The scent of leather and smoke—the scent of Sam—invaded her mouth on a lazy drift, strong enough that she could savor the illusion of his taste. “I can do a lot of things that would stretch your imagination.”

“We are no longer talking about stitching your wound, are we?”

“We should be.”

His fingers pressed upward in a silent command. The stiffness in her legs made standing more difficult than it should be. The hunger in his eyes made staying put even more difficult. Even Tejala had not looked at her with such want.

“For future reference, Bella, getting on your knees in front of a man is not a good idea.”

“Why?”

His grip shifted to her upper arm as he helped her up the last few inches. “That you will have to ask your husband.”

It was not her imagination that his fingers lingered on her upper arm. Nor that where his fingers lingered, tiny fires seemed to start under her skin. “I am not married.”

“Then you’ll have to wait for the why until you are.”

“This would require patience.” She stepped back, the heat from his gaze strangely finding a home under her skin. “I do not have much patience.”