Judith Duncan - The Renegade And The Heiress

His face felt wooden when he tipped his head toward the stacked supplies, acknowledging her effort. “Thanks,” he said, avoiding her gaze. Crouching down by the gear Trouper had been carrying, he undid one waterproof kit bag and started pulling extra clothes out. “The wind has picked up and it’s going to get damned cold before the day’s over. So I want you to put this stuff on. We need to get as many layers on you as possible.”

She didn’t say anything as she picked up the stack of clothing he’d piled on the floor, a faint scent of soap he had left out for her snagging his senses. He clenched his jaw, giving himself a moment; then he eased out his breath very carefully. Too close. She had gotten far too close.

His shearling coat appeared on the pile of gear as he pulled another item of clothing out of the waterproof kit bag. He handed her back the coat. “You’ll need that as well.”

“No,” she said, her tone quiet—rebelliously quiet. “I won’t.”

He looked up at her, getting nailed with a hot rush as his gaze slid up her long, long legs, the cashmere sweater clinging to the shape of her breasts. He turned away and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take some even breaths. Hell. He hadn’t had this kind of slip in years—and he didn’t know why it was happening now. Over the years, he’d learned to shut everything down. Especially that. Sexual encounters had always been on his terms—not something that snuck up on him and nailed him from behind.

He took another deep breath and fixed his gaze on her, giving her a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Yes,” he said, his tone short and abrupt. “The last thing we need today is you experiencing another bout of hypothermia.”

She jammed her hands on her hips, pulling the fabric of her sweater tight. “Oh, of course,” she said, her tone snippy as she looked down her nose at him. “And just where would I be if you fell off your horse and froze to death? I’d be dead, that’s where I’d be. So it’s pure common sense that you wear the coat.”

For some reason, Finn wanted to grab her and shake her, but he ground his teeth together and literally counted to ten. Then he spoke, his own tone measured and quiet. Dangerously quiet. “I have another coat,” he said, lifting up the lined mackinaw he had just pulled out of the bag. “You will wear that one.”

She gave him one of her heated looks, snatched it out of his hand and tossed it on the bunk. “Fine,” she snapped.

Finn started stuffing things back in the kit bag, his annoyance escalating. It was going to be a damned long day if she argued with him over every damned thing. He pulled the flap over the zipper on the bag and snapped it shut, and was just setting the bag to one side when he saw her try to pull one of his polar fleeces over her head. She winced and grabbed her shoulder, her face turning ashen. Without saying anything, Finn got to his feet and crossed the room. Hell. He should have checked her over better—she’d probably got hammered up pretty bad when the plane crashed.

He removed her hand and gently probed the shoulder socket, her skin warm and very soft beneath his touch. “Have you ever dislocated it before?”

She went very still under his touch, and he was sure she quit breathing. “No,” she said, her voice uneven. Then her chest rose and she spoke again, her voice a little stronger. “I think I must have jammed it against something in the crash.”

Finn’s insides started to heat up, and he felt suddenly very shaky. Light-headed and shaky. Exposed and shaky. His first instinct was to back away. Getting a grip, he locked his jaw and carefully checked her collarbone and shoulder. Trying to keep his touch impersonal, he pressed his hand against her shoulder blade, finding the scapula intact. The heat from her body made his fingers tingle, and his pulse turned heavy. Too close. Much too close.

Avoiding her gaze, he took the pullover. “Here. Let me help you with this.”

She remained very still as he eased her injured arm into the sleeve, then pulled the neck open so she could slip it on. Recognizing the discomfort her shoulder was giving her, he went to pull the garment down, but she caught him completely off guard when she softly touched the long scar on his face.

Her voice was very soft when she spoke. “How did you get this?”

Still avoiding her gaze, he gave a mirthless smile. “You don’t want to know.”

She traced the length of it, her touch sending a current through his whole body, and it was all he could do not to snatch her hand away. Nobody had touched that scar since the stitches were taken out. Nobody.

She dropped her hand and stepped away, her tone even softer. “I can do it,” she said.

Finn turned away from her, his heart laboring in his chest. She could do it. And he could do himself a big favor and keep away from her. A long way away.

He completed the rest of the preparations, speaking only when he absolutely had to, the tension getting to him. He kept telling himself that once they got moving, it would be okay. It was just the close quarters that were making him so edgy.

With the extra gear he was leaving behind properly stored and the fire extinguished, Finn cast one cursory glance around the cabin, satisfied that it was as it should be; then he pulled the door closed and latched it. His rifle in his hand, he turned toward the horses, experiencing another shot of aggravation. He had told her to get on Gus. He had been specific that she was to ride Gus. With the rough terrain they had to traverse, he wanted her on the horse with the saddle. But no. She was on Trouper, her long legs straddling the big packhorse.

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