The Rogue Returns.smashwords by Leigh LaValle

Author:Leigh LaValle [LaValle, Leigh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Heart Bay Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Helen felt like she’d been trampled by horses.

Her every muscle was stiff and sore, and she could barely move. She sat huddled in a ball, her arms clutching the warm object Roane had given her.

Canteen. It was a canteen. She needed to clear the cobwebs from her head and get herself oriented. She brushed the tangled hair from her eyes and peered around. She sat beneath a structure of some sort and a fire burned just feet away.

Apparently, while she’d been sleeping and utterly useless, Roane had been a veritable font of ingenuity.

The man had somehow found a small, flat clearing on the side of this Godforsaken mountain and erected a shelter against the storm. He’d woven pine boughs into the branches over her head, effectively warding off the rain and dripping water. He’d also coaxed a fire to life amidst the torrential downpour and was drying her clothes over the flames.

Her clothes…Roane had seen her naked. Had held her naked in his arms.

Her face heated, and of course he chose that moment to duck into the makeshift shelter, a tin kettle in his hands.

He frowned when he saw her. “Do you feel feverish? Your face is flushed.” He placed the kettle on the outer edge of the fire and stood back to scrutinize her. The roof was just high enough that he didn’t need to stoop.

“You—” She cleared her throat, but her words grew quieter and quieter regardless. “I am wearing your clothes. And you, erm, saw me naked.”

His gaze flicked downward. “I saw parts of you naked, yes. Very interesting parts.” A grin spread across his face as if he could see through the wool blanket to those very interesting parts.

The man was impossibly impossible. Here they were, running for their lives and fighting for survival, and he was flirting with her. “A gentlemen wouldn’t have peeked.”

“Any man would peek, buttercup. You’d make the Pope himself weep with longing.”

She frowned at him, too exhausted to gather her muddled thoughts. All his blond gorgeousness was distracting. He was wet. And muscly. His hair fell back in dripping ringlets, his cloak opened to reveal his bare chest, and his powerful thighs were wrapped in tight wool, the matching bottoms to the shirt she wore.

He looked so warm and virile.

A few hours ago, she’d thought he was dead.

The foaming waves had closed over his head.

The river had flowed and flowed with him under it.

No breath. No heartbeat.

She clutched the warm canteen, cold everywhere.

A worry line deepened between Roane’s brows and he stepped toward her. “Now you are pale.”

“I am not pale,” she snapped as if he’d said she had spots, but she was too wrung out to care. “And can you please be serious for once? You almost died.”

She’d watched him fight for his life and had been helpless to do anything about it. Helpless. It was just like James all over again. Oh, James’s form of drowning had been much slower and much more self-indulgent. But her world had been ripped apart all the same.

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