The Devil of Dunakin Castle

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With a flick of his hand, he yanked off the blanket that she’d been tucking and raised his kilt. Grace’s cheeks flamed at the sight of his muscular thighs, the kilt barely hiding his manhood, which she remembered only too well. “Thank you,” she said and patted his hand to get him to drop the plaid.

Reaching back, he cradled his head so that his elbows jutted outward, making his biceps strain against the linen of his shirt. Lowering her gaze to his wound, she dabbed globs of the honey-garlic mixture onto each of the puncture holes and gashes from the wolf’s teeth. “’Tis a good thing for you that I don’t believe in men turning into werewolves. Else you’d need to worry about me planting my dagger in your heart when you fall asleep.”

“And ruin all your hard work at keeping me alive?” he asked.

Lifting her kirtle, she used the dagger to start the tear of another round of somewhat clean linen fabric. The warrior shifted and cracked his eyes open at the ripping sound. “Ye’ll have little left of your smock by the time we are healed,” he said, his low voice strumming a warm path through Grace. It was an intimate voice, as if they were lovers, and he was imagining her out of her smock.

“Be happy I have it, and wasn’t instead running about the forest naked,” she murmured, bending closer to work the cloth under his thigh, which seemed as thick with muscle as a tree trunk. “Else you could have bled to death.”

“Ye would be an angelic, ice-blue, naked icicle,” he said.

She turned her head to look up at him from her bent position and paused, caught by his stare. The fire crackled in the hearth, while the blizzard whipped around the eves. Nothing else stirred. Even his horse had closed his eyes, dozing while standing near the door. “You called me an angel when you woke.” She should look away, finish the wrapping, but she wondered what thoughts might twist inside him. His dark eyes were mesmerizing.

He shrugged. “I thought I was dead,” he said. “And ye have the look of one.”

She straightened up. “You thought you were dead, and you kissed me? Sinfully kissed me.”

“Aye.” He lowered his arms.

She raised an eyebrow. “So, that is what you plan to do when you reach the gates of Heaven? Kiss an angel and hope God doesn’t throw you down to Hell?”

A lazy smile curved his mouth. “If a kiss from an angel tastes as good as ye, I’d gladly risk damnation.”

She exhaled a laugh in a huff and shook her head to look back at his swollen leg. “You are definitely feverish, Keir Mackinnon.”

“I wasn’t when I kissed ye,” he said, his eyes closing.

Tying the ends of the poultice, she stood. “I will say a prayer for your sinful soul.”

“Good,” he murmured. “For God doesn’t listen to my prayers.”

She frowned. “God listens to all prayers.”