The one that disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.
HER CINNAMON SCENT filled the air around Wulf again as his highwayman drew close. She set the water on the floor, then quickly unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it. Clad in shirtsleeves and a plain waistcoat, she leaned forward to study his wound.
The pain had dulled now—shoulder, head—giving way to an intense craving for her. One that balanced on the keen edge of pleasure and torment.
Competent fingers brushed against his thigh as she retrieved one of the clothe strips he’d laid there. Wulf went hard, fought not to touch her. To accept the gentle ministrations as she dipped the fabric in the water and carefully sponged away the blood.
She narrowed her eyes as she worked, leaned closer. He carefully studied each feature of her face, memorizing its contours. A strong nose, eyes he could see now were hazel, and a narrow, pointed chin. A lush, full mouth.
The dandies in London might not call her a diamond of the first water, but there was something arresting about her face, her confident manner.
“You are very beautiful,” he murmured.
She stilled, frozen as she bent to reach for the pot of water again.
“No one has ever called me that before.” Moving slowly, she dunked the cloth, then looked directly at him as she straightened. That level, honest stare was almost difficult to meet. “Someone said I was a handsome woman once, but no one has ever used the word beautiful.”
“You are beautiful. It is true.” So true, just the look of her dried his throat. Her face was fiercely lovely, full of feminine strength. Everything about those features might have come from an ancient goddess.
“Well. You are the first to think so.” She breathed deep, let it out again, and continued her task. “If you intend to flatter me into becoming your lover, it will not work.”
“I see.” Amused at both of them, he studied her fingers as she worked. Long, quick, elegant. “Thank you for being straightforward about that.”
“I am a highwayman, and I take my pleasure where and how I want, but I am careful.” She slid him a mischievous glance, long lashes flashing over eyes not quite green, not quite brown, but a mixture of both. “And you are wounded.”
“Hardly,” he snorted.
“I must admit, I did a poor job shooting you.” She probed the area gently, pursed her lips. “It is not even worth stitching, truth be told. Salve over the next few days and clean wrappings should do it.”
“To be felled so low over so small a wound,” Wulf quipped, and had the pleasure of seeing her lips turn up with humor.
“But felled by the Honest Highwayman, so that must be some comfort,” she added.
“True.” Which made him curious about her. She was certainly no village housewife or servant. “Who are you? It is whispered you give away everything you take. Why do you do this at all?”
“I am tempted not to tell you, but it is no secret among the villagers—though they may not answer if a duke were to ask.” The rag plopped into the water as she dropped it, then reached for the remaining strip of his shirt. “There are many in need. The lords write their laws, the orators in London shout about poverty and politics and money, but that does not change what is here. Right here, in the village. Many are prosperous, and many others are not. Children die of hunger from time to time, or the aged cannot pay for a surgeon or buy a tincture from an apothecary, and we lose them too soon.”
“Few of my tenants are in such dire circumstances. I see that they are cared for during the lean times.” He disliked feeling the need to defend himself but found he could not let the statement remain unsaid.
“You are particularly kind, then.” She wound the torn cloth around his shoulder, binding it tightly. “Many are not, and those in the village are unsupported. There was a young widow who gave away her four children a few years ago—to work for others for free, rather than as paid servants—because she could not feed them. They are fed and clothed now, so I cannot blame her. Yet I would have helped if I could.
“There are many who sit in London, in their finery and with their fancy brandy, visiting Parliament each day where they have a chance to make a difference.” She breathed deep, then continued. “They think nothing of those who are less fortunate.”
“I see.” Perhaps Wulf might have been included among such company. He championed his own causes, but he had not often considered the circumstances of the poor. He doubted he would ever neglect the subject again. “Still, there are other, legitimate methods to see the poor are cared for. Pamphlets, treatises, even laws. Look to those who have made a difference before, making people think with their words. Skulking around at night and engaging in highway robbery is not necessarily the best method to support your cause.”
“My method is practical, at least, and immediate.” Annoyance flashed over her face. “Those I steal from possess more than enough money, and usually spend it on drink or gambling or women. Jewelry and fashionable gowns. New curtains for a drawing room, simply for the sake of new curtains.” She tied the ends of the fabric and stepped back, examined her work.
“You rob those with excess and give to those in need.” Fascinated, Wulf cocked his head, considered her firm expression. “And when you shoot your prey, you tend to his injuries.”
“I suppose I do.” Her lips slowly curved with resigned humor, softening the features that had hardened and making him want to kiss her as much as her irritation had.
He was certain there was not another woman in all of England quite like this one.
“You are an extraordinary woman.”
She laughed at that. Threw back her head and laughed, long and loud. “You would not think so if we were anywhere but here, in this cabin.”
“I think I would.” Which brought another question to his mind. “Would I meet you somewhere else?”
“No.” Though her smile remained and her gaze was steady, the word was flat. He had heard similar tones in the secret hiding places of France and Belgium.
“Why do I think you are lying?” he asked softly.
“Because I am a thief.”
“True.”
“I am also a passable surgeon.” She grinned at him, eyes snapping once more with good humor. Stepping close, this time between his legs, she adjusted the binding on his arm with gentle hands. “You are quite cleaned up.”
“Thank you, though it seems strange to say, as it was you who shot me.”
Though she had no need to remain in front of him, she stayed, her thighs brushing against his. No petticoats and skirts between his skin and hers, only buckskin and wool. Wide, beautiful eyes met his, held. Still, she did not move away.
Heat speared through him, lust ground at his control. Her body called him. The nip at the waist of her waistcoat, the flare at her hips, the soft rounding of her belly. So many gorgeous lines and curves to follow. Unable to keep himself from touching, Wulf reached out with his good hand, set his fingers lightly on her waist.
Her breathing quickened, and her eyes went dark.
“Now that your injury is tended, what shall we do?” A feline smile moved across her face. “Games, perhaps?”
CHAPTER 6
BEA SET her lips to his, took and tasted, simply because she wanted to. Caution be damned. The iron kettle on the floor was ignored, the shirt he’d discarded only a whisper in her mind.
Instead, the heat of him thrilled. The scent of him made her yearn.
And his mouth. It gave sweetly and still greedily consumed. He tasted of winter. Of lust. Of need. She wanted more before she even understood the want. Every inch of her body was lit with fire as brilliant and hot as the flame in the hearth.
Wulf’s face tipped up toward hers. The hand at her waist curled around to her back, drew her closer as his injured arm rose. A warm, rough palm pressed against her cheek, his thumb feathering across her skin.