Bound to a Warrior Read Free

blouse, his hands were there, trying to force the stubborn, wet strings apart.
    His hands were large and far from delicate. They bore the scars of a warrior used to battle, some faded with time, some more pronounced, and one or two bright with the color of more recently healing wounds. His scars and their predicament made her wonder about this stranger who had been so suddenly thrust into her life and bound to her with no present means of separation.
    With curiosity, her glance shifted to his chest. His wet tan shirt was plastered to it. He had a nice chest, thick and solid with muscle, and she wondered if, like his hands, it bore battle scars. His shoulders were wide as was his neck and she realized then the size of him.
    He was a big Highlander, a good inch, maybe two, over six feet. Next to her meager four inches over five feet she was a bit of a thing. With his sizable width and height, she could easily take cover behind him and not be seen.
    While he continued to diligently work on her ties, her inquisitiveness turned too potent to ignore, so she took the opportunity to peruse the rest of him. His long hair was dark and because it was wet she wasn’t certain of the color, deep brown or black?
    He caught her gaze then and she startled, though certainly not because he caught her examining him. No, it was his strikingly dark eyes and the intensity of his look that made her realize that he truly was concerned for her well-being. And his words confirmed what she felt.
    â€œI’ll have you free of these stubborn ties soon, I promise,” he said and his eyes quickly shifted to where his hands continued to work.
    He spoke with such conviction, his voice a deep rumble like that of the faint thunder that rolls across the land preceding a storm, that she had no doubt he would do just that.
    Her glance remained fixed on his face.
    Handsome?
    Not in the usual sense. His nose had a slight crook, his lips a visible scar tucked in the right corner of his mouth giving him a perpetual half frown. His brow was clear of wrinkles, though not the arch between his eyes. Did he frown more than smile?
    Just as she decided that his weathered complexion enhanced his wildly rugged features, he yanked her blouse over her head.
    She stood stunned, the cold air slapping her breasts like a dash of cold water and she felt her nipples harden even more than they already had. She was fully exposed and she cursed herself for not having slipped on her shift yesterday morning when she had unexpectedly found herself on the run. And while she wanted to wrap her arms protectively across her breasts, she didn’t want to appear vulnerable or a coward.
    He shook his head and held up their joined arms. “The garment goes no further.”
    She kept her eyes on his and was relieved his remained focused on hers. “Your shirt will fair no better. When we settle for the night, we’ll need to somehow spread them out to dry.”
    He nodded, while his hands busily worked to free his black and red plaid. Without hesitation he dropped it to the ground and then stripped off his shirt to let it join hers trapped by the shackle.
    â€œLet’s get your skirt off,” he said and she thought she saw him wince. “Then we can spread our garments near the campfire.”
    There was that rumble of his voice again and for some reason it soothed her. But then she had always favored the sound of faint thunder. It preceded a storm that brought with it the much necessary and life-sustaining rain that nourished the crops and replenished rain barrels.
    Was that why his voice soothed her? He had arrived as unexpectedly as a storm sometimes does. Would he help nourish and sustain her life? So far he had. And would their separation end as abruptly as some storms do?
    She slipped out of her skirt, her thoughts occupied, leaving her a little less apprehensive. Until she realized that they were standing quite naked in front of each other.
    They spoke not a