Compromising Positions Read Free Page B

his gaze sweeping over her, too, from her bare feet and knees peeking out from under her make-shift skirt, to the V her plaid made between her breasts, then up to her face, their eyes meeting and locking. She had that same sense again, the one she’d experienced when she stopped in the clearing where he’d knelt, head bent in prayer. She didn’t understand it, but it gave her a sudden rush of feeling, and her cheeks flushed with it.
    Kirstin didn’t even register the other three men—they were staring, too, although she only sensed this peripherally. It was as if the whole forest had narrowed suddenly into one, shining, sun-dappled path, and it led straight to Donal MacFalon. Kirstin’s knees felt wobbly as she continued her careful approach, running a nervous hand through her hair again, seeing Donal’s gaze distracted by the motion. He traced the dark waterfall her hair made over her creamy, bare shoulders, skipping to her cleavage, then up again, to her eyes—and then, finally, settling on her mouth.
    She opened it to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. She could only stand there, a few feet from the man, trembling like she had been while trapped in the net. Her heart galloped in her chest, and something pumped through her veins that was hotter than her own blood, something foreign and uncontrollable.
    A low whistle came from one of the Englishmen, who leaned in to say to the other, “Imagine her in an English gown.”
    The second man shifted against the tree where he was leaning and remarked, “I’m imagining her out of one.”
    That statement made Donal’s eyes flash and he turned his attention to the two young men. Lord Eldred caught the look and got between them, raising a gloved hand.
    “Gentlemen, remember yourselves,” the bearded Englishman snapped. He turned to her then, bowing slightly, and asked, “What’s your name, m’lady?”
    M’lady? She smiled and wrinkled her nose at that, looking back at Donal. He stared at her still, bemused.
    “Kirstin,” she said simply, her eyes locking again with the man standing transfixed beside her. She was glad there was a tree nearby—still stuck with two arrows—for her to lean back against. “And you’re Donal MacFalon? Laird of Clan MacFalon?”
    “Aye.” He gave a slow nod. “That I am, lass—and I’m vera glad t’meet ye, now that yer not stuck yonder in a tree.”
    She laughed at that, glancing up at the branch where she’d been dangling not too long ago.
    “Thank ye fer savin’ me, kind sir.” She held out a hand to him, and he took it, bending slightly at the waist as any gentleman would. She expected him to kiss the back of her hand like she’d heard from Sibyl was the English custom—since they were in the presence of an English lord—but instead, he turned her hand over, palm up, and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
    Kirstin’s breath caught in her throat, and she melted. His mouth was soft and he had two days’ stubble on his cheeks that prickled the sensitive skin of her wrist. Somehow, that one, small kiss, sent a thousand pulses of light through her body, bringing senses alive she’d never known before, even as a wulver. She looked at him in wonder, staring into those slate-blue eyes. They were focused solely on her like she was the only thing left in the world to look at.
    “Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” Lord Eldred interrupted their interlude, holding his gloved hand out for hers, but Kirstin held the edged of her wrapped plaid and dropped into a brief curtsy instead. Sibyl had taught it to her and some of the other wulvers, and she used it to keep from having to touch him. For some reason, the thought was anathema to her. The older man nodded, lips pursing for a moment before he smiled and turned to introduce his men. “I’m Lord Eldred Lothienne, and these are my captains—William and Geoffrey Blackmoore of Blythe.”
    “Sirs.” She curtsied for them, too, seeing Donal still watching