Unbound: (InterMix) Read Free Page A

chalked
     it up to the head injury.
    Some clarity returned as she caught her breath, and the room slowly ceased tumbling.
     She managed to accept a mug of cold water and emptied half of it. It seemed to douse
     the steam fogging her brain, though the nausea and piercing headache remained.
    The man took the mug and set it on a small table at her side, crouching once more.
    “Hold still.” He pushed back her hair to examine whatever damage the fall had done.
     She studied his face as he assessed her injury, trying to make sense of him after
     all these days of perfect isolation.
    His stubble was flirting with beardhood, black save for a patch of silver below his
     lip, and she guessed he was about forty. He had a deep pair of creases between his
     brows and another set bracketing his mouth—stern and steely things. There was less
     gray in his dark hair, but a healthy streaking at his temples. His expression was
     hard, but whether it was his typical look or merely one he reserved for shrill, bleeding
     hikers who barged babbling into his cottage . . .
    No matter how stern or scowly he might be, no matter if Merry was concussed, it didn’t
     diminish her initial assessment. He was hot. Strong nose, distrustful blue eyes. Sort
     of down-and-out, rugged hotness, like a sexy, desperate fugitive. Which might explain
     the whole living-in-the-middle-of-nowhere thing. In any case, he didn’t look like
     a man on vacation.
    But definitely hot.
    Maybe he’ll rip his shirt to pieces, to make bandages for my head.
    Oh shit, I am so hard up.
    “Stay there.” The man stood and disappeared into the next room.
    Merry looked around. She was in a combination kitchen and den, with a wood stove in
     the center, shelves with pots and pans and dishes at her end, a rocking chair at the
     other. The space was lit coolly by the light coming through a single window.
    Her mysterious host returned with a metal first-aid box and a wet washcloth. He rolled
     the sleeves of his thermal shirt to his elbows. “Turn your head.”
    She let him swab her temple, first with water, then with some stinging wipe. “Ow ow
     ow.”
    “That’s quite a bump you’ve got.” His thumb circled the spot.
    “Ow—yes.”
    “But you don’t need stitches at least.” He smeared the cut with ointment and smoothed
     a broad bandage in place. He sat back on his heels, expression softening by a measure.
     “I’ve gotten tape in your hair. Sorry.”
    Merry gave the dressing a faint press. “That’s okay. What about my hand?” She held
     it out, palm crusted maroon with dried blood.
    He took it in his own hand and wiped it clean, revealing only shallow scrapes. She
     stared at his mouth as the antiseptic wipe burned across the savaged skin, concentrating
     on the tight line of his lips until the sting faded.
    “Probably not worth the trouble of wrapping,” he said, letting her hand go.
    “No, probably not. Thank you.”
    He backed off, resting his forearms on his knees. “What are you doing out here, wandering
     around with no supplies?”
    “I’ve got a whole pack of stuff, but I had to ditch it when I got dizzy. It’s down
     the hill a ways. I, um . . . Where’s your bathroom? I should know, just in case. I’m
     pretty nauseous.”
    He stood and went to a cupboard, returning with a large metal bowl and setting it
     on her lap.
    “Or that could work.”
    “The bathroom’s not exactly en suite.”
    Her bowels had settled, at least. “Thanks.”
    “Has the fall made you nauseous?”
    “No, I’ve been queasy since last night, and dizzy. I hit my head when I tripped.”
     She touched the spot.
    “Have you been drinking loch water?”
    “Only filtered.”
    “Have you been keeping it down?”
    Merry shook her head. “Not really. Not since yesterday afternoon.”
    “Want to hazard some tea?”
    “Sure.” Maybe something hot would trick her body into a sense of calm.
    The man went to his stove, lighting a fire in its belly and centering a