“Are you certain you’re not hungry yet?” He changed the subject swiftly.
“I can wait until we stop for the night,” she assured him absently, too occupied with her thoughts to consider physical demands. She no longer wondered why he had appeared so late, bloody and mud-stained. He had come, and that was enough for now.
There were other, bigger questions she needed answered.
As they remounted, he drew her against him and she relaxed, relishing the feel of his hard body.
A few hours later, she reached a decision. A lass has to do what a lass has to do, she told herself firmly. By morning she planned to acquire a sudden case of inexplicable illness that would demand they secure permanent shelter long before they reached Dalkeith. She had no idea that, by morning, serendipity would take charge of events for her with a twisted sense of humor.
CHAPTER 26
JILLIAN ROLLED OVER, STRETCHED, AND PEERED through the dim light at Grimm. Furs hung over the windows of the cottage. They barred entrance to the bitter wind, but also permitted little light. The fire had burned down to embers hours ago, and in the amber glow that remained he looked like a bronzed warrior, a heroic, mighty Viking stretched out on the pallet of furs with one arm bent behind his head, the other curled about her waist.
By the saints, but the man was beautiful! In repose, his face had the kind of perfection that made one think of an archangel, created by a joyous God. His brows winged in black arches above eyes that were fringed with thick lashes. Although tiny lines splayed out from the corners of his eyes, he had few laugh lines around his mouth, a lack she intended to remedy. His nose was straight and proud, his lips … she could spend a day just gazing at those firm pink lips that curved sensually even in his sleep. She dropped a whisper-light kiss upon the stubborn cleft in his chin.
When they’d arrived the night before, Grimm had built a roaring fire and melted buckets of snow for a bath. They’d shared a tub, shivering in the frigid air until the heat of passion had warmed them to the bone. On a lush pile of furs, they’d wordlessly renewed their pledge to each other. The man was patently inexhaustible, she thought contentedly. Her body ached pleasantly from the marathon lovemaking. He’d shown her things that made her cheeks flame and her heart race in anticipation of more.
Steamy thoughts decamped abruptly when her stomach chose that moment to lurch alarmingly. Rendered momentarily breathless from the sudden nausea, she curled on her side and waited for the feeling to recede. As they’d had little to eat last night and been very active, she concluded she was probably hungry. An aching tummy would certainly make her plan to convince Grimm she was too sick to ride to Dalkeith easier to enact. What illness could she claim? An upset stomach might not be convincing enough to make him consider stopping in a village he’d sworn never to see again.
Conveniently, another wave of nausea gripped her. She scowled as the possibility occurred to her that she’d actually made herself ill merely by planning to pretend she was. She lay motionless, waiting for the discomfort to subside, and conjured visions of her favorite food, hoping that imagination would quaff the hunger pains.
Thoughts of Kaley’s pork roast nearly doubled her over. Baked fish in wine sauce had her gagging in an instant. Bread? That didn’t sound so bad. The crustier the better. She tried to inch away from Grimm to snatch the satchel where she’d seen a loaf of brown bread the night before, but in his sleep he tightened his arm around her waist. Stealthily she worked at his fingers, but they were like iron vises. As a fresh wave of nausea assaulted her, she moaned and curled into a ball, clutching her stomach. The sound woke Grimm instantly.
“Are you all right, lass? Did I hurt you?”
Afraid he was referring to their excessive lovemaking, she hastened to reassure him. She didn’t wish to give him any reason to think twice before bestowing such pleasure on her again. “I’m only a bit sore,” she said, then groaned as her stomach heaved again.
“What is it?” Grimm shot up in bed, and despite her misery she marveled at his beauty. His black hair fell about his face, and although the thought of food made her feel impossibly queasy, his lips still looked inviting.
“Did I harm you in my sleep?” he asked hoarsely. “What is it? Talk to me, lass!”
“I just don’t feel well. I don’t know what’s wrong. My stomach hurts.”
“Would food help?” He scuffled through the packs rapidly. Uncovering a large piece of greasy, salted beef, he thrust it beneath her nose.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, lunging to her knees. She scuttled away from him as quickly as possible, but made it only a few feet before retching. He was at her side in a heartbeat, smoothing the hair back from her face. “Don’t,” she cried. “Don’t even look at me.” Jillian hadn’t been sick much in her life, but when she had she loathed anyone seeing her weakened by forces beyond her control. It made her feel helpless.