“This couldn’t possibly be your proper place.” He sat upright to confront her. “Not very long ago, our king was relieved of his head. His son, the rightful king, Charles II, lives in exile, rallying to be restored to the throne. And Cromwell’s agents comb the countryside seeking men like me to hang from a gibbet in the market square.”
“Well, maybe I was sent back to help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” he snapped.
“I . . .” Her shoulders fell. “Is this about your legs or something?”
He bristled. Would she not leave it alone?
“Because I wasn’t saying you needed help help. Gosh, you’re sensitive. I was just saying, I think for some reason I came back to you specifically.” She poked her finger at his chest. “I made a wish, asked for a Viking, and—”
The laugh exploded from him, surprising them both. “You asked for a Viking?”
“No, not a real Viking. It was . . . a metaphor.”
“You requested a metaphorical Viking from the universe?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms. “Though it didn’t sound so silly at the time.”
He sank back into the seat, staring fixedly at the ceiling of the carriage. Why had he insisted on hiring a carriage? Why hadn’t he put her on that boat with Ormonde instead? He could’ve ridden to Perthshire. It could’ve taken him months.
“I am no woman’s Viking,” he grumbled.
“You can’t . . .” She froze, a look of horror crossing her face. “Wait, you’re not married already, are you?”
He swung his head to look at her, his face dark. “Do I look married?”
She merely stared blankly.
Rollo gestured to his legs. Was she purposely misunderstanding? He raised his brows, waiting impatiently for his point to dawn.
“What, you think because you limp, you can’t get married?” Her laugh was the one to shock him then. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re, like, the hottest man ever. Big whoop, you’ve got a limp.”
What could she mean by hot?
She scooted closer to eye his legs. “They don’t look so bad, anyhow. Not set correctly after a break—that’s it, right?”
“Aye.” He looked again out the window. The carriage suddenly felt intolerably small. “A horse crushed my legs when I was but a lad.”
Her indrawn breath drew his eyes back to her. “That’s horrible!”
He had to chuckle at the earnest look on her face.
“It’s not funny,” she scolded. “That’s, like, the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
Felicity reached her hand out tentatively, then brought it back to her lap. “May I?”
“May you what?”
“I studied massage for a while. I think . . . Well . . .” She tilted her head to get a better look.
Her eyes on him were agony. And yet somehow the shame that usually overtook him at the topic of his legs remained at bay.
“I’ve seen you pound at your leg. Like this.” Felicity balled her hand into a fist and thumped at her thigh. “But that’s not going to help you at all.”
“God save me, is that what I look like?” He shrugged on the familiar self-loathing like a pair of well-worn boots.
Felicity wore her frustration plainly on her face, and he thought it would’ve been comical if she weren’t so damned pretty.
In answer, she simply reached out and grabbed his upper thigh.
“What the—?”
Losh, but her hands were strong.
“This is really . . .”
What was she doing?
“Quite . . .”
Good Lord save him.
“Inappropriate.”
Oh . . . He shuddered, the breath leaving him slowly, as decades of tension unspooled and the pain that had been a constant slowly began to dissolve.
She instantly lightened the pressure. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”
Rollo responded with a tight shake of his head.
“Oh, good.” She redoubled her efforts, using knuckles and thumbs to ease the tightness at the front of his legs. “Because I only studied massage for a year. Well, not really a year. Almost a year.”
She found a sensitive spot and he flinched.
“You sure you’re okay?”
He gave a single nod, his eyes shut tight.“Because you don’t need to be mister tough guy. Just tell me if it hurts.” Her hand grazed the side of his thigh.
Rollo held his breath—what was she doing?
She dug her thumb in hard, and everything else fell away.
This strange . . . massage . . . was shaping up to be one of the single most memorable moments of his life, and yet, seemingly oblivious, Felicity chattered on.
“So anyway, I was really into it,” she said, making circular motions with her thumb. “Into massage school, I mean. But boom, my first hairy back and that was it.” She laughed.
“Wait.” She froze. “You don’t have a hairy back, do you?”
What was she on about?
“No,” he managed. “Not that I know of.”
“Oh good. ’Cause that’s a deal breaker. Though it’d be a shame to have come all this way . . .” She giggled.
“So anyway, I’d really thought it would be my thing. Massage, I mean. Livvie, my Aunt Livia, that is, used to . . .”
She sighed wistfully. The sudden sadness in her voice had him cracking open an eyelid to watch her. Felicity’s lively brown eyes were suddenly quiet. He studied her hand on his leg and fought the urge to take it in his.
“My parents died in a car accident. I was just a little kid, but . . . I was in the car with them.” She grew utterly silent, her uncharacteristic stillness jarring.
“You probably don’t know what that is,” she finally said. She sighed, resuming a slow, stroking motion along the side of his thigh. “A car . . . It’s like a really fast carriage. But with no horses attached.”
She worked silently then, seeming to collect her thoughts.
Rollo watched her, and wondered at the foreign emotion that stabbed his chest. The poor lass, baring her thoughts for all and sundry. And yet, in that instant, he couldn’t fathom what she might be thinking.
“Anyway,” she said finally, “I was hurt. My back. It was bad, for such a little kid.”
She paused, using the opportunity to dig her fingertips in deep. “I guess we have that in common, huh? Getting hurt at such a young age. But I had Livvie to massage my back every night.”
She slowly released the pressure and it was like a torrent of blood was released, rushing through his leg, up his spine, to the base of his neck, making him light-headed.
Groaning, he let his head fall back, savoring the feel of tendons and fibers that had long been in iron knots relaxing for what felt like the first time. Even his chest felt as if it were opening, his breathing somehow freer, his neck, his jaw, all somehow eased.
“Good, huh?” She smiled at him, then looked back at his leg. His left had been snapped in two, but it was his right that had been utterly smashed.
“It’s a tragedy that this wasn’t set right. I had to have a back brace myself, for a while. But it was the feel of Livvie’s hands on me every night. That’s what really saved me. So, I thought, maybe massage. But, no. All those hairy backs.” She gave a quiet, sad laugh. “I can’t really seem to find my thing. But I will,” she finished, sounding an upbeat note.
All that talking had eased her, and she became immersed in the muscles around his right knee, finding knots, digging, stroking.
Rollo let himself grow easy too, shutting his eyes, savoring the feel of a pair of deft hands working his body.
It was entirely inappropriate, but he couldn’t bring himself to make her stop. He hadn’t felt this good since before the accident. How did she manage it with just a single touch?
And if she was capable of making him feel so good with a mere hand on his leg—?
The thought sent a bolt of heat straight to his groin.
His eyes flew open, and his first sight was Felicity doggedly massaging his calf between two hands. Deep in thought, she licked and bit at her lower lip.
He felt himself growing hard, and harder still. His eyes flew from her mouth.
But they landed on her chest. She’d had to lean down, and her dress was tugged dangerously low, her breasts rising and falling with her efforts.
Losh, but was she trying to pull herself out of that thing?
He tried to move away, and must have made some sound, but the effect was the opposite of what he’d intended.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” she said, placing her palm flat on his thigh.
Move the hand. Move the hand.
“Did I hurt you?”
He tried to answer but couldn’t, and she began rubbing slowly again. “Sorry, I’ll go lighter. I found a good spot—”
Her hands grew still.
Surely she didn’t realize how hard she was making him. Curse his body.
At least he knew one aspect of his physique that was in strong, working order. All the good that did.
Of course . . . he could touch her.
She seemed determined that they were meant for each other. He had only to reach out. Touch back. Her thigh—would it be soft or firm beneath his fingertips?
“That’s enough lass,” he croaked.
“Oh.” She sat back. “Enough, yes, of course.”
He clenched his eyes shut tight. A woman like her would want a man whole. A man to sweep her into his arms and climb stairs. Climb mountains.
Not an object of pity. For one day she would pity him. Something, somehow would come to pass, and she’d offer him that look he knew so well. He didn’t think he could bear to see that look, clouding the open joy that was her lovely face.
His realm would forever be one of battles and kings. Not secreted moments in dark carriages.
What she would do next, he had no idea. Rollo could only sit back, shut his eyes tight, and damn his body.