Chapter 19

"As long as none of it is yours," he growled. He pulled over the other chair and sat facing her, knees to knees. He chafed both of her small hands between his larger ones. "I washed at the well behind the hut, but I didn't stop to think... Shall I bring in a bucketful and heat it for you? I'd only planned to keep you here until morning, and I didn't think to bring you any clothes. I was just going to bustle you into the carriage in the morning and whisk you off to Weir Castle."

"Planning to smuggle me out, my lord?"

His olive skin flushed a slightly darker shade. "I had thought to. Obviously I wasn't prepared for every eventuality."

"No. Clearly not. One could almost believe you've never done this before."

"I haven't." He still held her hands in his, though the chafing had softened to a light caress. Georgie felt his touch all the way to her core. "I'm only three and thirty, you know. The last maiden actually became my governess after my father brought her home. And I believe the one before that was my grandmother."

"But - that would have been Mr. Dewey's cousin, who was lame." Each of the stories she'd heard during yesterday's village fair had become indelibly etched into her brain.

"Grandmama did have a limp," he agreed with a shrug. "But apparently the doctors in London were able to minimize her discomfort. She lived to be seventy and gave my grandfather six children."

"Six? And are they all...like you?"

"Not exactly. Only the oldest son inherits the dragon magic." He twisted a ring on his finger that bore the symbol of a dragon, etched into a large ruby. "Although my sister's temper is more fiery than my breath. The others do have their own power, however. Penelope can shift into a kestrel. We're not a terribly prolific lot, but each of my cousins of the Maddox line has his - or her - own other self. My uncle Ewan is a fox, and a tricky bloke he is."

Georgie laughed, but made the mistake of looking down at her clothes again and her chuckle turned into a moan.

"Well then." Lord Weir stood just as the kettle whistled. "I think some water and something to wear are in order." He stripped out of his linen shirt and laid it on the table, then strode out of the hut.

Georgie watched his back as he walked away. She couldn't help herself. What would it be like to touch him there, to feel the play of those muscles beneath her fingers? She was still staring at the door when he returned, carrying a large wooden bucket full of water.

He set it in front of the fire, then added the contents of the kettle. Steam curled around his face as he tested the temperature and turned to Georgie. "A bit cool, but it should suffice. When you've finished, put on my shirt and get under the covers."

"Thank you," Georgie said simply. She waited until he'd left the hut again before peeling off the soiled gown, then tore off a piece of the ruffle from the back of the hem. Since most of the blood was on the front, it made an acceptable washrag.

Heaven! Washing her face first, she sighed at the relief of ridding herself of the grime and blood she'd accumulated. She worked her way down quickly, before the water grew cold, ending with her filthy feet. She still didn't understand why the sacrifice had to be barefoot.

As soon as she was clean, she pulled Lord Weir's shirt over her head. It came nearly to her knees, and she had to roll the sleeves up several times to free her hands. The linen was warm and soft, and smelled of him. She drew in a deep breath, and once again felt that tingling in her breasts and loins. What was it about this man that made her respond like such a wanton?

She hauled the bucket of bloody, dirty water to the door and stepped outside. His lordship stood beside the entrance, his bare back leaning against the wooden window frame, rather than the rough wattle wall.

"What's wrong?" he asked? His gaze raked her from head to toe, lingering on her bare legs and the deep neckline of his shirt.

"Nothing, my lord." She ducked her head rather than stare at his naked skin.

His laugh sounded rusty. "Given that you're wearing my clothing, I think you could call me Caddoc."

Caddoc. It had a nice sound, she decided. Strong and rugged, it suited him.

"I thought to dump this away from the hut," she told him, holding out the bucket.

"Let me." He took it from her, his fingers brushing against her hands.

Georgie caught her breath. She still hadn't grown used to his touch.

Caddoc strode to the edge of the clearing and dumped the bucket into the weeds. Then he disappeared around the back of the hut, and she heard the sounds of a winch as he drew another bucket.

Caddoc groaned when he rounded the corner and found her standing there still, wearing nothing but his shirt. The light fabric clung to her curves and left most of her legs exposed. Like the rest of her, her legs were curvaceous and strong, making him long to see what they looked like thrown over his shoulders. Every instinct he possessed urged him to take advantage of tradition and make her his tonight.

But despite the beast raging beneath his skin, he still had a gentleman's honour. Carrying the bucket, he held open the door and motioned her inside. "You should go to bed. I'll come for you at first light."

"Very well." She turned to walk toward the bed in the corner and Caddoc couldn't stop himself from watching the sway of her rounded buttocks as she moved. Then he forced himself to drop his gaze - which is when he noticed her foot was leaving blood on the floor.