Vision clearing, she squinted up at the Highland warrior towering over her. Broad shouldered and thick through the chest, he peered at her down a long, hawk-like nose. Set in a strong jaw surrounded by too much dark stubble were firm lips, currently pulled into a twisted smile. Thick, black hair—too much of that too—curled at his neck, slightly shorter at the front.
Alana’s jaw dropped. “Morgann MacRae.”
He knelt, plaid stretching with the movement of his muscles, and touched a callused finger to her forehead. Heat pulsed through her skin and she flinched, the ache in her head pounding in response and making her wince.
“So ye do remember me.”
“What are ye trying to do? Kill me?”
“Nay, ‘twas not my intention. But yer the one who threw herself from a perfectly good horse.”
She groaned as she attempted to sit and he flattened a hand to the back of her head, cradling it in his huge palm.
“I wouldnae jumped had ye no’ snatched me. What are ye playing at, ye great fool? I’ve no time for games, Morgann.”
“Ach, ‘tis no game I play, no’ like when we were bairns. Anyway ye looked like ye had all the time in the world.”
Aye, he was certainly no lad. Not anymore. The sweet lad from some eight summers ago was gone, replaced with a flesh and blood man. A raw, rough, handsome man. Her body pulsed in response to the predatory glimmer in his dark gaze.
“My da will be missing me,” she said weakly, wincing when he pulled her to sitting.
He ignored her and thrust his thick fingers into her hair, probing her skull. She whimpered as he found a tender spot at the back of her head.
“Ye’ve a nasty bump. Are ye hurt anywhere else?”
Alana forgot to respond. That rough jaw sat a mere breath away now he knelt beside her and pressed his hands over her arms, checking for injuries. Morgann MacRae? She had not seen him in so long, not since…
“Ow!”
He released her wrist and cradled it carefully in his palm. “Forgive me. Yer wrist is swollen, can ye move it?”
I should swing it at his head, she thought, pleased to note some of her spirit had returned. Instead of voicing her discontent, she twisted her wrist and released a sharp hiss as throbbing pain ran through her arm.
“‘Tis nae broken,” Morgann concluded.
“How would ye know? Yer no healer.”
His dark eyes clashed with hers, surrounded by thick black lashes. His gaze was intense and powerful and made her suddenly breathless. “I’ve seen enough injuries.”
“Have ye?”
“Aye.” He looked down but not before Alana noted the flicker of something painful in his eyes.
He drew his fingers down her side, prodding at her ribs. The shock of his touch through her clothing sent her rigid and dumb even though she knew she should be fighting him off or at least scolding him for such familiarity. It was the fall. Aye, that was it. It had stolen all sense from her.
“We must get ye aid, ye’ve taken a nasty tumble and I think yer a wee addled.”
“I am not addled!”
His lips quirked. “Well yer no docile lass, I’ll give ye that.”
Before she could protest, he’d scooped her into his arms and lifted her over to his waiting mount. His solid chest pressed to hers, the rough fabric of his plaid rubbing under her palm and the undulation of muscles made her head swim. Eyes wide, she gaped up at the man who stood in the place of her childhood friend. Ach, mayhap she was addled.
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About The Author
Samantha Holt
USA TODAY Bestselling Author Samantha Holt is known for fun, witty, and usually steamy historical romances. She's been a full-time writer for longer than she ever thought possible having originally trained as a nurse and an archaeologist. She's a champion napper, owner of too many animals, mum to twins, and lives in a small village near the very middle of England.
She's usually writing (or napping) but when she's not, Samantha is plotting (books of course!) with her husband, drinking coffee, climbing hills that are far too high for her fitness levels or visiting stately homes and pretending she's posh.
Loving Her Highland Enemy Page 10
