The lower part of the wound, the part that swept across his belly, hadn’t needed stitches, but she and Muriel had applied a salve. “I should check it for infection. Just in case.”
He could have checked that section, but she preferred to see for herself.
“As you wish.”
There was something in his tone that made her look up at his face as he obliged, his hand shifting as he freed the two buttons, but when her eyes met his, he merely arched his brows.
She frowned, then looked down.
Leapt up and back. “Oh!”
Color flooded her cheeks. Her gaze remained immovably locked on the head of his fully erect penis. She hadn’t thought… hadn’t expected him to be standing to attention quite like that.
Hauling in a breath, she wrenched her gaze upward, narrowed her eyes on his. “You did that on purpose!”
He laughed. It was such a lovely, rolling sound that she was caught, blinked. Then his eyes returned to hers. “I assure you it doesn’t respond to commands.”
She’d known that, but… the sight of him like that had temporarily scrambled her brain. Beyond her control, her gaze slid down again, to where he stood, if anything even more rampant. That part of him looked a lot bigger than she’d imagined… had she really taken all that inside her?
“From the look on your face, I take it your previous experiences all occurred at night, or at least in a bed.”
She managed to haul her gaze up to frown at him. “Where else… oh.”
She’d never get her color back to normal if she kept thinking…
“Clearly there’s a lot you’ve yet to experience. I’ll be happy to show you… but did you want to check my wound first, or not?”
She blinked at him, gathered her wits. “Yes.”
“In that case”-he waved with his left hand, the one propped on the sink-“be my guest.”
His other hand was splayed on the bench beside him. She suspected he could, if he wished, use it to help her, but from the gleam in his eye, the damn man was baiting her. Challenging her.
She’d never refused a challenge in her life.
Steeling herself, she stepped closer. His knees were wide spread; she halted between. Then she looked down. Boldly reached for his erection, closed the fingers of her left hand about it, and tilted it to the side.
She couldn’t see the gash well enough while standing. Fluidly dropping to a crouch, she slid her fingers down his length, keeping the head tipped aside so she could focus on what was now a red, healing welt. The salve had helped seal it. As far as she could see, the seal had withstood his exertions of the night.
Satisfied, she tensed to rise, but beyond her control her eyes shifted left. To the solid rod she held between her fingers, more or less level with her face. The flaring rim caught her eye, as did the dark color, more purple than red. The skin beneath her fingertips, fine as a baby’s cheek, seemed odd in contrast to the rigid, steely strength. Fascinated, she shifted her fingers, stroked.
Realized he’d grown not just silent but still.
Totally, utterly still-like a massive cat about to pounce.
Before she could react, his hands closed about her shoulders. She rose as he drew her up.
“Don’t let go.”
The words were bitten off, a command-after one glance at his face, one she deigned to obey. Excitement slithered through her, anticipation streaked down her spine.
One large hand rose to slide around her nape, drawing her to him. Into a kiss.
His lips closed over hers, just as she felt his other hand close about hers, locking her fingers around his erection. She tightened her grip-and sensed the hitch in his breathing. Sensed that, with her touch, she held his attention, his entire focus, absolutely.
She drew back from the kiss enough to breathe across his lips, “So teach me. Show me.”
A command of her own, one with which he complied.
He kissed her, all hot tongue and ravenous lips, while he guided her hand, showed her how to please him.
His hand drifted from her nape, down her back, to her waist. Then further to cup her bottom and knead. Then he urged her closer.
He was raising her skirt, and she was curious and eager to learn what it would be like to indulge in broad daylight, when a knock fell on the door.
Releasing him, she whirled to face the door as Molly called, “Miss, are you done with that basin yet?”
“Ah… almost.” She swallowed desperately, fought to strengthen her voice. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I’ll bring it to the kitchen when we’re done.”
“All right, miss.”
Soft footsteps receded down the corridor. Linnet breathed freely again.
Then she whirled-and discovered Logan reaching for his shirt.
She looked down. His breeches were closed. For one crazed moment, she didn’t know if she was grateful or not.
Then she looked him in the eye. “Just as well-I have to work with the donkeys this morning.”
He arched a brow, then pulled his shirt over his head. His expression when his head emerged was harder, bleaker. “I have to remember-if I’m a courier, then there’s some place I’m supposed to be, and no doubt people waiting for me to arrive.”
She frowned, then backed a step so he could stand and tuck in his shirt. “You can’t force your memory-you need to stop trying.”
He said nothing, just shrugged on his coat.
She stifled an irritated humph, then reached for the basin and lifted it. Cast him a deliberately challenging glance. “I could use some help, if you’re up to it.”
He looked at her-directly enough for her to wonder what she’d said-but then his lips thinned and he waved her to the door. “Donkeys. Lead the way.”
She did, waiting by the door for him to open it, then carried the basin back to the kitchen.
Five
Donkeys, Logan learned, were integral to life on Guernsey. They were the favored beasts of burden, better than horses on the rougher island lanes, more agile than bullocks, and, so he was informed, essential for transporting goods up and down the steep streets of St. Peter Port, the island’s main deepwater port, capital, and center of commerce.
Wrapped in Linnet’s father’s cloak, he trudged with Linnet and Vincent across frost-crisped fields, counting the shaggy brown-gray beasts.
When they finally returned to the stable yard, Vincent clapped his gloved hands, his breath fogging around his face. “I make that twenty-maybe twenty-two-we can send to the fair.”
Linnet had been making notes in a small ledger. “Let’s send the twenty-two. We’ll sell them for certain, which is better than us having to carry any extra through to next spring. Our breeding stock’s sound-we don’t need to adjust this year.”
Vincent nodded. “I’ll get the boys to bring them in to the holding pens next week-spend the weeks after that making sure they’re in prime shape and looking their best for the fair.”
Linnet grinned. “You do that.” Shutting her book, she glanced at Logan. Her eyes scanned his face. “Now we’re out and about, we may as well check the goats.”
He merely arched a brow and, resignedly saluting Vincent, who grinned in reply, trudged obediently in her wake as she headed back out of the yard, taking the track along which the boys had driven the wagon to market.
Lengthening his stride, he drew level with his bossy hostess. “Where does this track go?”
“A little way along, it joins the main road that runs along the south coast, then turns up to St. Peter Port.” She stopped at a gate in the fence, unlatched it, then led the way through.
He followed, relatching the gate before tramping after her. The paddock was rougher, more rocky. A wooden- beamed structure, a long, low, open-sided shed, nestled in a dip ahead, a stand of trees behind it. “So you breed
