Read Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 for Free Online Page B

be upon them and she dreaded to think of what the nightfall would bring. Dreaded to think that she would have to lie next to the towering, broad-shouldered savage who held her captive. Or that she would be forced to yield the very essence of her femininity to him.
    “ Here. Ye look like ye could use a wee dram,” Iain remarked as he shoved a leather flask under her nose.
    Taken aback by the unexpected offer, Yvette shook her head. “Thank you, but I drank some water with my meal.”
    “’Tis uisge beatha . The ‘water of life,’” he translated in the next instant when he saw her brow crinkle. “What you English call ‘whisky.’”
    Wrinkling her nose, she again shook her he ad, this time more vehemently. She remembered the one and only time that her first husband had forced her to imbibe spirits against her will. It was an unpleasant memory and one that she did not wish to ever repeat.
    Iain took a swig from the flask, the muscles in his neck gleaming in the firelight as he quaffed what Yvette considered an inordinately large amount of the beverage.
    “The offer is still open if later ye change yer mind,” he told her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
    Tossing the flask aside, he proceeded to remove the belted scabbard that sheathe d his deadly-looking claymore. Carefully, he laid the weapon on the ground. Next, he removed the leather belt from which hung his falchion and battle axe. Those, too, were placed on the ground. When he began to remove his wet kilt, her eyes opened wide.
    “What in God’s name are you doing?” she screeched, lunging to her f eet as she charged toward him.
    “Wha t does it look like I’m doing?”
    Yvette came to a sudden halt several feet from him. Turning her head to avert her gaze, she said over her shoulder, “It would appear that you are removing your clothing.”
    “Aye, so I am,” Iain said with a deep-throated chuckle, his levity no doubt caused by the injudicious amount of spirits that he’d just imbibed. “I’m soaked to the skin.”
    As if to prove that very point, he shook his head, drops of water flying in every direction, more than a fe w hitting Yvette on the cheek.
    “Perhaps you should, um, sit by the fire,” she nervously offered, motioning to her vacated stool in the hopes of preventing him from removing any more of his clothing. Still garbed in his tunic, breastplate and boots, he was properly, if not inelegantly, attired.
    Iain suspiciously glanced at her, clearly mistrust ing her sudden show of goodwill.
    “ Mmph,” he muttered as he flung his rain-soaked plaid onto one of the ceiling hooks before sitting astride the stool. Bending at the waist, he proceeded to untie the laces on his boots.
    Somewhat anxiously, Yvette began to pace back and forth. Surreptitiously glancing at Iain’s broad back, she could see that his drab brown tunic was soaking wet, the linsey-woolsey garment clinging to his thighs and upper arms. She hoped, prayed , that he wore a pair of linen braies under his tunic and that like her chemise, it was dry enough for him to wear. Otherwise—
    “I need yer help with these bloody laces,” Iain abruptly informed her, rising from the stool.
    Baffled by the request, Yvette glanced downward. “You seem to have managed well enough on your own,” she replied, verifying that both his feet were bare.
    “I’m talking about the laces on my breastplate,” Iain clarified as he waited for her to approach.
    Rather than stepping toward him, Yvette instead took two steps away from him.
    Noticing her retreat, Iain raised a brow, one side of his mouth quirked in a wry half-smile. “I may growl a bit, but I willna bite ye,” he remarked, raising his right arm to show her the row of laces that he wanted her to untie.
    Since she had no recourse but to do as he bid, Yvette took a steadying breath as she approached him.
    Ducking her head so that she wouldn’t inadvertently make contact with his raised arm, she pulled at the waxed thong