‘Perfectly.’ She was trying to edge towards her clothes, which wasn’t easy with her legs crossed. At last she managed to snag her leggings with the thong still tangled inside them. Snatching them up with relief, she held them in front of her. However ridiculous she looked, it was some sort of shield. All she could do now was to start moving backwards, away from him.
She should have seen the tree root coming. She should have known that lightning did sometimes strike the same place twice. The breath flew from her lungs as Heath dived to save her—by some miracle he managed to swing her around before she hit the ground, cushioning her fall with his body. She was too shocked by the impact to do anything but yell, ‘Get off me!’ And scowl down.
Heath grinned up. ‘I think you would have to get off me,’ he pointed out.
Oh, great. She was straddling him, and Heath was clearly enjoying every moment of it—as well he might, with his great big hands firmly attached to her backside. ‘Let me go,’ she insisted, wriggling furiously. But the moment Heath lifted his hands away she missed them and wanted them back again. Fortunately for her, common sense kicked in.
‘You don’t really want to do that, do you, Bronte?’
She turned to look back over her shoulder at Heath.
‘Seriously, it’s not your best look,’ he assured her as she continued to crawl away.
All she cared about was reaching a covey of trees over to her left where there were bushes to hide in while she sorted out her clothes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shrieked with surprise.
Heath had grabbed her and trapped her beneath him on the ground. ‘Preserving your dignity,’ he said calmly, ‘or what little remains of it.’
She followed his gaze. And groaned. Maisie, Colleen, and all of Heath’s men had gathered at a safe distance to watch their little drama play out.
‘Don’t say it,’ Heath warned her in a low growl. ‘I can’t bear to hear a woman swear.’
‘Swear? I can barely draw enough breath to speak with you on top of me. Well—get up,’ she insisted, only to be rewarded by a wolfish grin. ‘Get off me, please,’ she said reluctantly as their audience scattered. ‘We weren’t expecting visitors,’ she said, acutely conscious of her naked body pressed into Heath’s naked chest.
‘Clearly,’ he murmured, gazing down at her.
He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ she said, thinking it best to make conversation in a position like this.
‘Warn a squatter the owner’s on his way?’
‘I’m not a squatter,’ Bronte argued. Her gaze slipped from Heath’s mocking eyes to his sexy mouth, where it lingered. ‘We’re not even staying at the hall,’ she protested faintly.
‘And I should be grateful for that?’
She should be grateful for this, Bronte reflected, telling herself to relax and enjoy—would this moment ever come again?
‘When will you get it through your head that Hebers Ghyll is not yours to do with as you like, Bronte?’
Nor was Heath’s magnificent body, unfortunately. ‘We were only trying to help.’
‘Against my express instructions.’
‘We stayed away from the castle.’
‘Next time, do me the courtesy of asking if you can visit my property first. This obviously comes as a surprise to you, but this is my land, and safety is an overriding concern of mine.’
How could it be when Heath’s chest hair was tormenting her nipples? The men she met on her travels were too busy fretting about their skin care regime or whether or not to wax their chest. Heath clearly suffered no such dilemmas.
‘Well, this is nice,’ he remarked, easing his position, which made her blink. ‘I never took you for a nudist, Bronte.’
‘And I never took you for Genghis Khan,’ she fired back in an attempt to blank the sensation currently flooding her veins.
‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Heath growled softly.
Was it safer to stare into his eyes and see what he was thinking, or at Heath’s firm mouth and long to kiss him? She was in trouble whatever she did, Bronte concluded, while Heath was hot-wired to all her erotic pressure points. She took the only option left open to her, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.
‘Open your eyes, Bronte. This is no time to fall asleep.’
Or to experience that first seductive brush of Heath’s lips, apparently. ‘Oh, clear off,’ she flared, trying to push him away. ‘What are you made of?’ she demanded when he didn’t yield. ‘Kryptonite?’
‘Flesh and blood the same as you.’
‘Not a bit like me,’ Bronte argued primly.’ I have manners.’
‘And a naked bottom,’ Heath commented mildly as she struggled to cover herself with an impossibly shrunken pair of leggings.
‘You’re such a barbarian.’
‘Come on—get dressed.’ As Heath sprang up he dragged her with him. ‘This has gone on long enough, Bronte. You’re still a trespasser with a lot of explaining to do.’
Snatching her hands free, she was crouched down in a ball again. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now.’
‘Oh, can I?’ Heath demanded, planting his hands on his hips.
‘Honestly,’ she flared—though flaring was difficult from a crouching position. ‘I really can’t believe your ingratitude. We cleared your house—your grounds—’
‘And if a wall had fallen on your head?’
‘I already told you, we haven’t been anywhere dangerous.’
‘You’ve been back to the hall,’ said Heath, who showed no sign of going anywhere.
‘Do you seriously think I’d take the girls into a dangerous situation?’
‘No, but you’d walk blindly in,’ Heath argued. ‘And you’d probably be hit by falling masonry before you got halfway through the door.’
‘There’s no need to sound quite so thrilled by the prospect.’
‘Leaving me to clear up the mess,’ he finished, talking over her. ‘When I say don’t do something, there’s a very good reason for it.’
Oh, why wouldn’t her clothes co-operate on damp skin? Her leggings had twisted round like a self-imposed chastity belt. All she could do was crunch over with her arms covering her chest as Heath threw her her top.
‘When were you going to tell me about the window, Bronte?’
She froze mid-pulling it on.
‘What?’ Heath barked. ‘You thought I wouldn’t notice?’
She hadn’t meant to do it and felt terrible. When she had forced the upstairs window to break into the hall the handle had come away in her hand. ‘Oh, Heath, I’m really sorry—’
‘Are you?’ he said impassively. His hands on his hips, he confronted her with a stony gaze.
Displaying a truly magnificent chest, Bronte registered with a sharp intake of breath. She had forgotten how tall Heath was, how impossibly fit. And with nothing to cover those massive blacksmith’s arms, or his powerful torso—
‘Have you done staring?’ he snapped.
‘I’m going home,’ Bronte announced in exasperation. ‘I need to wash this mud off.’
‘I’d