At The Warrior's Mercy. Denise Lynn

on the floor near the brazier and he noticed a hastily made pouch on the small table near the bed that hadn’t been there before.

      Reaching out, he touched the chemise she’d hung over the bedpost nearest the brazier. He removed the now dry garment, noting the square hole cut from the hem, folded it and placed it on the foot of the bed. Retrieving his still-damp cloak from a peg by the door, he hung that from the bedpost. She would need something to keep her warm and dry during their journey over the next two or three days and his cloak would have to do.

      Warehaven’s maiden mumbled something he could barely make out. A step brought him to the side of the bed. She still slept, but her shivers would soon have her awake. He leaned over her, reaching across to pull the free side of the covers she slept upon over to cover her body.

      She turned in her sleep. The warmth of her breath brushed lightly across his cheek, sending a tremor of nearly forgotten longing racing down his spine. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and hold her close until he chased the cold away.

      Gregor tucked the edge of the cover beneath her shoulder and quickly stepped away, silently cursing his stupidity. What was he thinking? Had one missed night of sleep left him so dull-witted that he believed things best left alone could come true on a whim? What made him think just because this woman was interested that she would allow him such liberties?

      He needed to face the facts. He was never going to have the marriage or future he’d long desired. Especially not with Warehaven’s heiress. Once all was said and done, not only would she never permit him such closeness, he’d be surprised if she sought anything other than his death.

      While he didn’t know her well, he was fairly certain that she would devise some slow and painful way to send him to his grave.