Thorne wrapped one arm around the small of her back and slid the other beneath her thighs. With a flex of his muscles and a grunt of effort, he plucked her off her feet and settled her weight against his chest. She was a good bit heavier than when he’d done this last. But then, he was bigger and stronger, too.
He ducked his head, using his sleeve to wipe the raindrops from his face, and started walking. His boots squelched through the muddy flat, slowing his progress. When he finally reached the bluffs, he had firmer rock beneath his feet.
Of course, he also had to trudge uphill.
He paused to rebalance her weight. “Can you put your arms around me?”
She obeyed, sliding her chilled arms free and reaching to lace them around his neck. It helped. If nothing else, the secret thrill of her touch against his skin made his heart beat faster, powering a new surge of strength to his limbs.
He made the final climb in determined strides, carrying her straight to the heart of the castle—the keep, where his personal quarters were.
Once he had her inside, he lit a lamp and assessed her state more carefully. Her damp, chilled condition appalled him, but it also gave him something to do. He made a mental list. First, dry clothing and blankets. Second, a fire. Third, nourishment. Then he’d see about restoring her gown to rights.
Badger shook himself, spraying muddy droplets everywhere. Thorne threw him an old quilt, and the dog nosed and rolled in it.
“That’ll have to do for you,” he said to the dog. “She comes first.”
He rolled up his sleeves and went to work. There was nothing sensual in the way he helped her out of the sodden, mud-spattered frock. He moved briskly, willing himself not to notice anything of her bare body save the pale, bluish tinge of her skin and the way her muscles quivered. To take any pleasure from this would be disgusting and base.
As she sat on the hearth rug and hugged her knees to her chest, he toweled dry her hair and helped her into one of his own clean, dry shirts. For modesty’s sake, he draped it over her head and shoulders before reaching beneath to unbutton and remove her chemise. He tried his best to keep his cold, coarse fingers from scraping against her bare flesh. He averted his eyes from the flash of her red, turgid nipple as he switched one garment for the other. As he pulled the folds of crisp, soap-scented lawn down her midriff, he tried to ignore the way lamplight cast her slight, nubile form in silhouette.
He couldn’t, not entirely. What a beast he was.
He would rather let her tend to such things herself, but she seemed incapable at the moment.
Once he laid a fire, she stared dully into it, mute and shivering. He wondered if it was the shock of remembering the Hothouse, and the squalid conditions there. Perhaps her mother’s loss had suddenly become real to her, and she was suffering the pangs of grief.
In any event, he didn’t want to rush her or press her to talk. He just relished the chance to take care of her, here and now—where this was his right, his responsibility, and no one else’s. He was happy for her to stare into the fire. When she came back to herself, those hazel eyes would no doubt turn on him and fill with loathing. It might be the last time she looked at him, ever again.
“Here,” he said, crouching beside her and offering her a steaming mug of tea, well-doctored with sugar and brandy. “Drink this. It will help you get warm.”
He put it in her hands, wrapping her fingers around it. She held it, but only stared blankly at the contents.
“I c-can’t seem to stop shivering.”
He reached for another blanket.
“No.” Her head turned, and her eyes focused on his face. “I want you, Samuel. I want you to hold me. Pl-Please.”
Those words—just the words alone—found some aching chasm in his soul and filled it. But damn it, he was trying to be honorable. If he took her in his arms, he wasn’t sure he could keep his thoughts protective.
“I should tend to your frock,” he said. “It’s almost dry, but it needs—”
“The frock can wait.” With trembling hands, she set the mug of tea on the floor. “I can’t.” Another chill racked her body. “I need you.”
Reluctantly, he sat beside her on the small, threadbare rug. He stretched one of his legs behind her, propping her up with his bent knee. His other leg sprawled toward the fire. And then he put both arms around her, and she sank into his embrace, nestling close to his chest. Her cool cheek rested against his pounding heart.
“Tight,” she whispered. “Hold me tight.”
He obeyed, flexing the muscles in his arms.
Her discomfort was his enemy. Any chills that dared rack her frame would have to rattle him, too. He had heat and strength enough for them both.
He bent his head, burying his face in her curling hair and letting his breath warm her ear and the back of her neck.
Her fingers gathered a fistful of his shirt and clung tight. They remained like that several minutes. He kept a close watch on her bottom lip. When it pinked and ceased quivering, a stupid surge of triumph rushed to his head. He had the brief, idiot notion he’d done something good for her.