On Thin Ice by Anne Stuart Page A

to do anything to change things. She was lying on something soft, not the hard ground, and there was a roof over her head, and if anyone tried to drag her back into life she was going to kick and scream and fight them every inch.
    “ Gracias, abuelita ,” MacGowan had murmured. Grandmother. The very word warmed her. Between MacGowan the soldier and the old lady, she would be safe. One to defend her, the other to comfort her. And she gave herself up to sleep once more.
    When she woke again it was pitch black, even the dim light of the fire was out, and yet she felt safe, warm, wonderful. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake, she wanted to stay there forever in the safety of his . . .
    Her eyes flew open in the darkness and she tensed. She was lying in his arms, and she had no doubt as to who he was. She could feel his long beard at the back of her neck, the strong arms wrapped around her, holding her against his body. Not that he had any choice in the narrow little bed – it was scarcely big enough for one. His body was curled around hers, and she realized with sudden panic that he was hard. There was no mistaking the feel of it beneath her butt, and for a moment she thought of Carlos and his hands, his eyes.
    A child, and he was dead. She wanted to weep, and would have, if she hadn’t remembered the vicious cruelty in his touch, his words.
    “Go back to sleep, Sister Beth.” His voice was only a breath of sound in her ear, but for some reason it calmed her. She had no illusions about Finn MacGowan – he could be fully as dangerous as any of the men who’d kidnapped her. Perhaps even more so. So why was she feeling safe?
    “Stop calling me that.” Her voice wasn’t any louder than his. “And what are you doing in bed with me?”
    “Didn’t fancy the floor, love,” he replied, using the Irish to try to cajole her. It didn’t work.
    “You’ve slept worse places.”
    She heard him laugh. “How right you are. But not by choice. If there’s a hard floor and a soft bed I’ll go for the soft bed anytime.”
    “It was already occupied,” she said, starting to pull away from him. “I don’t mind the floor.”
    She was hauled back against him, his hands making her struggle useless. “Stop being a baby about it. I’m hardly going to fuck you in full view of young Dylan, who doubtless would be more than happy to watch. Your virtue is entirely safe with me. I just want warmth. And the feel of someone by my side. No ulterior motives, saintly one. I just need someone to hold on to.”
    For a moment she said nothing, remembering the dead men in the last few days. The men MacGowan had killed. After so much carnage it was little wonder he needed to hold on to something. Someone.
    “All right,” she said. “But does it require your hands on my breasts?”
    She could feel the soft rumble of laughter in the chest pressed up against her back, and his hands slipped down to wrap around her waist. “Three years, remember?”
    “There’s only so long you’re going to be able to coast on that, MacGowan. It’s getting old.”
    The vibration of laughter increased, and for some reason it did even more to warm her than the heat from his big, strong body. “You know, Sister Beth, you’re a dangerous woman.”
    “You said that before, and I assume you’re being sarcastic.” She was too sleepy to come up with a real argument, too warm and safe for the first time in days to bestir herself. “I can’t imagine anyone more pathetically weak than I am. What could I possibly do to you?”
    “Sweetheart, you could make me fall in love, and that’s fatal.”
    His voice was soft and cajoling in her ear, and she didn’t bother responding to his absurdity. “Go back to sleep.”
    Again that warming laugh. “Just tell me one thing, Sister Beth. If you’re so uninterested in the lure of the flesh, why were your nipples hard in my hands?”
    “I was dreaming about Brad Pitt.”
    “Woman, you are truly