The Warrior Bride by Lois Greiman

it. She glanced furtively over her shoulder at him. His eyes met hers, and she lowered hers hastily, praying he could not read her thoughts.
    “You’d best clothe yourself,” he said.
    “Oh.” The word escaped from her without thought, breathless, worthless, foolish. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Aye,” she said, and lifted the tunic. Her face felt damnably hot.
    “You’ve…” He paused, then tightened his large hands to fists and scowled at her. “You’ve naught else to wear?”
    She shook her head once.
    “Here,” he said and, turning abruptly, reached into the leather bag he’d kept behind his cantle. From it, he drew a fresh shirt. It was a simple garment, softened by time and use and faded to the color of aged bone. “‘Tis clean and dry and will be more comfortable for you.”
    “Nay,” she said, and shook her head. She had no desire whatsoever to wear his clothing, to accept his favors, to make him believe she had some interest in him. ‘Twould be far too personal to feel his shirt against her skin, to smell the essence of him surrounding her like…
    “I will see yours mended, and if the village has a decent leather wright, I will tend to your jerkin as well.”
    “It is fine as it is,” she said.
    “Nay, ‘tis not, for through the rend others will see either the bindings or your…” He paused. His gaze skimmed downward momentarily and when he lifted his eyes again they were darker than ever, with his brows pulled low and his expression hard. “‘Tis in need of repair,” he insisted and shoved his tunic toward her.
    “Very well then,” she said and took the garment from him. Their fingers brushed.
    Silence fell like spilled ink over the room.
    “I will help you…” He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “Don it.”
    She would have to release the garment she held to her breast like an iron shield. The thought went unspoken. But it was obvious. She stared at him, and he stared back, his eyes earnest, his mouth unsmiling, as if this was no more than an unpleasant chore, best done quickly.
    Was it all a ploy to see her unclothed yet again? Did he only hope to compromise her? But nay, she most probably had no need to worry on that account, not once he saw her in the full light of day, scared as she was.
    Tipping up her chin, she met his gaze and dropped the tunic.
    His attention remained focused on her face.
    His square hands were formed into fists and for several seconds he stood exactly as he was. She remained unmoving, unspeaking, waiting in silence. Ready.
    But in the end he neither turned away nor came in a rush.
    Instead, he approached slowly. Her heart beat at the same laborious rate as she watched him fill her sight, and then he reached out. His fingers brushed hers. Lightning sensations shivered up her arm. Her heart leapt and stopped. For a moment the world stood still, but finally he tugged the garment from her clenched fingers.
    “Lift your arms,” he ordered.
    It was all she could manage to do. She felt absolutely naked, as vulnerable as a babe-breathless and lightheaded and foolish as she raised her arms toward the ceiling, revealing all.
    For an instant, his nostrils flared, then, stepping closer still, he bunched the cloth in his fists and tugged the sleeves over her hands. The garment brushed along her arms, raising gooseflesh in its wake. His knuckles grazed her cheek as he drew the garment over her head and downward. For a moment her heart thrummed against the backs of his fingers. Then, soft as a butterfly’s wings, she felt the brush of his hand against her nipple.
    The entire world froze. They were inches apart, breathing in sync, and for just a second she thought she felt him tremble.
    Desire roared through her.
    “Lass.” The word was no more than a whisper. “Aye.” Hers was the same.
    “I need…” He paused. She tried to breathe, but there was no hope of that.
    “What?”
    For a moment he closed his eyes, then he clenched his