The Savage Heart by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online

“You’re a fraud.”
    She glowered, but she didn’t deny it. He lifted her and moved her arm gently to free it from the long sleeve of her blouse. It hurt dreadfully.
    He whispered to her in Sioux, a tender command to be still. Once the arm was free, leaving her only in the sleeveless muslin chemise, he turned her arm gently so that he could see the wound. It was a long, deep cut on her upper arm, made not by a cane, but almost certainly by a sword. A sword concealed in a cane? Whoever had wielded it had meant to do damage, perhaps even more damage than he’d accomplished with this wound.
    â€œThis is deep,” he said angrily. The rent in her otherwise perfect white skin was sluggishly discharging blood. He took a cloth from the washstand, applied pressure, making her wince, and held it until the bleeding began to stop.
    â€œI wish I knew who did it,” she muttered.
    â€œNo more than I do.” He held her hand above the cloth he’d placed over the wound and left her long enough to fetch a basin of water and soap and a fresh cloth. He bathed the wound gently, watching her posture go rigid as he performed the necessary chore. He put the basin aside to fetch a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton flannel. “This is going to hurt like hell,” he told her.
    She held her arm steady and looked at him with her teeth locked, then nodded.
    The sting was almost unbearable. She made a sharp little cry and bit her lip as he flooded the wound with the alcohol.
    â€œSorry,” she said at once, pale but game. “That was shameful, to cry out like that.”
    â€œConsidering the pain, it was hardly shameful,” he said honestly. He covered the wound with another piece of clean flannel and went to fetch her lacy robe from the clothes closet. Gently, he enfolded her in it.
    â€œNo, Matt, it’s the only one I have! The blood will stain it!”
    â€œRobes are easily replaced,” he said indifferently. “Put it on.”
    And without argument she did so, docile, he supposed, because of the pain. He drew the front edges together, his knuckles just barely brushing the curve of her breasts above the chemise, and she gasped at the contact.
    He hesitated, searching her eyes. Under his hands, he could feel the frantic whip of her heart; he could see the erratic beat of the pulse in her neck. Her lips parted and everything she felt was suddenly visible. A scarlet flush ran from her cheeks down her white throat to the silky white skin of her throat and shoulders and breasts.
    Something was happening to her. She felt her breasts draw, as if they’d gone cold. Inside her, there was a burst of warmth, a throbbing that made her feel tight all over. Matt’s hands contracted on the lace of the robe, and if shewasn’t badly mistaken, they moved closer to her skin, the warm knuckles blatantly pressing into the soft flesh.
    His eyes were on a level with hers, and her heart raced even faster as she saw the heat in them. They were a liquid black, steady and turbulent, unblinking on her rapt face. For seconds that dragged into minutes, they simply looked at each other in hot silence.
    Just as his hands moved again, just as she felt the chemise give under their insistent but almost imperceptible downward pressure, footsteps on the staircase sounded like thunder, breaking the spell.
    Matt stood up at once and turned away from her, leaving her to close the robe and fasten it frantically. Her hand went protectively to the flannel she was holding over the wound.
    There was a perfunctory knock and the door opened.
    The doctor glanced from one to the other. “Matt Davis? And this would be your cousin?” he added with a smile, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”
    She told him in a jerky voice.
    â€œI brought her some water and soap to bathe the wound and some flannel and alcohol to clean it thoroughly,” Matt said. “But it will need more