Page 6 of A Highwayman's Kiss

But she was cold. That was undeniable, however wonderful the surroundings were. The blankets were too thin for the temperature of the cave; how did the mysterious highwayman manage to sleep in any sort of comfort?

But then, men like him didn’t live for comfort. They lived for adventure, the thrill of theft and the even greater thrill of the chase. Abigail shivered, but not from the cold.

Then she shivered from the cold. She wrapped the blankets tighter around herself, trying to create a sort of cocoon, but the damp air of the cave seemed to seep through every layer of wool and fall clammily upon her skin.

This, unfortunately, was impossible. She’d chosen freedom, but not the freedom to die shivering in a nameless cave while a broad-shouldered criminal slept mere feet away. Biting her lip, trying to gather the remnants of the mad courage that had brought her to this point, Abigail sat up in bed.

She heaped the blankets over her shoulders, creating a sort of makeshift shawl. Putting her bare feet down on the floor of the cave, a violent tremble going through her as the cold made itself felt, she made her way unsteadily to where the mysterious highwayman lay sleeping.

Well? Wake him up. Tell him that you’re cold, that you require more blankets.

Or look at him. Just for a little while.

She shouldn’t look at him. Highwaymen weren’t meant to be stared at. But the man was sleeping in such a… well, such a free manner, one arm under his head, his body free of blankets and managing to look undressed even though he was wearing exactly the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d kidnapped her.

And he wasn’t wearing his mask any more. Abigail held her breath, briefly forgetting how freezing she was as she took in the sheer handsomeness of the man’s face.

Criminals weren’t meant to look like this. They were meant to look brutish. But this man… oh, he was glorious.

The man stirred, frowning. Abigail jumped backward, her heart beating rapidly in her throat, before sighing at how stupid she was being.

She was allowed to tell the man she was cold. She certainly wasn’t allowed to think about how terribly well-looking he was. Abigail slowly stepped closer to the man again, allowing the residual heat of the dying fire to warm her freezing toes.

‘Sir.’ She whispered. The man showed no sign of waking. ‘S—sir.’

Nothing. Abigail gingerly knelt, the cold of the cave floor like ice against her knees as she leaned over the man.

‘Sir.’ She didn’t want to speak above a whisper. What if the man took fright, thought she was an enemy and attacked her? True, he didn’t look as if he attacked people—but still. ‘Sir, I’m cold.’

Still nothing. Irritation slowly winning out over caution, Abigail leaned over until she was directly above the man’s ear.

She breathed in. The scent of the man, wool and grass and something indefinable yet deeply masculine, made her feel far warmer than the heat of the fire. As if his proximity had lit a spark in her, some new fire.

Oh, Lord, all she had to do was wake him up and demand a blanket. Why did she keep getting distracted by every new aspect of the man that revealed itself?

‘Sir.’ Perhaps a murmur was better than a whisper. ‘Sir, I don’t wish to wake you, but I’m—I’m cold. Very cold. And if you could find me a blanket, something a little heavier than the ones you have on your bed, I’d be most—oh!’

Her cry of shock came out as a squeak. Without appearing to wake—without his expression of slightly perplexed unconsciousness changing an ounce—the man had wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her crushingly close. So close that Abigail, the echo of her panicked squeak still trapped in her throat, could feel the beating of his heart.

It was overwhelming. Like being thrown off of one’s feet by a wave and dragged under the water. But rather than wet, cold confusion, rather than fear… well, being embraced by a highwayman caused a very different onslaught of emotion.

Especially because the highwayman in question was evidently still asleep. As Abigail trembled against his broad chest, she heard a faint snore.

Some part of him must have heard that I was cold. It was difficult to rationalise anything with a pair of strong arms cuddling one close, but Abigail did her best. And to a sleeping mind, this is the swiftest way of solving the problem.

She certainly wasn’t cold any more. She was tingling with warmth from head to foot. And as the highwayman shifted beneath her, bringing her over to the side closest to the fire, Abigail couldn’t resist a tiny, instinctive sigh of pleasure.

Now she was very warm indeed. The warmth of the dying fire sent a delicious heat down her spine to the tips of her toes. And as for the rest of her… well, the spark that the man’s scent had lit in Abigail was now a blazing fire.

She’d never been so close to anyone before, let alone a man. Let alone a highwayman wanted by every militia in England. She was pressed so tightly to his chest, to his broad thighs, that Abigail could picture his body exactly even with her eyes closed.

She couldn’t open her eyes. If she did she’d see just how close she was to his face, and that could very well make her melt into an embarrassed puddle of contentment.

You could always wriggle away. Abigail’s mind, normally quite helpful, seemed determined to dampen the joy. You could always demand that he unhand you. In fact, my dear, that’s what you’re supposed to do.

But she wasn’t doing it. And Abigail, with a giddy rush of thoroughly illicit happiness, realised that she wasn’t going to do it.

She snuggled closer. The man was asleep, he was warm; it was almost like a dream. A dream that she had to stay awake for—she couldn’t possibly fall asleep in his arms, that would lead to tremendous embarrassment in the morning—but still… oh, it felt wonderful.