The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane
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she could do without turning him over.
For now, he was lying to one side, his left arm pinned under his body. Maybe she could hollow out the sand on that side and use his sinking weight to help her roll him over. That would be the gentlest way to turn him. What happened after that would depend on how badly he was hurt.
Moving to his left, she began scraping away the sand along his length, her bare hands hollowing out a space beneath him. She dug furiously, reaching as far under him as his bulk would allow. As he sank into the recess, his body began to rotate onto its side.
So far her idea was working. But the physical contact was more intimate than anything Sylvie had ever experienced with a man. As the backs of her hands rubbed across bone and solid male muscle, she felt herself growing curiously warm. The unaccustomed heat flowed through her, simmering like the ruby-red jam she made when the wild strawberries ripened in midsummer.
Caution shrilled warnings in her head. She was alone here with a child to protect. Her father had taught her to assume the worst of any stranger who showed up. Saving this man could be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. But Christian decency demanded that she try.
She could hear the breath whispering in and out of his nostrils. She could feel the warmth of his skin and hear the low rumblings of an empty belly. But he hadn’t opened his eyes or uttered a sound.
Two years ago her father had brought home a dog-eared medical book. Sylvie had read it so many times that she could quote parts of it from memory. But she wasn’t a doctor. And she certainly wasn’t a miracle worker. The plain truth was, the man could die right here on the beach.
But she wouldn’t let herself think of that now.
Her fingers pawed the sand, widening the hollow she’d made. His body was already tilted. Now all that remained was to roll him onto his back.
It was easier than she’d expected. He tumbled over with an audible grunt, the first sound she’d heard from his lips. Sylvie’s breath seemed to stop as she studied him.
His eyes were closed, his hair sand-plastered to his forehead. A purple bruise lay along one cheekbone, a bloodied gash above his temple. For all the battering, he had a noble face—almost princely with its chiseled nose, strong jaw and lightly cleft chin. His features were marred only by a puckered scar that pulled at a corner of his mouth. That slight imperfection gave him a sardonic look, as if he were smiling at some secret joke.
Was this the face of a good man—a man she could trust with her safety and Daniel’s? Or would saving him turn out to be the worst mistake of her life?
Transfixed, Sylvie leaned over him. Her finger skimmed a trail down his bruised cheek. Her touch sent a quiver through his body. Sensing it, she drew back, almost afraid to breathe. A sense of possession stole over her, as if, in saving the man’s life, she’d somehow made him hers.
His closed eyelids twitched. His throat worked. A moan emerged from between his lips, then a single labored word.
“Catriona…”
The name stung like the brush of a nettle. It didn’t matter, Sylvie told herself. She’d known all along he might belong to someone. And wasn’t it a good sign, that the first word out of his mouth was a woman’s name? If he had a wife or sweetheart, how bad could he be?
“Here’s the water, Sylvie.” Daniel’s voice made her start. She glanced around to see him standing just behind her, holding the canteen.
“I told you to stay up top,” she scolded him.
“I wanted to see.” He stared down at the stranger. “Maybe he’s a prince.”
“A prince? Whatever are you talking about, Daniel Cragun?”
“A prince from the sea, like the one in your story.”
Sylvie shook her head. “That’s make-believe, silly. He’s just a man.”
“No! Look!” Daniel pointed to where the stranger’s left hand lay against his side. On his middle finger was a heavy gold signet ring, set with a sapphire the size of Sylvie’s thumbnail.
Under different circumstances, Sylvie would have been intrigued. Right now she had more important things on her mind.
“Get back and stay back,” she told her brother. “I don’t want you too close when he wakes up.”
Kneeling, she cradled the man’s head in her lap, reached for the canteen and twisted out the stopper. She’d need to be careful, lest she cause him to choke.
Raising his head, she tilted the canteen and gave him just enough water to wet his lips. He jerked reflexively, coughing and sputtering.
“Careful,” she said. “Just a sip.”
He groaned, stirring against her. His eyelids fluttered and opened.
His eyes were a deep, dark blue, as blue as the sapphire on his finger. They stared up at her in blank surprise.
“Where am I?” he muttered. “And who the devil are you?”
Chapter Two
He was dead, that had to be it. And those silver eyes looking down at him, set in a porcelain face and haloed by a nimbus of spun-gold hair, belonged to an angel. Or maybe to a beautiful demoness.
He felt like bloody hell, which argued for the demoness theory. His head ached. His eyes burned. Every bone and muscle felt as if it had been pounded like cheap beefsteak. The few words he’d spoken felt as if they had been ripped from the raw depths of his throat.
Worst of all, he had no idea what had happened to him.
“Don’t try to talk.” One cool hand eased his head upward. He felt the metal mouth of a canteen against his chapped lips. “Just a sip for now. Too much might make you sick.”
The water was fresh and cold. He craved more than the swallow he took, but she was right about getting sick. His throat and stomach felt as if they’d been scoured with a holystone. Best to take things slow.
Coming more awake now, he could hear the lap of the tide and the sharp mewl of seabirds. His skin, hair and clothes were gritty with sand. Had he been shipwrecked? It seemed likely enough, but he had no memory of being on a boat. The blankness was unsettling. But no doubt everything would come back once his head cleared.
Pouring water into her hand, she splashed the worst of the grit from his face. The palm that grazed his skin was callused. His mysterious rescuer was no lady of leisure. But there was an ethereal quality about her, like a fairy-tale princess dressed in faded calico. Nothing about her made sense.
She eyed him warily as he tested his hands and feet, stretching his arms and legs. He was sore all over, though nothing seemed to be broken. But his ears were ringing, and his head throbbed with pain.
Only as he shifted his shoulders did it dawn on him that he was lying with his head in her lap. His senses seemed strangely acute. He could feel the shape of her thighs through her thin cotton skirts. He could feel the flatness of her little belly and the warmth of her skin. He could hear the soft cadence of her breathing. The close contact was having a most ungentlemanly effect on him. At least he knew his body was functional. But he was well on his way to making a fool of himself.
With a grunt, he heaved to a sitting position. The dizziness that swept over him blurred his sight for a moment. As it cleared he saw that he was in a cove ringed by jagged rocks and pine-crested cliffs. Beyond the entrance, sunlight glittered on the open sea. Nearby, on the sand, lay the wrecked hull of a boat.
The beauty who’d awakened him knelt at his side, one hand resting on a club-shaped chunk of driftwood. Peeking around her shoulder with wide brown eyes was a small, black-haired boy.
Lord, who were these people? Where was he?
The boy stepped into full view. His feet were bare, but his clothes were clean and well mended. He looked the newcomer