Lord of Lightning Read Online Free Page B

pooled around his feet. He stepped out of it, swept up the cellophane-thin, antistatic material and walked to the cabin’s enclosed back porch to discard it in a sealed metal container.
    When he returned to the room moments later with an antiseptic solution and some bandages to dress her wounds, she had shifted to her side and thrown her hand above her head. The position made her look fragile and feminine, even faintly tragic. He stopped to study her, struck by the vulnerability she’d unknowingly exposed to his eyes. It hit him then that she was vulnerable. A woman unconscious on a strange man’s bed.
    She was beautiful, he realized, surprised that he hadn’t noticed it before, in the store. He’d found her attractive then, but now, in repose, he could see the simplicity inherent in her bone structure and the brushed golden tones in her skin. The sunny streaks in her wheat-colored hair highlighted the plaits of her French braid, which was coiled and pinned at her nape. He remembered her eyes. They were a strange pale blue, like dawn on a cloudy day. Beautiful eyes, he decided. She was a woman who brought fundamental things to mind—dawn, sunshine, the elements.
    He sat down on the bed next to her, and with a dampened cloth, began to clean the cut on her forehead. She stirred, but didn’t wake. When she did, he knew he would have to find a way to quickly reassure her that she was safe. He didn’t want her panicking again. She’d already done herself enough damage.
    He cleaned the cuts on her arm, and then attempted to roll her to her back so that he could clean the arm she was lying on. She moaned softly as he lifted and repositioned her. That was when he saw the rip in her dress and the gash that began at her rib cage and ran alongside her breast to her armpit. Though she was no longer bleeding, there were some violent looking bruises. It was possible she’d broken some ribs.
    He rose slowly, staring at her, his heart thudding.
    He was going to have to undress her to get to the wound.
    The brutal irony of it hit him immediately. Undressing a beautiful woman would have been a fantasy come true for most men—but Stephen Gage wasn’t most men. And he had no intention of subjecting himself to that kind of cruel and unusual punishment. It would be ludicrous to think that he could treat her wounds with any kind of clinical detachment. She was injured, but that wasn’t nearly as significant to him as the fact that she was an injured woman.
    It had been a long time since he’d touched a woman in any condition. Until recently, it had been years since he’d seen a woman, and he wasn’t willing to put himself to the test of seeing one naked—or of undressing her himself. Not yet. And not her, he thought. She was too desirable, a mantrap lying in wait, an ambush rigged with irresistible female secrets. And she was helpless to defend herself against a man dangerously low on self-control.
    His moral dilemma quickly became irrelevant. He couldn’t call an ambulance. It would draw attention to the quarry lights, and to himself—a risk he wasn’t willing to take. He also couldn’t let her lay there and bleed. If her ribs were broken, they would have to be wrapped. He considered waking her, and decided it would be easier for both of them if she remained out cold. He wouldn’t have to deal with her resistance and/or embarrassment. She wouldn’t have to watch him sweat it out, trying to appear indifferent.
    Her lightweight cotton dress buttoned down the front, and Stephen could see immediately that he had two choices. Remove the dress totally, or take half-measures. He could draw the top down and let it bunch around her waist.
    The dress had to go, he decided. The bunched material would hamper him. He sat next to her, aware that there was only one place to begin, the buttons at her neckline. His eyes were drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the peach-colored fabric. They looked full and softly rounded, almost