She marveled at the size of his hand, at how it could swallow her own, and pressed each finger against his matching one. If he was a mercenary, and he must be, judging by all the battle scars, she wondered how many guns and knives and swords he had wielded with it. Had he ever used it to strangle the life from someone?

Had she been completely crazed to bring a man like this into her home?

For the last two days Annalía had wondered if he'd ever wake up. She'd browbeaten Vitale into washing the man each day—there were just some things she refused to do—and into helping her set his wrist with a cast. Afterward she'd settled into a daily routine where she would check the Scot's ribs and wrist and grapple to pour broth and water down his throat.

Each day some of the swelling around his eyes and jaws receded, but she suspected that even uninjured he still would look like a ruffian.

This morning had already heated the casa miserably. The wind was absent, and even the usually cool mountain nights had been balmy this summer. Though she'd already checked on him, she should probably return and make certain that Vitale had locked up after he tended to the man earlier.

Who was she fooling? Vitale was still convinced the Highlander would murder them all in their sleep without the proper precautions.

She would go because she was restless and watching the even rise and fall of his chest was…agreeable.

As was touching him. Every day she would trace the starburst scar just below his temple, along with each mark across his broad chest and down his muscular arms. She'd memorized them all and had imagined a scenario for each.

Though he was surely her enemy, his presence broke up the monotony and loneliness in the house. Since war was on the horizon, many of her people had fled to mountains even more remote than this one, and she could only get cooks and maids from the valley to come by a few times a month. With her older brother away fighting Pascal and her parents dead, Annalía had been living alone in the main house. She'd invited the ranch hands' wives and their children to stay, but they were ill at ease in the luxurious home. Even Vitale declined.

Before the Scot, she'd been alone in the echoing house, and she'd hated it.

When she unlocked the door, she saw he tossed in bed, with sweat beading his forehead. After a check of his bandages and cast, she felt his skin but found no real fever. He was probably just hot from the stuffy room. The window was open but offered no relief. She nibbled her bottom lip wondering if she should cool him, try to make him more comfortable.

Decided, she poured water into the bowl at the dresser, then soaked a cloth. Returning to the bed, she ran it over his forehead, neck, and chest above his rib bandages.

After guiltily looking around her, she pinched the edge of the sheet on each side of his hips and tugged it down, placing it, arranging it perfectly so his privates were just covered. Her hands shook as she lifted the cloth to the strip of skin below his bandages. She ran it across his hard stomach, and frowned when the muscles rippled and dove in reaction.

When she inadvertently dripped water on the sheet over his groin she could see his manhood outlined beneath it. Could see it even more than she'd been able to on the previous days because it was larger, harder.

She tilted her head, wondering what it would feel like—

"Tell me, lass," the man's voice rumbled, "do you like what you see?"

Chapter Two

T he woman gasped in surprise, dropping her cloth, the cloth that had started on his body clinically and purposefully, as he'd awakened, but had soon skimmed over him in sinuous movements.

Her heels clicked on the polished wooden floor when she retreated. Court watched as she smoothed her already crisp dress, then the perfect knot of hair at her nape, then the choker at her throat with slender hands. At each of these tasks, her chin rose higher.

"I-I was merely caring for you," she answered in accented English.

Instead of coming to in a haze of pain, he'd woken to her breasts glancing over the hair on his chest as she reached across him, and to one of her soft, pale hands gripping his hip while the other rubbed over his skin. As he'd felt fat drops of water hitting the sheet, he'd caught the scent of her hair, making even his beaten body stir. "Then consider me still in need of your care."

Her cheeks turned pink.

He tried to sit higher in the bed, then grimaced in pain. As if in answer, all his other wounds finally sounded the call. He glanced down at his wrist to find a cast. "Who are you?" he ground out. "And where am I?"

"My name is Annalía Elisabet Catherina Tristán. I am mistress of Casa del Llac, where you abide now, and daughter of the family Llorente." Her accent told him English wasn't her first language, though she spoke it perfectly and without hesitation, the words rolling from her tongue in a manner that was pleasing to the ear. She'd said the name Llorente proudly, as though he'd recognize it. He did feel as if he'd heard it before but couldn't place it.

"Where did you find me? And how far are we from the village?"

"Straight down this mountain on the banks of the Valira, four mountain passes to the south."

Four passes away? He wondered if his men thought him dead. He needed to send a message—

"I would ask the name of my…guest." She indicated him with a nod.

He studied her face, noting the high cheekbones and bright hazel-green eyes that matched the green-gold stone at her neck. She looked familiar to him—though he didn't see how he could ever have met then forgotten her—and he had a vague impression that she didn't like him. So why was she "caring" for him? "I'm Courtland MacCarrick."

"You are a Scot."

"Aye." At his answer, he could have sworn there was a flash of sadness in her eyes.

"And you are in Andorra because…" She trailed off.

The truth whispered in his mind: Because I was hired to tyrannize the people here. "I was just passing through."

The sadness he'd sensed disappeared, and she said in a haughty voice, "You chose to pass through a tiny country in the Pyrenees known for some of the highest mountain passes in Europe? For future reference, most simply go around."

Her condescending tone annoyed him, and his body was rapidly becoming a mass of pain. "I'm a Highlander. I like high lands."

She glared at him, then turned to leave, as if she couldn't wait to be away from him, but he needed information.

"Was I out for an entire day?" he hastily asked.

She looked longingly at the door, but then faced him. "This is your third day here."

Christ, three days? And from the feel of his ribs, he'd be another week healing before he could even sit a horse. "How did I come to be here?"

She hesitated before saying, "I found you on the shore and dragged you up here."

She looked like a stiff wind could blow her away. "You?"

"My horse and I."

His brows drew together. "There was no man who could do it?"

He was nearly six and a half feet tall and weighed more than seventeen stone. He could imagine how difficult it had been to haul him back even with the horse—especially if she lived high on the mountainside.

"We managed fine."

Court owed her a debt of gratitude; he despised being indebted in any way. He grated, "Then you saved my life."

She peered at the ceiling, appearing embarrassed.

Forcing the foreign words, he said, "You have my thanks."

She nodded and turned to go, but he didn't want the lass to leave yet. "Annalía," he said, unable to remember anything else from her catalog of names.

She whirled around, eyes wide, no doubt at the use of her given name. In a flash, he remembered her. Her beautiful countenance and curious expression had waned into sharp and glaring by the riverside. He rubbed his forehead with his good hand. In fact, she'd lamented the fact that he lived.

"That is Lady Llorente to someone such as you! You would do well to remember that."

His eyes narrowed. He'd been right. "Why did you call me an animal? Because I was so beaten?"

"Of course not," she said with an incredulous look. "I could tell you were Scottish."

Court wrestled with his temper. "Scottish?" Many people held prejudices against Scots, and some hated them sight unseen, but no context on earth gave an Andorran the right to look down on one. "Then why would you save 'someone such as me'?"

She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I would spare a mangy, rabid wolf suffering—"

"So now you think me a mangy, rabid wolf?" His head had begun pounding on both sides of his skull.

She stretched out one hand and studied her nails, a perfect picture of disdain. "If you'd let a lady finish her thoughts, I would have added that I lowered my standards to accommodate you."

He'd be damned if he'd allow this prig-arsed Andorran to look down her pert little nose at him. "A lady?" He snorted and glanced around the room. "Alone with me. No chaperone." He lifted the sheet to glance down before giving her a smirk. "And you got quite a gander. If you're such a lady, then why were you two seconds away from takin' me into your hand?"

She looked as though she fought for breath. "I…I was—"

"Granted, you doona seem like you're used to entertaining men in their rooms." He looked her up and down, not bothering to hide his blatant perusal. "But I'd wager you'd be a natural at it."

She stumbled back as though hit, her lips parting.