out a wicked-looking knife, he slid it into the hole in his pants. Material ripped under the lethal blade. “Because today’s been bad enough without you puking up your guts on the floor.”
He saw too much. “I can control my stomach.”
He stuck the knife blade in the fire. A quick glance showed the furrow carved in the hard muscle of his thigh. Blood seeped out in a sluggish flow. Her gorge rose and for a split second she thought she would actually throw up.
With a sigh, he stood. She felt like a monster when he winced. As a result, she offered no resistance when he took her shoulders in his hands. “Do us both a favor and show me how tough you are tomorrow.”
With that, he turned her around. The weight of his hands was not unwelcome. Her reaction to him was very confusing.
The minutes stretched. No sound came from him. Isabella would have felt better if he had moaned or groaned. The silence left her with nothing but her own imagination to fill the emptiness.
“You should let me help.”
He grunted. Something fell to the ground with a small thunk. “Nothing much to do. It’s just a crease.”
“Then why do you need the knife?”
“The bullet was stuck a bit under the skin.”
The small thunk. “It is out?”
“Yup.”
She turned around. He was tying a fresh bandage over the wound. “You did not sew it.”
“No need.”
“It will scar.”
The thought of that bothered her.
“One more isn’t going to kill me.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“A needle and thread is what’s unnecessary. Especially with dinner waiting.”
Isabella couldn’t forget the size of the furrow now hidden by the white bandage. The scar would be large. Unnecessarily so, forever marring the beauty of his thigh. The danger of infection was very real. “Your leg is more important.”
He grabbed up the flask. “Tell that to my stomach.”
Anger, unreasonable and hot, snapped through her. He hadn’t sewn the wound, and now he would waste the only thing they did have to treat it? She snatched the container from his hand. “You are not so big and bad that an infection will not visit.”
“Hand that back, Bella, before I paddle your butt for messing with a man’s liquor.”
The warning in his tone just fed the resentment pouring through her. He had no right to talk to her so, threaten her like a child. Risk himself so needlessly.
She dumped the liquor over the bandage. Too late, she realized what she’d done. She dropped the flask. “¡O, madre de Dios!”
Sam’s face flushed red and his mouth settled into a grimace of agony. She’d never heard such words as what came from his mouth as he grabbed at the soaked bandage. Nor the ones that followed once the alcohol found his wound. He would kill her.
Sam stood. Isabella ran. He caught her before she made it five steps.
“God damn, you get back here.”
She went with his tug, spinning around, fists up as she’d seen her guard Zacharias do when he was going to throw a punch.
Sam just stood holding her, breathing as if he’d run miles, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a flat line…and stared.
And then, catching her fists in his hand, he laughed. A real laugh that scalded her pride. A laugh that made her not care how handsome he was. A laugh that had her struggling wildly as he drew her arms wide and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. And then her mouth. Their first kiss, and he had not asked!
She struggled harder. He paid no mind, just kept his lips on hers, letting her struggles dictate the pressure in soft slides and quick jerks. Her thighs brushed against his, her chest against his abdomen. Her struggles slowed as anger changed to something softer, something as fragile as the next skim of his mouth over hers. Her arms were pulled wider, bringing her body flush against his much bigger one. His lips parted just a hint. There was the moistness of his breath and then the shocking glide of his tongue, gentle and tantalizing, along the seam of her lips. Lightning flared in a brilliant arc along her nerve endings, jerking her up onto her toes before tossing her back.
Sam let her go. She did not immediately back away, anger and something else keeping her feet planted in place. Though he stood a foot away, Isabella could still feel the pressure of his lips, the heat of his breath, the temptation he presented. Why did he fascinate her so?
She clenched her fists. “You had no right to do that.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry, but she was. “I am sorry I poured the spirits on your wound. Though it needed to be done, I should not have done it like that.”
He cocked his head to the side and a grin ghosted his lips. “You just can’t help it, can you?”
“What?”
“Sounding so high-and-mighty.”
“I think my poor English gives the impression of arrogance.”
Sam’s smile broadened. “Yeah, that’s likely it.”
She had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her. He had no right to laugh. He was as wrong as she was. Putting her hands on her hips, she challenged him. “Kisses should not be stolen.”
“I agree.”
“They should be given freely.”
He turned and headed back to the fire, obviously favoring his injured leg. “No one’s arguing with you, Bella.”
He didn’t need to be so agreeable when she wanted to fight. She followed more slowly, her conscience nagging her. The alcohol must still burn. The truth popped out as it always did when she felt guilty. “Maybe I am arguing with myself.”
Sam sat back on the rock and pulled one of the sticks off the fire. A piece of the fillet fell off. In a move almost too fast for her to see, he caught it, tossing it in his hand to cool it. Shadows jumped on the wall in wild accompaniment. Her heart jumped with the same silly excitement as he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Now, why would you do that?”
She owed him for the manner in which she’d cleaned his wound. “Because I think it is wrong to enjoy stolen kisses.”
His expression closed up. “Very likely.”
She’d chosen honesty as a penance, but she had no idea it would be so hard to see it through. It would be easier to let him continue to think what he obviously was—that she was talking about him—but that wouldn’t be fair. Her cheeks burning hotter than
