“Stay here.”
Dressed in jeans and a simple white collared shirt, the woman lay immobile. A mass of burnt-red curls covered her face, locks he would have admired under other circumstances.
“Miss.” Careful not to move her, he lifted her hair, unveiling a quarter-sized cut on the upper right of her forehead. Blood streamed down her brow, contrasting sharply with her pale skin. With a couple fingers along her neck, he picked up a steady pulse beneath her skin. “Miss.”
She stirred. Twisting her head, she attempted to sit up, and made it halfway to rest on her elbows. A crease formed between her brows. “Ouch. Horse?”
Christ. Had Misty Eyes caused this? Now he would kill his groom. Slipping his hands beneath her, he lifted her up. Her weight felt slight, her curves subtle. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Horse,” she murmured.
“Don’t you worry about Misty Eyes. She’s fine.”
Dark skies above them rumbled, threatening a storm. He slid her onto the mare first before mounting behind her. Fat drops smacked his face and hands. Pulling her back, he settled her against his chest. Scents of vanilla and rain enveloped him, soothing yet fresh. Definitely not what he needed, but no gentleman worth his name would leave an injured woman abandoned. He’d only heard a couple words. Her accent wasn’t Irish. Most likely a tourist who’d strayed from the road.
Heavy-looking clouds rolled across the gray sky. Rain fell harder, seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. At this rate, they’d find themselves sopping wet before reaching the cottage. Squeezing his thighs, he pushed Misty Eyes from a trot into a canter. Nothing need be complicated. He’d take the woman to his cottage, get her cleaned up then send her on her way.
2
Maggie woke with a dull pulsing at the front of her head. Ugh, no more violin practice for Rick. If he wanted to learn such a complexly noisy instrument, he could rehearse somewhere else and at someone else’s expense. Reaching up, she felt along her face and winced. A bandage covered the whole right side of her forehead. Why? What had happened? Her skull vibrated as if someone had taken a rubber hammer to it.
A wooden, rectangular coffee table stood several inches from where she lay and beyond that, a stone fireplace crackled. Landscape paintings complimented stucco walls and the exposed beams of the ceiling gave the room a rustic yet cozy feel. Where was she?
“Mmm, don’t touch. Balm must work its magic. Fortunately your wound is along your hairline. After the swelling goes down, it shouldn’t be too noticeable.”
She jumped at the sound of the accented baritone. The voice didn’t belong to Rick, and what did he mean by magic? That her surroundings were not familiar was now clear but the chilly air hitting her chest brought on a new realization. “Where are my clothes?” She pulled a quilted cover up to her chin in hopes of covering her nearly nude form.
“In the dryer,” he replied, his words followed by the crisp crunch of him biting into an apple. “You hungry?”
She glanced over to see who he was and found herself momentarily speechless. With eyes the color of evergreens he watched her from beneath his thick black brows. His full lips twisted, tightening an angular jaw shaded by a couple days’ stubble. “Lose your tour bus?” One black brow lifted.
What was he going on about? “Who are you and why did you remove my clothes?”
Taking a bite of apple, he moved in close and sat on the sofa’s arm. “I removed your clothes because they were soaked. I didn’t want you to catch cold. If you’re worried I’ve seen you,” he grinned, “you needn’t worry. I’ve enough experience removing female garments without looking. As for the rest of it, my name is Ethan Moore and this here is my cottage.”
Heat flooded her neck and face. “I see.” She didn’t, but the man was a flirt and his brogue beyond charming. This must have been what Elsie meant when referring to gorgeous Irishmen all around the island. “Mr. Moore–”
“Please, call me Ethan.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, hoping his mind was as sane as he appeared. “Look, Ethan. I truly appreciate your hospitality, but I must be going. I’m honestly not even sure how I got here.”
“I brought you here. I apologize if I’ve frightened you. I thought maybe you could tell me what happened,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“With Misty Eyes, my mare.”
Horse…how could she have forgotten? “She was trapped. Is she okay?”
“Didn’t walk away with a good-sized bump on her head, that’s for sure. Do you remember how you ended up on my property?”
“I climbed the fence to free her.”
“Foolish thing to do. You could’ve been killed.”
Jerk. Least he could do was thank her for saving his horse. “I couldn’t leave her there. She would have hurt herself.”
“Well if she had, it would be her own fault. Stubborn female.” His brow wrinkled as he took a last bite of apple.
Did stubborn female reference her or the horse? Afraid she wouldn’t like the answer, she didn’t ask. “Mr. Moore–I mean Ethan, do you think I can have my clothes now?”
His lips parted slightly, as if he’d suddenly realized their conversation had continued while she stood wrapped in a blanket. Tossing his apple into a trash bin, he ducked behind a wall, returning a moment later with her jeans, white shirt and lace bra. “What’s your name?”
Biting her lip, she shifted in place. He’d gone out of his way to help. Such an act required a certain amount of decency, didn’t it? “Maggie. My name is Maggie.”
“Well, Maggie, you can change there.” He pointed beyond her to an open doorway.
“Thank you.” She accepted the clothes and dashed through the doorway, into a bathroom which instantly reminded her of Christmas. Burgundy, green and gold pin-striped wallpaper covered the walls. Matching plush, burgundy rugs cushioned her feet from the tiled floor and gold trimmed towels lay in a basket next to a gold soap dispenser. To top it all off, the bathroom smelled like cinnamon and cloves. Either Ethan had spectacular taste or he’d hired someone to decorate his cottage. She twisted her lips. Or, he wasn’t the only one who lived there.
A quick glance in the mirror showed off her newly earned bandage but she didn’t dare inspect further. The faster she changed, the faster she’d leave this charming cottage and most especially, its somewhat charming owner. Ethan Moore, an eyeful with black hair and broad shoulders. Despite her height–taller than average for a woman at five-foot-seven–he dwarfed her.
Leaving her shirt untucked, she brushed her curls away from her face with her fingers then exited the bathroom.
“Here, this will make you feel better.” He approached, holding out a mug.
“What is it?”
“Tea. It’ll warm you up.”
“Thank
