against the dashboard and laying the other on her shoulder. “Isabelle,” he said, gently shaking her. “Wake up. We’re here.”
She moaned softly and turned away, snuggling her cheek deeper against the Blazer’s worn upholstery. With a glance over his shoulder at the dilapidated cabin he was taking her to, he decided it might be better to let her sleep. He guided her arm around his neck and scooped her up into his arms, then headed for the porch. As he brushed past the post that supported the sagging front porch, the train of her dress snagged on the rough cedar, stopping him. He gave the train a sharp tug and swore under his breath when he heard the delicate fabric rip.
She awoke then, shoving at his chest as she tried to struggle free.
He tightened his grip on her. “Be still now, or you’re going to make me drop you.”
Her fingers froze on his neck as her eyes snapped to his. He saw the remembrance slowly settle there…as well as the fear.
She tore her gaze from his and glanced nervously around. “Wh-where are we?”
“At a buddy of mine’s cabin in the mountains. You’ll be safe here,” he added as she turned those wide, violet eyes on his again.
“He can’t find me,” she whispered, her grip on him growing desperate. “Please don’t let him find me.”
Something twisted in Link’s gut as he looked down at her. Something he thought he’d lost long ago. The ability to care. “He won’t find you,” he said gruffly, and reached for the door. “Not on this mountain. Nobody could.”
He pushed open the door and caught up her train as he hefted her higher in his arms. As he stepped inside the cabin, he was struck at the irony in that gesture. Link Templeton carrying a bride across a threshold. The man who’d sworn he’d never marry, who’d sworn he’d never be foolish enough to fall in love, was carrying a bride across a threshold.
The only comfort he found in that thought was that the bride wasn’t his.
She was a runaway.
Two
After stripping off his wet shirt and changing into a pair of dry jeans he found in the closet, bare-chested Link pulled fresh linens from the dresser drawer and began making the bed. Anxious to finish the job before Isabelle emerged from the bathroom, he kept an ear cocked to the sounds coming from behind the door she’d closed between them. The soft gurgle of water as it ran from the ancient faucet and splashed into the rust-stained sink. The dull thump of a satin heel striking the old footed tub, or perhaps the side of the toilet. The whisper of satin and lace as it whisked against the scarred plank floor.
He tried not to think about Isabelle unbuttoning that long row of tiny, satin-covered buttons, of slipping the dress from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Of her stepping from the cloud of white, her bare flesh pebbling as the cabin’s cool air struck it…the bobbing of ripe, full breasts, free now from constraints…the feminine curve of her waist…the heart-shaped buttocks he’d already defined earlier when he’d carried her into the cabin.
But the vision was there, filling his mind and making his fingers knot in the quilt he held.
Furious with himself and his wayward thoughts, he sailed the quilt over the freshly made bed, then stretched to tuck one end under the foot of the mattress. He jerked his head up when the hinges on the bathroom door squeaked. His breath locked in his lungs as Isabelle stepped into the opening, dressed in an ankle-length gown and robe of ivory silk. She looked as virginal and nervous as any bride might on her wedding night. Straightening slowly, he let the quilt slip from slack fingers and simply stared, letting his gaze slide from liquid eyes to bare toes that curled self-consciously against the hardwood floor.
Her hair hung past her shoulders, its dark ends curling gently around the swell of each breast, emphasizing their fullness and the twin knots of flesh puckered at their peaks. The silk hugged her body like a second skin, skimming over her flat abdomen, molding her slim hips, rising above the sharp planes of her pelvic bones, then dipping slightly into the juncture of her legs, before tumbling like a moonlit waterfall to her feet. When his gaze reached the gown’s hem, he saw the fabric’s slight quivering and realized it was caused by trembling knees.
Slowly, he moved his gaze back to her face. “My God” was all he could say when his eyes met hers again.
Color flamed in her already flushed cheeks and she hugged one arm at her waist while crossing the other over her breasts. She pressed her fingertips at her throat in a failed attempt to cover herself. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her gaze from his. “All I have with me is my trousseau, the clothes I packed for my honeymoon.”
Link forced a swallow, then drew in a ragged breath. “No problem,” he murmured, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. But it was a problem, he knew. A big one. There was no way he’d be able to stay in the cabin with her. Not with her dressed like that. Not and keep his hands off her.
But he had no other choice.
Knowing that, he scowled as he strode to the closet, snatched a flannel shirt from a hanger and tossed it to her. “Put this on,” he ordered gruffly, then pulled another out and shrugged it on to cover his own bare chest. “I found a can of stew in the pantry,” he said, and gestured toward the bedroom doorway and the main room beyond, indicating for her to precede him. “It’s probably hot by now.”
With an uneasy glance his way, Isabelle darted for the door. Link watched her and slowly released the breath he’d held. How he’d ever survive the night without touching her, he didn’t know.
But it was his duty to keep her safe, he reminded himself. And Link Templeton was a man who honored duty above all else. Even his own safety.
His own sanity.
Setting his jaw, he followed her into the kitchen, pulled down heavy mugs from the cupboard and filled them with the thick stew while she hung back, watching, her arms hugging the flannel shirt over her breasts. He gestured with one of the mugs toward the small, crude table, waited until she was seated, then plunked a mug down in front of her and sat down in the chair opposite hers.
Picking up a spoon, he stirred, keeping his gaze on his stew, watching the steam rise from it. “Think you can tell me now what happened at the church?” he asked after a moment.
When she didn’t immediately respond, he glanced up to find her gaze on his hands. Her eyes slid up to his. Their gazes met, held for a moment, his narrowing in steely determination, hers going from shy curiosity to fear in the time it took for his heart to take one more rib-threatening kick at the mere sight of her.
“I’m a cop,” he said gruffly. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“You arrested my brother.”
Link frowned at the accusation in her tone. “I had no choice. The evidence was there against him.”
She fisted her hands on the tabletop and leaned toward him, her defensive stance taking him by surprise. A lamb turning lioness before his eyes. “Riley didn’t kill Mike,” she said angrily. “You know him better than that. Riley would never harm anyone.”
Yes, Link acknowledged silently. In his gut, he had known that. In his heart, too, if he thought he had one. But gut instincts didn’t hold any weight in a court of law. Evidence did. And the
