Saint
Leaving the barn, the wind hits hard enough to send her sideways.
Barefoot and drenched, she’s in no state to fight the weather. However, I’m still pissed she attempted to stab me.
I tell myself to let her walk through the puddles and grit. Let her struggle as punishment for the choices she made.
Despite all that, when a blinding blast of rain lashes her, something weird trickles through my veins. Christ, there’s no way I’m feeling protective over Alasdair Harrington’s daughter. That would be fucking absurd.
My temper simmers. I never wanted her in my yard. The woman can’t be trusted, not for a second, and showing that family clemency goes against every rule I live by.
But leaving Keira outdoors on an evening like this isn’t an option, no matter how much I hate her old man.
I turn back just in time to see her blown sideways, hair mapped over her face like a net and her jaw juddering from the cold. She squeals when the wind tries to drag her away. That’s all it takes.
I charge at her, slip an arm around her waist, and sweep her off her dainty feet. She stiffens, her voice lost to the wind as the protest forms.
Backing down, she tucks her head into the crook of my neck for shelter, and just like that, a troubling sensation curls around my ribs and my pulse reacts.
I don’t bother picking it apart. I just push forward with her body tight to mine.
Buckets tumble. A stall door rattles under the force of a spooked horse. Water slashes sideways, visible in the floodlight’s beam.
She’s shaking in my arms, her breath warm against the base of my throat, her fingers clutching my waterproof coat.
It doesn’t take long to reach my cabin at the edge of the yard. The self-built construction rises out of the shadows, the wide deck protected from the rain when I bound up the steps.
The moment we reach the cover of the overhang, I lower her to the wooden boards and back away, swiping a hand down my face.
I kick off my boots and shoulder the front door open. The porch light spills across her as she stands there, drenched to the bone and ruined.
Her hair has gone almost black from the rain, clumped strands clinging to her cheeks and throat.
The faint dusting of freckles across her nose stands out stark against her pale skin, while black mascara runs down her face, leaving her wild and impossibly beautiful in a way that makes my pulse lose rhythm.
“After you, Harrington,” I order, guiding her inside so the wind doesn’t snatch the door out of my hand.
She steps past me, dripping rainwater onto my floorboards, her bare feet silent, her shoulders rigid with pride.
I shut the door against the storm and let the silence settle for a beat.
“And don’t get any ideas,” I add, my voice low. “Come at me again, and you’ll have a bigger problem than surviving a storm.”
She slides her arms around her midriff, nods, walks further inside on the balls of her feet and just gawks at the timber beam ceiling. I run a hand through my wet hair and let out a long, slow exhale.
Fuck this night.
Blue-gray eyes sweep the interior of the cabin I’d built with my brothers. Those enchanting eyes of hers are the exact color of the Irish Sea when the sun rises and the tide laps on the shore.
Her curious gaze takes in the tan leather sofa and armchair by the open fire, the throws I’d use when I’m either too drunk to carry myself to bed or too exhausted to bother moving.
I walk ahead of her and start switching on lamps, ignoring the pull of her presence burning up inside of me. Beats me why I didn’t rope her up in the tack room and leave her with a horse blanket for heat.
Ma will be pissed when she hears I’ve brought her into my personal space. But leaving her out there would’ve been its own kind of stupidity. And if there’s one thing I refuse to be, it’s stupid.
I’ll deal with my family tomorrow.
Keira wanders deeper inside, dripping on the lounge rug, looking around her like she’s not sure whether to be impressed or suspicious.
Her arms stay folded over her middle, chin held high, and that same irritating fire burns low in my veins.
I shrug out of my coat, hang it by the door and stroll past her. When I turn back, she’s staring right at me with that calculating Harrington look they all have.
“So,” I say, “what exactly was your plan with the fork?”
Her shoulders bounce a little. “I didn’t really have a plan. I saw an opportunity.”
“An opportunity,” I repeat. “To stab me?”
“To ruin your good looks,” she clarifies, tilting her head. “A few well-aimed prongs could’ve done the job.”
The corner of my mouth threatens to move. I shut that down. Fast.
“You were dangling over the yard, Harrington. I pulled ya in, and your first thought was to go for my face?”
“The fork was right there…in my pocket,” she says, all sweet and fake innocence. “And what sort of woman would I be if I let you put your hands on me again. You’re the one holding me hostage, aren’t you?”
The word lands with intent. She’s pushing for a reaction. I take a slow breath, watching the rainwater slide down her cheek.
“I didn’t put my hands on you,” I say. “I stopped ya from falling. There’s a difference.”
Her brows drift to the ceiling. “Felt the same from where I was hanging.”
I huff out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Then you’re not paying attention.”
That shuts her up for a beat, and there’s a flicker in her eyes, part of her that hates to admit when she’s misread a moment.
“But since you weaponized a fork,” I continue, “from now on, you’ll eat with a spoon.”
She rolls her eyes, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “A spoon can still do damage.”
I shake my head and sigh. “What is it with you and cutlery?”
That earns me the smallest smile that she quickly kills. To stop myself from smiling, too, I turn away and drag a hand down my face.
“Come on,” I say, heading toward the bathroom. “You’re dripping everywhere.”
When I don’t hear movement, I glance over my shoulder at the very second she dents her bottom lip under her front teeth.
“This isn’t a trap,” I say. “I’m just not nursing you back to health if ya catch pneumonia. The shower is this way."
Inside the bathroom, the air holds traces of cedar and soap all thanks to my cleaner. With a flick of the light switch, gentle light spills across the tiled floor.
“It’s yours,” I tell her. “Towels are on the rack.”
She moves past me and steps inside. “And you’re leaving me alone, right?”
“I ain’t showering with you if that’s what ya mean. I’ll be right out there, though.” I nod my head to the lounge we came from.
“Okay.” She peels off the jacket and drops it on the floor at her feet.
I tap the doorframe with the side of my knuckles, doing my best not to notice the way her breasts move beneath the soaked satin of her dress.
“I’ll get ya some dry clothes.” I drag my gaze away before she gets used to having my attention.
Her head turns toward the small window beside the shower. The only obvious exit which isn’t big enough for a full-grown adult to climb through.
“I know what you’re thinking.” I sigh. “Don’t even try it. You won’t get far, especially on a night like that. You’ll be on your ass before you clear the sill, and it won’t be from the wind.”
When I gesture to my gun holster, her pretty eyes flash with irritation. “Ah, Saint Tallon the criminal mind reader. Is that one of your many annoying skills?”
A slow breath works through my chest. I meet her stare, letting the intensity of it grow stronger between us. “No. I just recognize trouble when it’s dripping on my floor.”
The temperature rises and the urge to strip her bare has my pulse thrumming.
“Take as long as ya need,” I add, backing out and closing the door.
The less time she’s in my company, the better.
I march to my bedroom and ignore how my dick is straining behind my Levis. Fuck that woman would test the patience of a Saint.
I smirk at the joke and bring my focus back to the deal I made earlier and the job waiting for me tomorrow.
That’s the priority for now. Not fooling around with Keira Harrington.
Despite myself, every time I blink, I see her soaked through, nipples taut, skin flushed, and I remember how good it felt to have her pressed against me with her heart hammering like it wanted out.
Christ, I need a cold beer and a shot of McGrath whiskey.
I unfasten my holster and set the gun on the dresser before removing my shirt and unbuckling my belt.
While she’s in the main bathroom, I’ll wash up in the ensuite shower.
Before I get the chance to unbutton my flies all the way down, there’s a muted thump and a frustrated groan that sounds far too much like a struggle.
For fuck’s sake. She’s trying to escape.
I’m out of my room in one breath, wrenching open the door and barging in without any airs or graces.
Except I don't find her stuck in the window frame.
She stands in front of the mirror, fighting with the zipper lining her spine.
The tiny teeth have zipped up a clump of her hair, and she’s twisting her arms at impossible angles trying her hardest to pull it lower.
For a moment, she freezes, caught mid-twist, staring at me through the mirror. Her gaze wanders all over my inked chest, dropping lower to the boxers peeking out from behind my partially opened jeans.
It stops there and I watch her throat move when she swallows. My cock notices the attention and starts filling out behind the denim. She sees that, too. Her eyes snap up to mine in the glass, and the flush that crawls up her neck is worth every mile of this fucked-up night.
Keira swallows hard. Her pale cheeks flush, though her chin hitches with that stubbornness I’ve come to find sexy.
“Don’t just stand there looking,” she says, breathless. “Help me.”
My brows pop high and I fold my arms over my chest. “Say what now?”
Her eyebrows snap together. “You heard. Help me, Saint.”
I let out a low rumble of amusement. “If you want my help, you’d better ask nicely. I don’t make a habit of helping people I dislike."