Stumbling, sobbing, she thrashed her way to where she thought the cradle would be as an ominous crackling sounded right behind her.

“Mick!”

Her cry was swallowed up by the rush of flames as it ate its way through the north wall of the cabin. She tamped down on her fear, put her head down and dashed toward the flames.

“Bridget?”

Where was he? Why couldn’t she find him? Dear God, help me find him! “Bridget!”

The sound of her name being called finally broke through the nightmare, as did the teasing scent on the night wind. Leather, fresh-cut grass and a hint of horse.

James.

The brush of callused fingertips across her brow pulled her the rest of the way free from the depths of darkness. Her eyes opened and slowly focused in the flickering candlelight. The breeze from the open window brought another wisp of scent past her nose. She breathed deeply, oddly soothed by it.

“There’s a lass. Are you all right?”

Concern added an edge to his voice. Being pulled from his bed in the middle of the night added a husky quality to it that pulled at her belly. Still groggy from the nightmare, she wondered about the desire she’d seen in his gaze earlier. Licking her dry lips, she nodded. She was all right, just confused. She only saw concern in his eyes. Did he no longer desire her, or did the fever have her seeing things that were not there?

“I heard you cry out. I thought something was wrong.” He shifted from one foot to the other. The motion had her looking down at his feet, his bare feet.

She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick. It had been too many years to count since she’d seen a man without his boots or socks.

Her gaze slid up from his toes to his denim-clad knees and promptly got stuck as she stared at sun-browned skin one inch above the top button of his pants. Oh good Lord. He was shirtless! Thoughts of how his chest would look, how the muscles would form and meld into one another had heat flushing her cheeks. Did she dare to peek at his chest to see if it equaled her imagination?

“Here now, are you feverish again?”

His concern was her undoing. She moaned out his name, unable to help herself.

He was at her side before she could stop him. Held against the strength of his chest, Bridget melted. It had been so very long. She hadn’t leaned on anyone since Michael, hadn’t wanted to. Especially after the way the townspeople treated her when she arrived in town with baby Mick in tow. No one believed that Michael O’Toole had gotten married, least of all to a nobody like Bridget Garahan. The words hurt then, and they still hurt now.

She shuddered.

James’s arms tightened around her, then he began to stroke the back of her head with the tips of his fingers, easing the tension out of it. Heaven. His strong fingers were so clever. She couldn’t help but relax against him as his fingers started working on her neck and shoulders. Warmth pooled low in her belly, spreading up her back, wrapping around to her heart. His touch was so gentle, his fingers so strong, yet they massaged her aching muscles with a deftness that showed he knew how to care for someone weaker than himself.

Although she ached for something more, his touch didn’t ignite passion in her, it was all about healing and caring. Bridget’s heart fluttered at his touch. It had been too many years to count since someone had actually taken care of her. She had been the rock Mick had leaned on for the last thirteen years. To have that load suddenly lifted from her shoulders, if only for a short while, eased the constant ache in her heart. For the moment she wasn’t alone. She had James.

When Bridget melted against him, Ryan thought he’d go up in flames. Keeping his need for her in check was slowly killing him. He felt as if he were roasting alive on a spit, knowing he should only move his hands if they sought to comfort, not to excite. His hands should only ease tension from knotted muscles, not want to smooth across silky skin, eliciting tiny flames of desire as he stroked the path from Bridget’s ankle up to the back of her knee.

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. God, he wanted to touch her. All of her. Her comfort was the last thought on his mind. His body ached, need too strong to ignore burning in his gut. But he had promised himself when he heard her cry out that he would only go into her room to see if she was all right. Not to trace the satiny skin of her face with the tips of his fingers … or run the tip of his tongue along the rim of her pretty mouth, before plunging deep, tasting the honeyed sweetness he was certain waited for his questing tongue.

Sucking in a much-needed breath of air, Ryan fought against the urge to curse in Gaelic. The words formed in his mind, tripping down to this tongue when he heard a sound from the other side of the room.

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