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The ship.
Memory flooded back in a rush: the ship, the broken propeller shaft, the sea. She had fallen into the sea. Emma remembered the weight of her boots, her petticoats dragging her down…
She inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.
Dear God.
She bolted upright in bed, grabbing for the covers.
A man loomed by her bed, a big man with a broad, bare, hairy chest. No shirt. No shoes. Not even stockings. Emma’s heart pounded. She had never seen so much solid muscle, so much male skin in her life. Even Paul when they had—when he had—
But thinking of Paul brought a fresh surge of panic.
Her fists clenched on the covers. “Who are you? Where am I? Where are my clothes?”
The half-naked man stood quiet and unmoving, regarding her with dark, fathomless eyes. Dry-mouthed with fear, Emma fought to shake off the remnants of her dream. Did he understand? Perhaps he didn’t speak English. He didn’t look English.
She gulped. He barely looked civilized. His mane of thick, unruly hair was caught in a leather thong and tied in a stubby ponytail at his nape. His face was strong and raw, its lean planes broken by a brawler’s nose. Silver glinted in the hollow of his throat.
A chain. He wore a chain. Like a dog, Emma thought.
Or a Viking.
She licked her lips nervously. She felt dazed. Almost drugged, as if she’d drunk too much wine or taken laudanum for a toothache. She didn’t know where to look. All that skin…Her gaze dropped to his feet, broad, bare, masculine feet with a sprinkling of dark hair.
Her stomach clenched. Quivered.
There was something strange and almost unbearably intimate about those naked feet standing so close to her bed, the long pale arches, the jutting anklebones, the firm, muscled calves. His toes.
Emma frowned, convinced her mind was playing tricks on her. Something about his toes…
“They were wet.” The deep, burred voice broke her distraction.
She jumped, her gaze flying back to the harsh-planed face of the man beside her bed. “What?”
“Your clothes,” he explained. In English, thank goodness. “They were wet. You were cold.”
Her skin prickled. Her chest felt tight. “I—”
“You could not wear them,” he said patiently.
“No,” she agreed faintly.
Oh, no. She fought another sudden wash of panic. She was not going to overreact to the notion of a man—this man—touching her, undressing her.
Memory engulfed her like a wave.
“Don’t overreact, darling,” Paul had said as he buttoned up his breeches. “I thought you wanted it. You were certainly asking for it.”
Her throat froze. She could not move.
The man frowned and leaned closer. “Are you all right?”
Emma gasped and raised her hand to hold him off. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t…
“Don’t,” she managed to squeeze past her throat.
He stopped instantly, his dark eyes watchful. “It’s all right. You are safe now.”
