His Cinderella Heiress. Marion Lennox

herself for being weak but most of her was just letting him hold.

      He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn’t letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.

      His hand was stroking her head, as he’d stroke an injured animal. ‘Hey there. You’re safe. The nasty bog’s let you go. A nice hot bath and you’ll be right back to yourself again. You’re safe, girl. Safe.’

      She hadn’t been unsafe, she thought almost hysterically, and then she thought maybe she had been. If he hadn’t come... Hypothermia was a killer. She could have become one of those bog bodies she’d read about, found immaculately preserved from a thousand years ago. They’d have put her in a museum and marvelled at her beloved bike leathers...

      ‘There was never a chance of it,’ Finn murmured into her hair and his words shocked her into reaction.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Freezing to your death out here. There’s sheep wandering these bogs. I’m thinking a farmer’ll come out and check them morn and night. If I hadn’t come along, he would have.’

      ‘But if you’re not...if you’re not local, how do you know?’ she demanded.

      ‘Because the sheep I passed a way back look well cared for, and you don’t get healthy sheep without a decent shepherd. You were never in real danger.’ He released her a little, but his hands still held her shoulders in case she swayed. ‘Do you think you can make it back to the road?’

      And then he frowned, looking down at her. ‘You’re still shaking. We don’t want you falling into the mud again. Well, this is something I wouldn’t be doing with Horace.’

      And, before she could even suspect what he intended, he’d straightened, reached down and lifted her into his arms, then turned towards the road.

      She froze.

      She was close to actually freezing. From her thighs down, she was soaking. She’d been hauled up out of the mud, into this man’s arms, and he was carrying her across the bog as if she weighed little more than a sack of flour.

      She was powerless, and the lifelong sense of panic rose and threatened to drown her.

      She wanted to scream, to kick, to make him dump her, even if it meant she sank into the bog again. She couldn’t do anything. She just...froze.

      But then, well before they reached the road, he was setting her down carefully on a patch of bare rock so there was no chance she’d pitch into the mud. But he didn’t let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders and twisted her to face him.

      ‘Problem?’

      ‘I...no.’

      ‘You were forgetting to breathe,’ he said, quite gently. ‘Breathing’s important. I’m not a medical man, but I’d say breathing’s even more important than reaching solid ground.’

      Had her intake of breath been so dramatic that he’d heard it—that he’d felt it? She felt ashamed and silly, and more than a little small.

      ‘You’re safe,’ he repeated, still with that same gentleness. ‘I’m a farmer. I’ve just finished helping a ewe with a difficult lambing. Helping creatures is what I do for a living. I won’t hurt you. I’ll clean the muck off you as best I can, then put your bike in the back of my truck and drive you to wherever you can get yourself a hot shower and a warm bed for the night.’

      And that was enough to make her pull herself together. She’d been a wimp, an idiot, an absolute dope, and here she was, making things worse. This man was a Good Samaritan. Yeah, well, she’d had plenty of them in her life, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t be grateful. He didn’t need her stupid baggage and he was helping her. Plus he was gorgeous. That shouldn’t make a difference but she’d be an idiot not to be aware of it. She made a massive effort, took a few deep breaths and tugged her dignity around her like a shield.

      ‘Thank you,’ she managed, tilting her face until she met his gaze full-on. Maybe that was a mistake. Green eyes met green eyes and something flickered in the pit of her stomach. He was looking at her with compassion but also...something else? There were all sorts of emotions flickering behind those eyes of his. Yes, compassion, and also laughter, but also...empathy? Understanding?

      As if he understood what had caused her to fear.

      Whatever, she didn’t like it. He might be gorgeous. He might have saved her, but she needed to be out of here.

      ‘I can take care of myself from here,’ she managed. ‘If you just walk across to the road, I’ll follow in your footsteps.’

      ‘Take my hand,’ he said, still with that strange tinge of understanding that was deeply unsettling. ‘You’re shaky and if you fall that’s time wasted for both of us.’

      It was reasonable. It even made sense but only she knew how hard it was to place her hand in his and let him lead her back to the road. But he didn’t look at her again. He watched the ground, took careful steps then turned and watched her feet, making sure her feet did exactly the same.

      Her feet felt numb, but the leathers and biker boots had insulated her a little. She’d be back to normal in no time, she thought, and finally they stepped onto the glorious solid road and she felt like bending down and kissing it.

      Stupid bogs. The Irish could keep them.

      Wasn’t she Irish? Maybe she’d disinherit that part of her.

      ‘Where can I take you?’ Finn was saying and she stared down at her legs, at the thick, oozing mud, and then she looked at her bike and she made a decision.

      ‘Nowhere. I’m fine.’ She forced herself to look up at him, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘Honest. I’m wet and I’m dirty but I don’t have far to go. This mud will come off in a trice.’

      ‘You’re too shaken to ride.’

      ‘I was too shaken to ride,’ she admitted. ‘But now I’m free I’m not shaking at all.’ And it was true. Jo Conaill was back in charge of herself again and she wasn’t about to let go. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. I’m sorry I’ve made you muddy too.’

      ‘Not very muddy,’ he said and smiled, a lazy, crooked smile that she didn’t quite get. It made her feel a bit...melting. Out of control again? She didn’t like it.

      And then she noticed his feet. His boots were still clean. Clean! He’d hauled her out of the bog and, apart from a few smears of mud where he’d held her, and the fact that his hands were muddy, he didn’t have a stain on him.

      ‘How did you do that?’ she breathed and his smile intensified. ‘How did you stay almost clean?’

      ‘I told you. I’m an old hand at pulling creatures out of trouble. Now, if you were a lamb I’d take you home, rub you down and put you by the firestove for a few hours. Are you sure I can’t do that for you?’

      And suddenly, crazily, she wanted to say yes. She was still freezing. She was still shaking inside. She could have this man take her wherever he was going and put her by his fireside. Part of her wanted just that.

      Um...not. She was Jo Conaill and she didn’t accept help. Well, okay, sometimes she had to, like when she was dumb enough to try jumping on bogs, but enough. She’d passed a village a few miles back. She could head back there, beg a wash at the pub and then keep on going.

      As she always kept going.

      ‘Thank you, no,’ she managed and bent and wiped her mud-smeared hands on the grass. Then she finished the job by drying them on the inside of her jacket. She gave him a determined nod, then snagged her helmet from the back of her bike. She shoved it onto her head, clicked the strap closed—only she knew what an effort it was to make her numb fingers work—and then hauled the handles of her bike around.

      The bike was heavy. The shakiness of her legs wouldn’t quite support...

      But