Candace Camp - Scandalous

T HERE WAS A NAKED MAN ON HER DOORSTEP.

Priscilla had been in the sitting room, curled up with a book, when she heard a thunderous pounding on the front door. She had jumped to her feet, a trifle alarmed, for it was rather late in the evening for any visitors. Moreover, the loud noise had rung with urgency. She had snatched up a candle from the table and hurried to the front door. When she swung it wide open, she had found this man standing there. He had on not one stitch of clothing, and his skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and decorated with a multitude of thin red scratches. He was breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling as he took huge gulps of air.

She stared at him, for one of the few times in her life rendered speechless.

He was a huge man; he seemed to fill the tiny porch of Evermere Cottage, presenting a wide expanse of bare skin. Priscilla had never seen so much naked flesh in her life, all of it tanned, muscled and intensely masculine.

The man stared back at her. He looked dazed and exhausted as he swayed, muttering, Help me. Then he collapsed at her feet.

Priscilla let out a little shriek of horror and reached out to grab him, but he was far too heavy, and his damp, bare skin simply slid across her palm as he crumpled to the floor of the tiny porch.

The door of her fathers study opened, and Florian Hamilton stuck his head out. His graying hair was rumpled and sticking up in spikes from his habit of shoving his fingers through it whenever he was deep in thought. He frowned vaguely.

Priscilla? What was that noise? Is there someone at the door?

His familiar voice broke Priscillas temporary paralysis. Its all right, Papa, she said, in a voice that wavered only slightly from her usual brisk tone. I will take care of it.

She turned back to the porch to survey her problem. The man now lay partly inside the house, on his side, most of his massive chest and arms on the floor at her feet, his long legs and the rest of his torso sprawled out on the stoop. It was obvious that she could not possibly move him herself.

Who was he? And whatever was he doing herenaked and unconscious? It occurred to her that it must be a jest; it seemed, in fact, just the sort of nonsense that Philip or Gid might think up. However, she could not imagine that even one of her mischievous brothers would send a nude man to his sisters doorand what man would be willing to run around stark naked? If nothing else, it was still early spring, and rather chilly. No, she concluded, it could not be a joke.

Her eyes went to the mans face. It was boldly chiseled, with a wide jaw and prominent cheekbones, a firm, full mouth and a long, straight nose. His was not a handsome face, exactly; it was too sharp and hard for perfect beauty, but there was power in it, even in slack unconsciousnessand with his eyes closed, the thick fringe of lashes shadowing his cheek, there was even a hint of vulnerability that made her heart twist strangely in her chest. She bent forward, holding her candle lower to light his features.

He was clean-shaven, his skin smooth and tanned, darker than her own milk-white color and that of most of the people she was accustomed to seeing. There was a narrow red scratch across his jaw, and another on his forehead. His hair was a thick, rich brown, and, as she held the candle closer, a glint of red shone through, like polished mahogany. A strand of it had fallen across his cheek, and unconsciously she reached out and brushed it back. He groaned and rolled over onto his back.

Priscillas eyes moved lower, over his wide, muscled chest, lightly strewn with dark hair, and onto the flat plain of his stomach, where the hair converged in a V and swept downward.

I say!

Priscilla started guiltily at the sound of her fathers voice, right behind her. She turned and straightened, frowning. Papa! You startled me.

Florian paid no attention to her words. He was staring in astonishment at the man lying at their feet. I say, he repeated. Who is this chap?

I have no more idea than you, Priscilla replied. I opened the door, and there he was.

But whats he doing on the floor?

He fainted.

Florians brows rose. Doesnt look the sort to faint, does he? And whats he doing dressed like that?

Papa

Oh. Sorryof course you dont know that, either. Florian tilted his head, considering the mans unconscious form thoughtfully. Looks like hes been through rather a rough time, doesnt it?

Priscilla looked back at their visitor. It would appear that he has run through bramble bushes, she agreed. She leaned closer, noticing several dark marks that she had not noticed in the dim light of the porch. And look, hes bruised.

Youre right. Florian adjusted the little glasses perched on his nose and leaned forward analytically to examine a bluish mark on the mans chest. Id say the fellows been in some sort of fight, as well as running through the bushes. He looked at his daughter, his eyes lit with his usual scientists curiosity. Mysterious, isnt it? How do you suppose he got in this shape? And whats he doing here?

Mmm Priscilla replied dryly. Just like a book.

Yes, isnt it? He stopped short, obviously struck by a thought. You dont think PhilipNo, surely not.

Priscilla had to grin. Her brothers mischievous ways were well-known. No, I dont think so.

Ohhhhh! A gasp from the top of the stairs made both of them turn and look up. A tall, stick-thin woman stood at the top of the stairs, a vision in a long-sleeved, high-necked white cotton nightgown, a brown shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders and her hair a Medusa-like arrangement of strands tied in white cotton strips. The old-fashioned white mobcap she wore over her head at night was still tied beneath her chin, but the cap had slipped over and down to one side, dangling on a few of the strips of old bedsheets in which she tied her hair at night in a largely vain effort to put curls into it. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she stared down at them wildly. Is heis he dead? she hissed.