Chapter Eight

With her emotions careening between anger and lingering shock over learning Mary could possibly be alive, Eve stomped up the stairs after Grant’s sister, Esme, who kept shooting her sympathetic looks over her shoulder. Eve forced a smile for Esme’s benefit. Eve may not like her brother, or any Highlander men for that matter, but Esme seemed quite nice. She also appeared to be as equally appalled by the conversation they had just eavesdropped on among Grant and his men as Eve was. Plus, she liked that Esme had offered the idea and chance for Eve to listen at the door of the great hall. Eve had no notion why the woman would wish to aid her, but she’d take the woman’s sympathy and help. Eve was going to need it if she was going to succeed with the plan that had formed in her mind before she’d ever verbally agreed to be Grant Fraser’s wife.

Seduction, indeed! She ground her teeth as she recalled the most inappropriate part of his conversation with his men. The devil thought to wed her, take her castle, and apparently claim her loyalty, all through seduction! The Highlander surely thought highly of himself and his appeal to women. An image of the man’s blue eyes and thick, wavy, shoulder-length brown hair appeared in her mind. Oh, he was handsome. There was no point denying it. He was compelling, too, with his dimples and half smile. And a bit intimidating being so tall and, well, solid. She’d never seen shoulders so broad or a chest and stomach so riddled with muscles. There was not a bit of fat on Grant Fraser. He had the look of a man who’d honed his body through constant rigorous training and battle, and—

With a sharp intake of breath, she stopped herself. What was she doing, dwelling on the Highland devil’s pleasing looks? He may be a feast for the eyes, but he was manipulative, unbending, and greedy. She paused on the steps, and Esme immediately turned to look at her.

“Why’d ye stop?” Esme huffed.

“Sorry,” Eve muttered and kept going. She supposed Grant might not be greedy. He had said he wanted her castle for peace, after all. She did not know much about the political mechanisms between England and Scotland, but she did know that whoever ruled her home had control over who passed through the Valley of Blood with ease and who risked their lives to get through. Grant, naturally, would want her castle so he could aid his king in getting his soldiers into England. She scrunched her nose in thought. Perhaps Grant wanted her castle so he could simply stop more English soldiers from invading his homeland. She’d have to ask him.

No, she would not do that. She may have agreed to wed the Highlander, but it would be a temporary union. She grinned to herself at her cleverness but then bit her lip with worry. Her plan for her marriage to be temporary hinged upon Grant treating her with honor and not forcing her to join with him until she was ready, which, if her plan went correctly, would be never. Clara had long ago told her that if anyone ever succeeded in kidnapping her to wed her, the king could dissolve the marriage if she managed to stay chaste until she was rescued or freed. She had every intention of employing that tactic now. She may not have any choice but to wed Grant in order to rescue Clara, but she had no intention of staying married to the man.

She would choose her true husband wisely. He’d be a man whom she could love and who could love her, and he would be honorable and capable of helping her find her sister, if she lived, and gain and hold her inheritance, though she was certain her uncle would also aid her in that regard. Once she had her castle, she would decide which side in this war she was going to take.

When they reached Esme’s bedchamber, Esme opened the door, and they both entered. The chamber was lovely with feminine touches of tapestries hanging on the walls, a plush animal skin on the ground where one would step out of the bed, and bright-yellow flowers in a large vase. But beside the flowers was an enormous gleaming sword.

Eve immediately went to it. “Is this yours?” she asked, awed. Esme came up beside her, and Eve looked over at her.

She nodded and grinned. “Aye. This is Fate.”

“It’s beautiful,” Eve said, thinking of the weapon her own father had given to her that she had lost. “Did your father give it to you?”

“Nay,” Esme said with a bitter laugh. “My father would nae allow such a thing. He had verra strong notions that a woman was to be protected by the man always.”

“I see,” Eve said. “And what happens to the woman when the man is not around to protect her?”

Sadness filled Esme’s eyes. “Exactly…”

For the first time since meeting Esme, Eve really assessed her. The woman was stunning with her golden hair, eyes the color of the ocean, and heart-shaped face. She looked delicate with her tiny stature, yet she stood ramrod straight and, Eve realized with shock, was wearing braies and a léine with a rope tied around the waist. Eve looked between the sword and the woman before her. Esme was staring at the sword with obvious pride.

“You wish to take up arms with the men?” Eve asked, though she was certain she knew the answer.

Esme’s gaze alighted on her. “Aye! Like ye!”

Eve shook her head. “I never dreamed of taking up arms and becoming like the famed shieldmaidens of old Viking legends. I was forced into this role when my father was betrayed and my family slaughtered.”

“My parents were killed, as well,” Esme said softly. “My mother trusted an enemy’s wife, who had come to her under the guise of needing a healer for her ailing bairn. My mother went to them to heal the bairn, and they took her captive in order to draw my father to them.”

Eve sucked in a sharp breath, fearing what was to come since Esme had just told her that her father had never taught her or her mother how to defend themselves.

“My mother had secretly had a sword made, this sword. Fate. She persuaded Grant to teach her how to wield it. She wanted to show my father her skill—I think to make him see that women could do such things—so she felt comfortable going to our enemies, though she’d only had a few lessons from Grant. Ye see, he was banished shortly after he started teaching Mother how to use Fate.”

“And your father found out?”

Esme shook her head. “Nay. Grant missed too many training sessions, spoke disrespectfully to our da, drank too much mead, and took too many women to his bed. Da, I think, was at his end with him, so he banished him and told him he could only return when he was a changed man.”

Eve’s heart squeezed for Grant, imagining what it must have felt like to be banished. He sounded as if he’d been irresponsible, yes, but had that required banishment?

“Anyway,” Esme continued, “Mother took Fate with her when she went to see the sick bairn.” She ran a finger down the shiny blade of her sword. “My father risked his life to save my mother, but they still killed her…and then him.”

Eyes brimming with pain and helplessness met Eve’s. “I could nae help. My brother Simon was in England at the time, and Grant had nae yet returned. I was useless. My da and his men rode off to get my mother, and all I could do was stand and watch him go. I did nae have any skills. So we are alike, ye see.” Esme reached out and grabbed Eve’s hand. “I did nae dream of taking up arms with the men, either, but ’tis all I dream of now. I will nae ever be helpless again.”

“How did you get Fate back?” Eve asked.

Esme smiled sadly. “Word of what had occurred reached Grant. He returned to us at the same time as Simon. When Grant heard that Mother had gone on her own to the enemy armed with her sword, he blamed himself, I think. He and Simon killed them all, and Grant brought back the sword. I begged him to let me have it, and he did, but with a threat of banishment to any man who dared show me how to use it.”

“May I?” Eve held her hand out, and Esme set Fate in it. The sword had a good heft to it. “You could learn to wield this with the right teacher.”

“Maybe ye could teach me?”

Eve’s chest tightened. She didn’t plan on staying. “Esme, I—”

Suddenly, Esme pressed her finger to her lips and motioned to the door that had not quite closed. It swung open and Ross gave them a long look.

“Is it time already?” Eve squeaked, her pulse spiking.

The man grinned, his eyes shining with friendliness, and then he chuckled. It made Eve feel as if she could like him, but that was foolish. She needed to keep her guard up. “Nay,” he said. Eve blew out a relieved breath, which earned another chuckle from the man.

Esme set her hands on her hips and scowled at the man in the doorway. “If it’s nae time for Eve to return to the great hall, why are ye here lurking outside my door, Ross MacLorh?”

His brows pulled together in an affronted frown. “I dunnae lurk . Nae any woman has ever said that about me.”

“Bah!” Esme said, waving her hand at him. “There has nae been a woman who has ever been braw enough to call ye a lurker, ’tis all.”

“I assure ye, Esme,” he said, his gaze sliding over Grant’s sister in a slow fashion that made Eve’s breath catch, “the lasses beg me to lurk.” Eve had no doubt about that. The man was compelling, but not as compelling as Grant.

A flush turned Esme’s porcelain skin deep red, but she did not turn away to conceal it. “I dunnae wish to hear about yer depraved life. Again, why are ye standing at my bedchamber door?”

“Nae for ye,” Ross snapped.

A hurt look crossed Esme’s face, and Eve stared pointedly at Ross, willing him to apologize, but he simply glared at Esme. Eve looked between the two, trying to decide if they liked each other or despised each other. If Ross did have a tendre for Esme, Eve doubted he’d get far with this tactic. Highland men were clearly obstinate fools. Eve cleared her throat, feeling compelled to alleviate the tension. “Surely, if Esme wished for your attention, you would be only too happy to give it. Isn’t that so, sir?”

She could see his lips forming a no , so she cleared her throat again and glowered at him, until he said, “Aye. Of course.”

Eve was breathing out a sigh of relief when a slow, devilish smile turned up the corners of the Highlander’s mouth, and his gaze locked on Esme. “Do ye need particular attention from me, Esme?”

She gasped and so did Eve. The man had not said anything improper, but it was the way he had said it. The tone in which he’d said it had been like water sliding over one’s skin. It made her wonder if Grant had such a tone. Her cheeks heated at the thought.

Ross swept his gaze over both of them with a laugh, and then he said, “Grant sent me to guard the door.”

The nerve of the man! There was not a chance Grant feared anyone getting in his castle. It seemed practically impossible to her. “You tell your lord—”

“Laird,” Ross corrected, to which she stuck her tongue out at the man, feeling extremely childish the moment she did it. He cocked his eyebrows at her, and she growled at him.

“You tell your laird —”

“He’s nae my laird,” Ross said with a wink. “He’s my friend.”

“Bah!” Eve bellowed, stealing Esme’s word as it seemed to perfectly fit how the man was making her feel. She marched toward Esme’s door and slammed it in his face. Satisfaction poured over her, and then she turned to Esme and both women broke out into hearty gales of laughter.

Esme took Eve by the hand and led her to the bed. Once they stopped laughing, Esme padded over to a table, picked up a brush, and indicated toward Eve’s hair with a sweep of her hand. “I ken the marriage is being forced upon ye, but I’m certain ye dunnae wish to attend yer own wedding looking as if a bevy of bees made a hive in yer hair.”

Esme’s words gave Eve an idea. “As a matter of fact, I do. The more unappealing I appear, the better.”

“Oh, aye?” Esme tilted her head. “Why?”

Eve’s lips parted automatically to tell the woman who felt like a newfound friend, but she pressed them back together and shrugged. “I really should not say.”

Esme’s smile faltered a bit, but then she nodded. “’Tis smart. I am Grant’s sister, after all.”

“Yes, there is that,” Eve said apologetically.

“So we shall leave yer hair?”

“Yes,” Eve replied, then turned to look up at Esme. “You don’t happen to have spare braies that I can wear do you?”

Esme offered an impish smile. “I do, but that will irritate Grant something fierce. He dunnae care for even me wearing braies. He says I look like a man and nae a woman.”

Eve grinned. “That’s perfect! I shall live in braies henceforth.”

A frown knitted Esme’s brow for a moment, but then awareness swept her face. “Ye dunnae wish my brother to find ye attractive?” It was not truly a question but a statement. Eve nodded, feeling it was all right to share that secret. “I’d ask why, but…”

“It’s best you don’t know,” Eve stated. “I’d hate for your brother to place blame on you if my plan works.”

Esme nibbled on her lip for a moment. “Does yer plan include ye nae living here with us as Grant’s wife?” Eve opened and closed her mouth, knowing she should deny it, but she did not wish to lie to Esme. Esme waved a hand at her. “Ye dunnae need to answer. I’ll keep yer secret. Grant has threatened to marry me off, and I fear he eventually will do so to make the clan stronger. If that happens, I’ve every intention of running off.”

“I’m sorry, Esme. If my plan comes to fruition, know you can always come to me and I will give you shelter.”

Esme grinned, then frowned again. “I like ye. I wish ye were staying.”

Eve impulsively stood and hugged Esme. “I like you, too, but I cannot stay.”

“What if ye fall in love with Grant? Would ye stay then?”

“I’ll never fall in love with your brother,” Eve said with a laugh, then slapped her hand over her mouth as she realized how rude she was being. “I’m so sorry. He’s handsome enough. Very handsome, but I wish for a husband who does not want me for my castle.”

“But how will ye have that when ye’ll be wed to Grant?”

Eve was spared having to remind the woman she did not wish to tell her by a banging at the door. “I’ve received word that Father Tavish is ready for ye,” Ross bellowed.

All the air seemed to leave Eve’s lungs as Esme stomped to her door, slung it open, and snapped, “Ye go tell my brother and Father Tavish that Eve is changing, and she’ll be there when she’s good and ready. Grant can wait a spell. After all, Eve will be his wife for the rest of his life.” With that, Esme shut the door with a bang and turned to face Eve.

Eve saw Esme’s lips moving, but she could not hear what the woman was saying. Her ears were ringing with Esme’s words about Eve being Grant’s wife for life. All her bravado, all her surety that she could undo what was about to be done wavered. What if he insisted on a joining? What if he forced himself upon her? She did not think he was that sort of man, but what did she really know about men? She began to tremble violently.

“Eve?” Esme was by her side in an instant, gripping her elbow. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Eve’s throat constricted as memories of her parents and how happy they had been together flooded her mind. Fear knotted her belly, rushed through her veins, pounded her temples, and left her freezing. She wrapped her arms around her midriff to stave off the shaking, but it would not stop. Her eyes burned as panic welled in the chambers of her heart and flooded her with poisonous fear. She had to go through with the marriage for Clara’s sake.

“Eve? Eve? Ye’re scaring me. Should I get Grant?”

Tears began to leak out of her eyes. She let them flow and promised herself it would be the only time she permitted herself the weakness. “I’m afraid,” she choked out. “I…I always thought I’d wed for love. What if this is it?”

Her eyes locked with Esme’s. She patted Eve’s hand. “If this is it for ye, then rest easy in the knowledge that my brother is a good, honorable man.”

“Good and honorable do not equal love,” Eve muttered.

“Nay, they dunnae,” Esme said with a sigh, “but better tied to life with my brother than with Aros MacDougall.”

Eve shuddered, recalling how Aros had lashed the boys. “Yes, I suppose there is that,” she whispered. Still, it was precious little comfort for the possible loss of all the hopes and dreams she had clung to all those years in hiding, the ones that had kept her spirit alive.

Grant turned from speaking with Father Tavish and looked at the door to the great hall as it squeaked open. He frowned when Ross strolled through the door alone. “Where are my sister and my bride?”

Ross pointed over his shoulder. “In yer sister’s bedchamber. Esme said ye can wait, and yer bride slammed the door in my face after bellowing at me.”

“Are ye trying to tell me ye could nae manage to get two women to follow ye down the stairs?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling ye,” Ross snapped. He flopped into a chair, kicked his feet out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and then folded his arms over his chest. “That English lass is going to cause ye trouble, ye mark my words.”

“I’m certain I can handle one wee little lass. I—” Grant’s words ground to a halt at the sight of Eve standing in the doorway. She had on braies exactly like the ones Esme wore, a léine, with a rope tied around the waist, and her hair was in wild disarray, tumbling over her shoulders in fiery red waves. She set her hands on her hips, and the motion caused the léine to slide down over one perfectly creamy shoulder and droop just enough that he got a glimpse of the top of her rounded breasts. His mouth went dry at the enticing picture. Eve Decres had to be the only woman alive who could make men’s clothing look alluring. But why the devil was she in them?

“Why are ye dressed like a man?” he demanded.

“A man?” she asked, giving him a ridiculous confused look. He did not know the woman, but any lass capable of persuading a man like Aros not to kill two relatives of his enemies was not a simple lass.

“Aye,” he said, striding toward her and stopping a hairsbreadth away. “Why. Are. Ye. Dressed. Like. A. Man?”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t speak to me like I’m simple.”

“Then dunnae pretend to be,” he said.

Her eyes widened at that, as if she’d only just realized her error. “Braies will be easier to ride in for our journey to the convent,” she said, motioning to the braies that hugged her hips rather nicely. He stared at her long and hard. He’d learned the trick from his own brother using it on him whenever he’d wanted to see if Grant was telling the truth. Eve began to fidget with her hands, and she motioned to the braies again. “They won’t allow me to be chafed,” she said, the inflection of her voice pitching ever so slightly. Most people would never notice it, but Simon had trained Grant to detect the changes in people’s tone when they were attempting to hide the truth.

She was lying. He’d not embarrass her by stating so. Did her voice always go slightly higher when she lied? It was too enticing and would be too useful not to find out. He cocked his head. “So ye’re nae wearing yer gown because ye will be chafed.”

“Yes,” she murmured, the inflection so slight but there again.

“That makes sense,” Grant fibbed. “I suppose it’s nae of import. After all, this wedding is one of necessity, so it dunnae matter what ye wear, does it?”

“No,” Eve said, her tone low and husky once again and laced with an odd sadness that made him want to ask her what was wrong. “It is of no import.”

He had the sudden, distinct feeling it very much mattered to her, but he doubted she’d speak freely with him if he asked her. Even if she did, it would not change the truth of their marriage, though he did wish her to know he would be true to her and treat her with kindness.

The great hall door creaked open once more, and Thomas poked his head in. “I wish to attend the wedding.”

“Ye may,” Grant said without turning to look at his brother. Instead, he caught Eve’s frightened gaze, and his chest squeezed. “But wait outside in the corridor for a moment. I wish to speak to Eve alone.” He’d thought to get the wedding and the bedding over quickly, but he could see by Eve’s tense posture and pale face that she was very nervous. The least he could do was take a moment to put her at ease.

“All of ye, out,” he commanded, sweeping his gaze around the room.

The men, including Father Tavish, started to file out immediately, but Esme hesitated. He shook his head slowly at his sister. “I’m nae in the mood to tolerate yer obstinance, Esme. Time is of the essence for Eve’s companion, so out ye go. I wish to speak to Eve alone.”

He didn’t know whether to be glad or irritated when Esme glanced at Eve questioningly and Eve gave an almost imperceptible nod. Eve had not even been at his home a full day and his brother and sister had already taken to her. He was, he realized, immensely pleased.

When the great hall door closed behind Esme, Grant turned to Eve. She looked up at him with a shy, vulnerable expression that made him want to gather her close and ease her fears. It was strange to feel protective of the lass, but he supposed it was because she would be his wife. He tugged a hand through his hair, thinking of what to say and where to start. “I thought it would be good if we had a moment alone since we are about to wed.”

Her frown surprised him. He had thought she’d be relieved, even grateful, that he was trying to be considerate. “Why do you wish to be alone with me?” she asked, her tone oddly suspicious.

He frowned now. “I wanted to tell ye—” It was much more difficult to speak plainly with the lass than he’d imagined. “Well, I wanted to tell ye that ye need nae be scairt.”

“I’m not—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, and her eyes grew large. “Dunnae lie,” he chastised.

She shoved his hand away from her face, anger overtaking her features and somehow making her even more beautiful. Her lavender eyes narrowed. “I do not lie.”

“Nay?” He arched his eyebrows at her as a dare for her to continue.

“No. I’m a very truthful person,” she said, the tone of her voice changing almost imperceptibly but just enough that he heard it.

A smile tugged at his lips. He ought to keep it a secret that her voice changed when she was not telling the truth, but it was too irresistible to prove her wrong now. Plus, if she ever came in front of an enemy and her life depended on concealing the truth, she needed to be aware she wasn’t any good at it. “Yer voice goes up ever so slightly when ye are nae telling the truth.” Her lips parted, and her hands came together, her fingers twisting. He chuckled. “And ye fidget.”

She immediately unlaced her fingers. “Bah! My voice does not go up, and I will henceforth never fidget.”

He chuckled at that. “Most men would nae ever notice the change in yer tone, but I’ve been trained to detect such things, and a man who had been trained as I have, might take note as well, so take a care.”

She bit her lip but nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “You could have used that weakness against me.”

“Aye, I could have, but as I was saying,” he said in a gentler tone, “ye need nae fear me. Nay, we are nae wedding out of love, but I will be true, I will be kind, and I will protect ye always.”

Some undefinable emotion seemed to spark in her eyes, and she bit her lower lip once more, looking as if she were considering something. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice husky. “It’s just, well, I wanted to wed someone who cared for me and not my castle. I wanted—” She looked toward the floor, and he stared at the top of her head. “I wanted to wed for love,” she said in a suffocated whisper, “just as my parents did.”

“Most marriages are nae made for love, lass,” he said, thinking of his own parents who’d wed to bring peace between their clans. His parents had seemed happy enough to him. True, he did not know what his parents’ marriage had been like in the beginning. He’d never spoken to either of them about it. Perhaps Esme knew, though. She had often sat with their mother, talking and knitting.

Eve huffed, drawing him back to the present. “No, I suppose they aren’t, but I would think that when two people wed that they usually know each other for more than a few hours.”

“Ye are likely correct,” he conceded.

“And,” she said slowly, twisting her hands once more but then stilling her actions, “I imagine when two people wed who have known each other for a longer period than we have, if they are not in love, they at least are attracted to each other.”

Was that why she was fretting?

“Ah, lass,” he said, stepping forward and clasping her body tightly to his. “I vow to ye, I desire ye.”

“What?” Stark, vivid fear glittered suddenly in her gaze, confusing him. “How could you possibly desire me? I have on men’s clothing. I’m unbathed. My hair is a mess. I have too many spots peppering my nose and cheeks. I’m too thin by far. I—” Her gaze darted wildly around the room.

Ah! He understood now. Though Eve was a beautiful woman, she did not see it. She feared he would not want her, perhaps be untrue because of it. He slid his hands up her back, feeling her shiver. He touched his fingers to the silky, fiery strands of her hair, and lust seized him in a harsh grip. “It dunnae matter if yer hair has been brushed,” he said, his body strumming with desire. “It beckons to me with its warmth and softness.” Her lips parted on a sharp intake of breath, and he continued, sure he could ease her fears. He ran his fingers over the perfect contour of her cheek, reveling in the smoothness of her skin. “And the spots on yer cheeks and nose make ye even lovelier.”

“They…they cannot possibly!” she sputtered.

“They do,” he assured her. They made her real. They showed she went into the sunshine and enjoyed life. When she tried to twist out of his arms, he increased his grip, acutely aware of her lush breasts pressing against his chest. “And ye are nae too thin. Ye are graceful, lithe, and have curves exactly where ye need them, where a man truly appreciates them.”

“Oh,” she groaned. “This is wrong.”

“Wrong?” He frowned. “Do ye mean sinful?” She had lived in a convent for many years, after all. “I assure ye, a man desiring his wife is nae sinful.”

Panic burned her gaze into his. “I…I am afraid!” she blurted, turning a deep red. “I’m deathly afraid of you. Of…of…of the joining!”

God above, he’d been slow. She was afraid to join with him. “Eve, we must—”

“I would ask a courtesy,” she said, her voice shaky and sounding fragile.

Her heart beat harshly against his chest. In that moment, he felt he would grant her anything if it would wipe away her fear of wedding him. “What is it?”

“I’d like to come to know you before we join,” she said, her voice and her body both trembling even more now.

God’s teeth. He should deny the request; it was unwise to relent to it. Foolhardy, even. If she was taken or captured, and the marriage had not been consummated, it could easily be dissolved. “Eve, I’m sorry—”

“Please,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes, making them turn even brighter. “I don’t want to be fearful the first time we join. You’re a stranger to me.”

He could not deny her request. There was no possible way he could bring himself to do so, no matter how unwise. But then he could not leave her here when he went for her friend as he’d intended. He could not seduce her but also put her at ease if they were separated. He needed to launch a slow seduction. Starting now .

“I’ll grant ye yer request on two conditions,” he said, his mind turning.

Relief swept her face, and then she said in a wary voice, “What are they?”

“One,” he said, holding up a finger, “ye will sleep with me in my tent when we travel.” She bit her lip but nodded. “Two—” he held up another finger “—ye will allow me to touch ye and kiss ye.” He could have said more, such as caress her, introduce her to passion and pleasure, but touching covered that, and there was no need to scare her further.

Her eyes widened. “But—”

He shook his head. “On this I’ll nae relent, Eve. Ye will be my wife in all ways but the joining until ye are ready, or I kinnae grant yer request.” After all, he could not very well seduce her if he could not even touch her. “I will have yer vow.”

“Fine, you have my vow,” she muttered, and he could not stop the laugh that rumbled from his chest. She frowned. “What’s so amusing?”

“Well…” He tugged a hand through his hair, unsure how honest to be, but he decided to be totally truthful. He did not like deceit. “Ye’re the only woman I’ve ever met that acted so forlorn about the prospect of me touching them. Usually the lasses are eager.”

“Then, by all means, go touch one of them.” She gave him a dismissive wave.

He purposely roved his gaze lazily from her eyes to the creamy expanse of her neck, and down lower to her chest before inching back up to her face and meeting her gaze again. “From this moment forward, bean bhàsail ,” he said in a low voice, “ye will be the only lass I ever touch again.” He slid his hands to the base of her skull, his blood racing in anticipation of tasting her.

She licked her lips. “Bean bhàsail?”

Ah, he’d forgotten she would not know Gaelic, being English as she was. “It means temptress ,” he answered, making slow circles on the base of her skull with his fingertips. She leaned into his touch, he was certain, without even realizing what she was doing.

“I’m not a temptress,” she said, her voice heavy and lazy, as if she was growing very relaxed.

“Ye surely are,” he said. And because his body strummed and ached so harshly with the need to feel her lips on his, he leaned forward and brushed his mouth to hers. She stiffened at first, but when he traced his tongue over the crease of her soft mouth and ran a finger down her chin, she relaxed under his touch. “Open yer mouth for me,” he whispered, and she did so with a whimper not of fear but of burgeoning desire. Triumph flared through him as he slid his tongue into the hot, welcoming recesses of her honeyed mouth and began his seduction.