Secrets you guard with your life.”
With every whispered word, he leaned closer, until they were face-to-face. Close enough to kiss, he realized.
So, kiss, his dragon murmured breathlessly.
Holly’s eyes glowed as her dragon stirred. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and her lips moved without making a sound. Almost as if…
As if warming up for a kiss, his dragon breathed.
His blood heated, and a muffled thump sounded in his ears. The sound of his own pulse. Of destiny, nudging him even closer.
Kiss… Kiss…
The fire in the hearth crackled, and somewhere in the distance, Mungo’s paws pattered across the hardwood floor. But all that faded, along with the scent of the stew on the stove and the drip of rainwater outside. One by one, his thoughts faded, until his mind was blissfully blank except for one thing — how good it would be to kiss. And not just any kiss, but that particular one. One that seemed inevitable. Unstoppable. Even necessary.
Of course it is, a quiet voice said. She is your destiny.
He leaned closer — or maybe Holly did — and their lips brushed in slow motion. An action that ought to have shocked him, except it felt so good. He tilted his head, lost in a pleasant fog. When Holly laid her hands on his chest, he warmed all over and slid his hands around her waist.
It was just like that time ten years ago when they couldn’t hold back. Frighteningly out of control yet comforting. Unpredictable yet expected, because that was fate delivering one of those rare, utterly unmistakable truths in life.
You belong together. This woman is your mate.
Holly’s eyes fluttered shut, and a moment later, their lips went from brushing to pressing. Her body squeezed against his, fitting perfectly in his arms. Heat rushed through his veins, and a heavenly chorus started singing in his head. Singing about joy, hope, and a future so perfect that—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by voices as Mrs. Killin and Tony came down the corridor.
Holly blinked and jerked away. A split second later, Lachlan did too.
Don’t stop, his dragon mourned.
Lachlan stared at Holly. Had they really just kissed, or was it a dream?
“I’ll get the stew…” Mrs. Killin said, heading for the kitchen.
“Can I help?” Tony offered, still sounding a hundred miles away.
Holly blinked and backed away, still half in a trance, her eyes locked on Lachlan’s.
He flexed his fingers, ready to reach out and pull her back into his arms. But Tony thumped him on the back just then, and the moment was gone.
“How about a drink before dinner?” Tony asked.
Lachlan forced himself to step stiffly toward the bar, then faced Holly. “Something for you?”
Her lips wobbled, and he filled in the answer. The rest of that kiss.
“Just water, please,” she mumbled, straightening her shirt.
“Grappa for you?” he asked Tony.
When Tony nodded eagerly, Holly collected herself and shot him a look. “Grappa? What part of France are you from again?”
Tony flashed a winning smile. “Corsica.”
Lachlan coughed away a snort. Tony was no more Corsican than he was.
“Corsica?” Holly tilted her head in challenge.
“Corsica,” Tony said firmly.
“Lovely island,” she offered.
“Not after you’ve marched across it six or seven times,” Lachlan muttered.
Tony’s brow folded in the slightest trace of worry at Holly’s comment. “Have you been to Corsica?”
She grinned. “Not yet. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
Tony exhaled. “Oh, I will. After dinner.” He winked, then raised his glass in a toast. “To home.”
Lachlan raised his whisky. “To home.”
Holly’s eyes wandered over the open beams of the high ceiling. “Home.” Then she gulped and raised her glass in the direction of the urn she’d placed near the hearth. To Trevor.
Lachlan followed suit, while Tony, perceptive as ever, kept studiously silent.
Then Mrs. Killin bustled out with the stew, putting an end to Holly’s guessing game. Putting an end to all conversation, in fact, while they moved to the dining room.
“Ith gu leòir,” Holly murmured, just as Trevor used to say to ring in a meal. “Or should I say, bon appétit?” She shot Tony a pointed look.
He grinned and echoed her in equally accented French. “Bon appétit.”
Lachlan looked from one to another. Were they actually enjoying their little guessing game? He sighed. “Bon appétit.”
The venison stew was delicious, as was the freshly baked bread Mrs. Killin served with it. Then came dessert, and Holly clapped at the sight of raspberries, oats, and cream.
“Cranachan! My favorite.”
“Made with a hint of Old Blaine.” Mrs. Killin smiled. “Scotland’s finest whisky.”
Dragon’s Fire Whisky, Holly corrected, whispering