The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,37
against her skin disappeared as he carefully withdrew. She followed him blindly, clutching his neck, focused on returning his lips to hers.
But he resisted with ease. “Or an intimacy only your husband should enjoy.”
Suddenly, he grasped her thigh and raised it alongside his. Then, with a practiced motion, he ground his hips into hers, the hard ridge beneath his trousers taking the liberties he spoke of.
Heat and pleasure surged where his hardness intruded upon her soft folds. Separated only by layers of cloth, his body pressured hers, driving upward along ripe, tender nerves. She gasped with the pleasure of it. Heat weakened her until she could only cling to him, burying her nose in his cravat and panting.
Panting.
Panting for more.
Was there more? Her head spun and her middle ached. She wanted him to … she didn’t know. Kiss her, probably. Remove the barriers between them, certainly. Then, what?
“English?” she panted, uncertain what she was asking him to do. She raised her mouth to his jaw, seeking his kiss again.
And he resisted again.
Slowly, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected to see. Lust, obviously. Perhaps a measure of the same dizzying heat she felt.
But not this. This was calculation. He was assessing her. Watching her react to his touch the way a man training a horse watched the animal react to the bit.
Cold rushed in to replace heat—all except her face. That went hot with humiliation. She tried to yank away from him, but he held her fast, his hand gripping her thigh. “Leave go,” she gritted, shoving at his chest.
His head tilted. “I will. Because I am a gentleman. But now you understand how swiftly you can lose everything.” His eyes fell to her mouth. “A single moment of carelessness, and the only role you’ll play for a lord is his mistress.”
She shoved again, this time digging the heel of her hand into his shoulder. “Ye’ve made yer point. Now, leave go.”
“Have I?” he muttered. “I wonder.”
His arms slid away, and she immediately backed up several paces.
The look in his eyes was foreign. Always before, he’d seemed weary or frustrated or flat. Now, his expression glowed darkly, focused and watchful. It confused her. Made her retreat another step before she stopped herself.
“Next time, bring a chaperone,” he said, calmly straightening his lapels. “A woman would be best.”
How could he be so cool while she still felt like her bones had melted? “I dinnae ken any women who will—”
“Find one.”
She glowered. “It’s nae so easy as that.”
“I never claimed this would be easy, Miss Tulloch.”
“Aye.” Needing to look away from him, she glanced around the room. He’d finished the paneling, but the fireplace still wanted repair. “Impossible things never are.”
Silence was her answer.
She swallowed and risked another glance in his direction. A lock of brown hair had fallen over his brow. It was the only thing about him that hadn’t been perfectly contained.
Raising her chin, she challenged, “Just wait until ye must learn to throw a weight over the bar without brainin’ yerself, English. Then, ye’ll see what impossible really means.”
The faintest quirk—nearly a smile—curled one corner of his mouth. “I await your expert instruction, Miss Tulloch.” Then, he bent at the waist and gave her a mocking bow. “With great anticipation.”
Chapter Eight
TlU
A week later, Annie led her new chaperone along the road to Glendasheen Castle. The old woman’s nonsense had come in a steady stream the entire journey from MacPherson House.
“Ye’d be pleased, lass. I planted another rowan outside yer brother’s house. He’ll have a fine hedge when he returns from prison. Good protection, that.”
Annie tugged Bill the Donkey along the shore of the loch and released an impatient breath. “Broderick needs protection now, Mrs. MacBean. After he returns will be a mite late.”
The old woman frowned. Then dug about inside the leather pouch she often carried. “Mayhap I could curse the man who put him there.”
Patting Bill’s neck as they rounded a stand of birch, Annie swallowed her worry and focused on the lapping water. “If we kenned who that was, a curse wouldnae be necessary. The MacPhersons would see to the matter.”
“Och, a curse works just as well as killin’. I’ll need four looking glasses—”