Page 25 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
He caught her upper arm and pulled her toward him, saying quietly, “And I’m supposed to take your word for it, for something so unbelievable as a loss of memory, when my people’s safety depends on my judgment?”
He was leaning over her, far too close. She could smell him, manly scents of the outdoors that were far too attractive. The black depths of his eyes might as well have been mirrors, for all she could understand there. But she did see anger and frustration lining his forehead, bracketing his mouth.
And then his gaze left hers and slid lower, to her mouth, and that first sense of attraction blossomed into heat that spread from her chest up to her cheeks, then down, lower, feeling like it burned between her thighs. She gave a little gasp, feeling every imprint of his fingers on her arm, especially his thumbs against the side of her breast. She should tell him to let her go, but words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was how much she liked his hand on her body, on her breast.
He lowered his head, and she could barely breathe. She felt his hair brush hers, the heat of his cheek so near, but not touching. His breath on her lips made a moan escape her. If she turned her head, just the slightest bit, their lips would meet. And she desperately wanted that, needed to feel close to someone—to him, this man full of contradictions: anger and righteousness, intensity and reserve, empathy and wariness.
“I want to kiss ye,” he said, his soft voice husky. “But I’d be taking advantage of ye.”
They were still so close, but she lifted her gaze and met his. The black depths of his eyes were coal with a spark of fire down deep.
“Not if I give you permission,” she whispered.
His lips touched hers with a gentle exploration that surprised and moved her. With another moan, she leaned up to him, tilting her head to give him more access. He pressed kisses against her mouth, like petting a fragile butterfly—but she was not so delicate. She kissed him back, harder, and it was his turn to groan, even as he opened his mouth, slanting it across hers until she did the same. The rasp of his tongue along hers made her shudder with both shock and dark passion. She’d never felt anything like it. It made her feel desperate and reckless; it made all her concerns recede. The only thing that mattered was his mouth bringing hers to life.
She wanted to be closer, and as if he read her mind, he let her arm go and drew her up hard against him. Her breasts against his chest made her gasp; his arms wrapping about her made her feel like a woman, not a victim. She was able to touch him at last, wind her arms around his neck, then tangle her hands in his wild hair. The queue came undone and she felt brazen as she held his face to her by his hair.
At last he lifted his head, and both of them breathed hard as they stared at each other. She would have pulled him to her again, but he suddenly stepped back, forcing her to let go. The silence between them seemed loud as her mind cleared, and she remembered why she should never have kissed him. She didn’t know who she was, what she was: wife, fiancée, mistress? When she regained her memories, would she be horrified by her behavior? Because she’d have regrets if she allowed this to go any further.
And then there was how he’d feel when he found out who she was. She didn’t want him to have his own regrets about helping her, or to think she’d used this attraction between them to benefit herself.
“I should not have done that,” he said, eyes narrowed.
“You did not do it alone.”
“‘Twill not happen again.”
“No, it cannot.” Her words sounded weak, so she cleared her throat and straightened her back. “We don’t know who I am, what I am.” She glanced down at the book on the table. “I don’t even know what I’m capable of. This memory of mine could come back any moment, or not at all. I have to find some kind of future for myself.”
Here, among these kind, generous people? a voice whispered slyly inside her. But that would be safe, and far too easy. And she knew little about him, she reminded herself.
Tentatively, she said, “Do you . . . is there a woman—”
“Am I married?” he interrupted brusquely. “Nay, there is no one.”
Relief moved warmly through her.
“I will never commit to a woman when all I can offer is this.”
When he put out a hand, she knew he meant not just the cave, but the life he led.
“Surely you will not do this forever. You deserve happiness, too.”
He looked at her for far too long, and she couldn’t read his expression. Was he punishing himself?
“’Tis nothing I think about,” he said. “Right now I am concerned with those children, and stopping what is happening to them. But I have not forgotten your plight, mistress.”
Catherine, she thought. My name is Catherine. But she realized he rarely said the name she’d chosen, as if he could not forget that it and her whole identity was a fraud. She knew it, too.
“My men will keep visiting the surrounding villages to ask about a lost woman. It has only been a few days.”
“But they’ve heard nothing,” she said, trying not to be disheartened when he nodded. It was early yet. “Maybe I’m not from here, and I was simply traveling through.” With just two guards? she wondered. Through the horse paths of the Highlands?
“Even if that is true, someone will look for ye eventually.”
Sometimes she felt like such an inconvenience to him, and other times closer than she could ever have felt for another man. It seemed too raw, too rare, this desire that made her watch him whenever she could. But it wasn’t just desire. She hugged herself. “I don’t like feeling so helpless and dependent. I know this about myself.”
He said nothing.
