Page 37 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“I am sorry for your pain,” he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat.
He was still bent over her, and he knew he should rise and step away, but she was all languid and prettily blushing. Her lacings and stomacher pressed her breasts above the neckline, and he longed to lean over and explore the valley between them with his lips and tongue.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said, cupping his cheek.
Her touch sent a jolt of urgent need through his aching body. He felt poised on the edge of control.
“You have done all you can to help me,” she whispered. “If I never remember anything else, I will have to be content.”
“Content?” he echoed in surprise. “How could ye be content to never find your family?”
“Because I’ve realized that family is what I make of it, and who I choose to be with.”
Those golden eyes searched his with a yearning he could no longer resist. He bent his head and kissed her, exploring the softness of her lips, tasting the sweetness that was her mouth. Her hands clutched his garments, pulling him closer, and with a groan he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue enter and mate with hers. His chest against the softness of hers, one arm beneath her neck, he let his other hand roam her side and hip, feeling the round fullness beneath skirt and petticoats. Back up he traced his hand, where the swell at the side of her bodice taunted him.
Was he the sort of man who’d grope a woman who’d been addled by whisky? He seemed to be the sort of man who took advantage of a woman with no memory. He broke off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.
“Duncan.”
The sound of his name on her lips made him shiver.
“Don’t stop.” She turned up her face, grazing his chin with a kiss.
“I must—we must.”
“But it feels so good to be in your arms.”
She moaned and squirmed, and it was all he could do to remember his honor, the little he had left.
He straightened, and her hands fell away from him as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Good night,” he said, giving her a nod, almost a bow, of respect.
Her hands fell back to her chest; her eyes watched him with a yearning he couldn’t face.
Turning aside, he asked, “Shall I send Maeve in to help ye undress?”
Unspoken was his belief that Catriona might have wanted him to perform those deeds.
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Good night.”
He marched his unwilling legs down the passageway and into the cave. Most were so engrossed in merriment that they didn’t notice his arrival, except for some knowing and even amused glances. He ignored them.
His whisky was waiting on the table where he’d left it, and he downed it in one gulp, letting the fire burn him. He had to face the fact that he didn’t want her to remember her life before he’d found her, that he thought they could somehow be together. It was a ridiculous fantasy, and he should have known better, but apparently his body did not. She made him feel alive, beyond duty and anger and vengeance. Being with her reminded him of families, of children, of a wife who might wait only for him.
He was a fool. He could never have her, for if he did, he’d spend the rest of his life waiting for her to remember the truth of how he’d tricked her, how he’d used her in vengeance against her own father.
And that look of desire, maybe even someday love, would turn to hatred.
Chapter 9
At the first sounds of voices in the great hall, Catherine opened her eyes—and groaned. Her head pounded, and she knew the oncoming day wouldn’t be pleasant.
As memories of her drunken behavior flooded back, she clapped her arm to her forehead and winced with embarrassment. She’d practically thrown herself into Duncan’s arms. If he hadn’t shown restraint, they might have been entwined naked together right now.
For a moment, she couldn’t think what was wrong with that. This was Scotland; she knew there were trial marriages, where people could change their minds at the end of a year.
She shot upright in disbelief at where her thoughts were going. Marriage? She’d known the man less than a fortnight! And considering that was still better than how little she knew about herself, she had to be crazed. She dropped her face into her hands. Very well, she was crazed—with lust. And she was rationalizing how she could protect her reputation and still be with him.
Be with a clan chief in exile, who was encamped in a cave.
