Page 22 of The Wrong Bride
“We seem to be at a stalemate.”
He stood up again and advanced, this time coming right to the edge of the tub. Soap bubbles hid the sight of her from him, but they were no true protection. But she was sick of constantly showing her fear, so she stiffened her shoulders and tried to meet his cool glance with one of her own.
He lifted the bucket of clean water left to rinse her hair and raised it above her head.
“McCallum—”
“Tilt your head back—ye wouldn’t want me to get soap in your eyes.”
“McCallum—!”
But he wasn’t stopping, so with a gasp, she put her head back and met his amused gaze with her furious one, even as the water began to run through her hair and down into the tub. Seeing that his gaze lowered, she had a terrible feeling that the water was not only removing soap from her hair, but driving it away from her body.
She covered her breasts with her hands. “Just finish!”
He did at last, and she bowed her head, knowing he’d gotten the best of her once again. Still feeling watched, she at last opened her eyes to see him crouched at her level. Water dripped down her face and she blinked rapidly.
“Ye may feel ye have power here,” he said in a hoarse voice, “but ’tis only at my whim. Ye could make things as unpleasant as ye’d like, and I would survive it, for I am laird here, and all ken the termsof the betrothal and how important our marriage is. There’s many a man who would cheer me on for taking matters into my own hands when your father tried to betray me.”
She didn’t bother to deny her uncle’s relationship to her—McCallum wouldn’t listen. And she found herself unable to speak, caught up in his intensity and nearness—and passion for his clan. She’d never met anyone who made her emotions waver so wildly from anger to despair to intrigue. She didn’t want to feel this way, out of control, racing toward some desperate clash between them. He was right—they could be married by tonight, and really, could she deny him if he would have his way? Or would he simply take what he wanted?
She shivered, but it wasn’t from the water’s chill. It was from the frightening realization that there was something powerful between them, something that called to her, that made the risks he’d taken to have her for himself seem arousing, not just self-serving. There was a place inside her she’d never sensed before, surely a recklessness, a weakness.
“Ye’re strangely quiet, lass,” he murmured.
His gaze lazily moved over her face, dipping to her breasts, where the upper curves were displayed above the soapy water. Her skin felt . . . prickly, sensitive, even inflamed.
“I’m not done fighting you,” she said at last, almost wincing at how breathless she sounded.
A slow grin curved his mouth, even as he reached his hand to cup her face and tilt it toward him. The shock of his warm palm settling so gently on her skin made her tense, but she didn’t pull away, as if that would show that she’d given up, that she was afraid of what he could do to her . . . what he could make her feel.
He leaned over the tub and kissed her, his palm guiding her head. She wanted to show him he didn’t move her, that this display meant nothing to her. But his lips were warm, and glided over hers with purpose, parted gently as if he wanted to taste her. She’d never been kissed . . . She felt her head swim at the sensation that seemed to travel down her body, to her breasts, to the pit of her stomach and between her thighs as if he’d touched her in her most secretive places.
When his tongue traced her lower lip, she jerked back in surprise. He didn’t laugh, just studied her with those gray eyes that were considerably warmer. He kept his hand on her face, and his thumb caressed her cheek over and over.
“Our first kiss bodes well for the future,” he said.
He glanced down to her breasts again, and she stiffened. With a faint smile, he let her go and stood up.
“Dry off,” he said, back to ordering her around. “We have things we need to discuss.”
Not the topicsshewanted to discuss, apparently,but she didn’t argue. He turned his back and went to the window, while she hastily dried herself and pulled on a dressing gown Mrs. Wallace had laid out for her, trying to forget the feel of his mouth on hers, and how instead of being afraid or disgusted, she’d felt . . . aroused. Cat had told her one could feel overwhelmed when in intimate situations with a man, and Riona hadn’t been able to understand what she meant. She did now, and felt a new kind of fear—fear of her own reaction and response to this compelling persuasion of his.
“Come sit by the fire and dry your hair,” he said.
Gritting her teeth, she obeyed because it needed to be done. She had a comb this time, and worked slowly on the tangles, letting the heat dry and soothe.
“So ye did not name me a kidnapper of women because ye ken ye’re a Duff amidst a sea of McCallums.”
She harrumphed, but said nothing.
“I would prefer that my clan not learn that the earl meant to betray us and break the contract, so I will not speak of that.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for not making myuncleout to be a villain?”
“If they knew yourfatherhad tried to renege, he would be more than a villain. There are some who would demand a justified retaliation, and I don’twant the feud to resume. I want my marriage to be the beginning of a new peace.”
Without thinking about it, she almost said “ourmarriage” just to annoy him, and then realized what it implied.
