Page 32 of The Highlander's Dare
“Och, lass.” He closed the distance, separating them now only by a few inches as he brushed her cheek with his fingers. “We’ve no’ been friends for a while now.”
His words had the power to crush her heart. Why didn’t he just shove his fist into her chest and rip out that pathetic organ? Put her out of her misery forever.
Tears gathered again, and she felt like a fool. A weak, silly little idiot.
“When I kiss ye, when I look at ye, when I hear your voice, the last thing I think of is how I want to be your friend.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a low growl as if he were fighting to keep the words inside, and they escaped anyhow.
And their meaning was not lost on her, making her eyes go wide, and that traitorous heart leap in her chest. These were not the words she expected. These words confused her, gave her hope, and wasn’t that unfair? How cruel of him.
“What do you mean?” she found herself asking, her tongue betraying her heart.
“I want to wed ye. I want ye to be mine. I want to take ye away from Baston and any other bastard who would dare lay a claim to ye. I want ye, Clara de Montfort, as my own.”
Words she’d longed to hear. Words that had the power to sink her completely. For she knew them to be the words of an actor, a man who simply sought to gain what he wanted from her and nothing more.
“Why do you want me?” She had to hear him say it because a quarter-hour or more ago she’d heard him say he needed her for the coin, to save his clan, and if that were what he wanted, she’d give it all to him. But she needed to save her heart for herself.
“Because ye’re a brave lass who’s willing to take on the wrath of men and countries to get your way.”
Brave. She didn’t feel very brave right now.
“Because ye’re witty and clever, and every time ye open your mouth, I’m surprised by what comes out, and I like that.”
Oh, dear God, her heart was melting. Just even thinking that word—melting—steeled her resolve, however, because she remembered his words about her melting in his hands.
“I do not want you,” she said, stiffening, shoulders squared, chin up. She felt the lie on her tongue as surely as it must show on her face.
He saw right through her. “I want ye because even in the face of a lie, ye hold tight to your convictions.”
“I want you to leave my chamber, and I never want to speak to you again.” Clara used her most haughty, dismissive tone.
“I want ye because of your passion, your resolve, your steadfastness. Your stubbornness.” He bent and brushed his lips over hers, and all of the things he said he liked about her turned to mush.
Clara worked hard to keep her knees from buckling. She worked hard not to kiss him back. Not to touch him, not to shout “aye, take me now.”
“I heard what you said to your brother, in your tent. How you want me for vengeance. For coin.” There, she’d said it, blurted it out, and now he would say she was right, and he’d leave, or he’d break her heart.
A light flamed in his eyes, understanding dawning, but instead of backing away, instead of quickly feeding her excuses, he grinned.
“Shall I add ‘little spy’ to the reasons why I love ye, lass?”
Love?
Clara gulped, her heart surging up into her throat.
“Aye, lass, I love ye. I love ye so much I feel like a bloody damn fool every time I so much as think of ye. I love ye so much I’m standing here telling ye so, words that have never left my lips to anyone, save my mother.”
He loved her. Clara was speechless. Was this another ploy? Was this him trying to get out of whatever corner she’d backed him into?
“You do not love me,” she said, shaking her head.
“I do.”
“You cannot love me.”
“But I can, and I do.”
“Nay.” She shoved against his chest. “You cannot. We’ve known each other less than a sennight.”
