Amanda Scott by Lord of the Isles

not to stir my temper more than you already have.”
    Another shiver shot through her at the thought that she did deserve his anger. Without thinking, she said honestly, “You are right to remind me of my guilt, sir.”
    He grimaced. “Nay, lass, I am but venting my spleen. I know well whose fault this business is. My own father, in his fashion, warned me that I was not paying sufficient heed to Macleod’s superstitious nature. I also understand family duty, including the heavy burdens it can impose, and I ken fine that you had little power to stand against him.”
    She swallowed hard, believing she had had another choice but had cravenly decided it was unacceptable. Guiltily, she wondered how much of the fault lay with Macleod’s threats and how much with her own desires and the attraction she had felt to Hector Reaganach from the first time she had laid eyes on him.
    “What thinks your sister of this devilry?” he asked.
    Feeling heat in her cheeks, Cristina said, “She is annoyed, of course. Mariota does not like being commanded, you see. She prefers to have choices offered her, as do we all, I suppose.”
    He pressed his lips firmly together, clearly fighting to keep from venting more of his spleen at her. He had stuffed pillows behind him, and sat now with his muscular arms folded across his muscular chest, staring straight ahead. His profile was impressive, for he was a handsome man, but she was glad she was getting only the side view. That was intimidating enough.
    Hector wished his body would quit responding to the sound of her voice. He had not realized before how sultry it was. It rose and fell with her words and phrases like soft, entrancing music, and parts of him—well, one part in particular—seemed to respond to every nuance.
    Only moments before, he had wanted to leap from the bed to find Macleod and strangle the sly bastard. Now, here he was, trapped for the moment, because if he got up she would see exactly how the sound of her voice and the thought of touching her affected him. And that would never do, because in his experience, women delighted in seeing how their wiles affected men. Such sights—again, in his experience—gave every woman a heady sense of power.
    He barely heard what she said next, but he was instantly aware that when she stopped speaking he wanted her to go on.
    That thought hung in his mind for a moment before he reminded himself that Mariota was the woman he wanted, the woman Macleod and the wee wicked witch beside him had tricked him out of marrying. Tightening his folded arms and pressing his lips together, he told himself that whatever potion Macleod had given him to drink was still addling his wits. He was generally a man who thought easily and quickly on his feet or in any other position, but he could not seem to think now of anything but her smooth-looking skin and entrancing voice.
    He felt a sudden urge to chuckle as the reaction stirred what he often thought of as “twin response,” because such thoughts seemed to enter his head in Lachlan’s voice rather than his own: “Aye, lad, you think well enough on your feet,” the voice said. “’Tis when you’re on your back that that puny brain of yours quits working.”
    “Do you find what I just said about Mariota amusing, sir? I assure you I did not mean it so.”
    He turned his head to look at her, unaware that his expression had altered. In fact, he was nearly certain that it had not, and while his brain did not always obey his wishes, his body always did unless it was ailing—which had happened only twice, as far back as he could remember—or was severely intoxicated.
    Sternly, he said, “You may be sure that I find nothing in this situation to amuse me.”
    “Then perhaps you are hungry,” she said equably.
    His stomach not being that part of his body upon which his attention had focused, he had not thought of food, but the mere mention of it made him realize that he was ravenous. He had not eaten much of