Claimed by the Highlander by Julianne MacLean Page B

before marriage, and he’d drunk too much wine tonight. In his present mood, a single moment alone with her could turn him into a liar, or worse.
    Nevertheless, when sleep continued to elude him, something compelled him to rise. He lit a candle, donned his shirt and tartan, and quietly ventured out of his father’s chamber. He walked through the chilly castle corridors toward the East Tower and hesitated there. The torch at the bottom of the stairs had gone out, so he used his candle to light it again, climbed the twisting staircase, and stopped, disconcerted, outside Gwendolen’s door.
    He felt like a dog that had caught the scent of something juicy and couldn’t resist rummaging around. Reaching into his sporran for the key to her room, he inserted it into the lock, carefully turned it and entered, with the full intention of merely checking on her.
    Moving closer to the bed, he raised the candle high over his head and observed her sleeping form. The flame cast a dim golden glow across the gentle curve of her body. She had pushed the covers aside and was stretched out on her belly with one leg bent, her shift tangled around her voluptuous hips and bum. Her hair was splayed out around her like rich ribbons of black silk. The soft ivory flesh of her thighs gleamed erotically in the candlelight.
    His blood quickened, and he was forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that his capacity to be patient with her was fading fast. For two years, he had lived apart from society with the oracle, Raonaid—a beautiful but unfeeling woman, who was, in a way, his mirror image. There had been nothing innocent or vulnerable about her. She was not tender, and she regarded the world with antagonism and ill will.
    For a time, he’d believed she was his perfect match, for she required very little from him. He could be distant and uncommunicative with her, and she offered no complaint, for she was just as distant in return. He really knew very little about her past, except for the fact that she had visions.
    This woman, however—his future wife—was his opposite in every way, for she was innocent and pure of heart, noble and self-sacrificing. Some long-forgotten part of him wanted to touch that purity. A more familiar part of him wanted to pilfer and consume it—even when he knew he did not deserve to be in the same room with it. What he deserved was to rot in hell with a woman like Raonaid, who would not dare to judge him for his rancor, for she was the same.
    Gwendolen breathed deeply and rolled to her side. She cupped the pillow in her arms, brought her knees to her chest. A chilly draft caused the candle’s flame to dance wildly on the wick, so he set the brass holder down on the table and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.
    A moment later, she tossed the covers aside with agitation and rolled onto her back. The sweet-smelling perfume of her body touched his nostrils and awakened his senses, just as she opened her eyes and blinked up at him innocently.
    A dangerous, passionate stirring of desire overwhelmed him. It was unlike any other desire he had ever felt for a woman. It was beyond sexual. He felt dazed, restless, and ravenous. In that moment, he was not sure he had the strength to keep the promise he had made to her, for he had never been a calm or patient man. He was a warrior at heart, and when he wanted something, he wanted it with violent, blinding fury.
    And tonight—bargain or no bargain—he wanted her .
    *   *   *
     
    Gwendolen had been dreaming of the lion again, and when she opened her eyes and saw Angus standing over her bed like a beautiful creature of the wild, she wasn’t sure if she was awake or still floating in a mindless slumber.
    A candle flickered in the room, and his enormous shadow loomed on the wall behind him. He smelled of musk and leather. His golden hair fell in blustery waves onto his broad shoulders—just like the lion’s mane in her dream—and her flesh tingled when his hungry