Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) by Lois Greiman Page A

bemused. For though she rode the stallion with Leith, she did not ride in back but rather in front, allowing her little opportunity to hold him astride as he had suggested.
    The black mare followed behind, seeming besotted by Beinn. The riders sat in silence, finding their way easily up the slope by moonlight.
    Leith kept his right arm about Rose's waist, holding her tightly to him as she held the reins. His breath was warm against her cheek and his thighs felt as hard as oaken boughs against the backs of hers.
    Their position made her breathing speed and her body grow warm—responses that had little to do with the plaid he'd placed about her shoulders.
    She tightened her grip upon his tartan, hiding the torn front of her robes and trying to think of something other than his large, hard body behind her.
    "I..." she began weakly, tracing a wrinkle in the plaid and clearing her throat. "I suppose the Lord will forgive my proximity to you ... considering the unusual circumstances."
    He said nothing. The high portion of his chest ached, but in truth it was her nearness that occupied his thoughts. She was warm and soft, and as he'd settled his plaid about her shoulders he'd seen the dramatic rise of her breasts above the edge of her linen undergarment. That memory caused the heat in his loins and the tightness of his grip about her tiny waist.
    Her hair, set free by the thieves' harsh hands, was like firelight only inches from his face, each strand gleaming in moonstruck tones of burnt reds.
    "After... after all," she continued, made nervous by his nearness and silence, "He would hardly wish me to allow you to fall from your steed."
    Leith shifted his gaze downward. She'd twisted about slightly, turning her face so that he could see the curve of her cheek, the sweet swelling of her parted lips.
    He could kiss her without undue difficulty, he thought. But he'd seen her swoon from a horse before and did not wish to be the cause of her faint. Still, the possibility of making her light-headed did much to improve his mood. "Ye think, then, that the good Lord cares even for barbarians such as meself?" he asked, remembering her derogatory words in the old abbess' parlor.
    Rose swallowed once, then sucked in her lower lip and shifted nervously. “It has occurred to me that perhaps I owe you an... ah... apology," she said gracelessly.
    A falcon, scared from its resting place on a bare nearby branch, took flight, its splendid wings noiseless in the still night air.
    "And ... perhaps an expression of appreciation for... " Rose paused, sucking in her lip again and remembering his kiss from the night before. Hold your tongue, fast, and pray, she reminded herself raggedly. But he sat so damned close that talk seemed amongst the safest of her options. His presence made her hungry. And damned if she could, at the moment, remember a single prayer. “For..." she began again, but just then his grip tightened a bit, causing her to feel the hard length of his manhood pressed against her back.
    Hot blood suffused her face. Damn the hold, fast, and pray idea! She should scratch, kick, and run. The problem was—she didn't want to.
    "Do ye mean to thank me?" asked Leith smoothly. "For saving yer life?" His lips were very near her ear. "Na to mention yer honor?"
    Rose swallowed hard. "Yes," she squeaked, and nodded shallowly. “For that."
    "Ye wish to thank me?" he asked again, as if the idea was a bit difficult to believe.
    Rose bit her lip hard and felt scared enough to faint dead away, but should she faint she would have to drag her gaze from his lips and she found she could not do that. They were full lips, seductive, lifted slightly with humor—and waiting.
    "I—I—" she stuttered. "I just did—thank you."
    "Na, lass," he breathed, forgetting his wound as he pressed nearer. "Ye did na."
    He was about to kiss her. She knew it and her entire being waited, held in trembling anticipation.
    His lips neared. She closed her eyes. Her body