Highland Sons: The Mackay Saga by Dawn Ireland, Meggan Connors Page B

desperate.”
    “And which one, pray tell, are you?”
    “Maybe I’m a little bit of all of those. You?” She was relieved to hear the breathiness in her voice sounded more suggestive and seductive than disconcerted and nervous.
    “Not so desperate anymore, but I have been called a troublemaker, and not just by my dearly departed ma. And as for that first one, well . . .” He trailed off and made a subtle movement with his shoulders that wasn’t quite a shrug.
    Intrigued by his answer, or lack of one, she asked, “Did you find your fortune, then?”
    His hand snaked around her waist to the small of her back, and he leaned in. Against her cheek, his warm breath carried a hint of mint instead of the bite of alcohol. “You won’t tell me your name and you wear a mask, but you want to know about my fortunes? A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” His words were spoken lowly, but when she leaned back to meet his gaze, his eyes were merry.
    Play the game , she reminded herself. “I’d think you’d be flattered. After all, I’m assuming you’re no pauper, so you must have found something.”
    “Maybe I run the paper.”
    Mimicking the laughter of a gentlewoman, she tittered. “You don’t have the hands of a writer.” After all, she’d felt the calluses as he took her hands in his. He had the hands of a laborer, of a man accustomed to rough work.
    He had the hands of a Scotsman.
    “You wound me,” he said in mock horror, twining his fingers in hers and bringing her hand to his chest. Her fingers itched to peel the away the fabric separating them and stroke the skin beneath. “I have the soul of a poet.”
    “I can’t speak to the qualities of a man’s soul. That’s for the preacher to do,” she countered. “So I make my judgments based upon what I can see.”
    His arms tightened around her, drawing her in until they were separated by little more than her hand on his chest. Her fingers curled, digging into the fabric of his dark vest. She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and when she inhaled deeply, her breasts brushed against him, a sensation so delicious she shivered.
    His eyes were hot and hungry, and he reached up to gently stroke her chin. Her body went soft, her heart dancing a wild jig in her chest. The music, the dancing, the other revelers all seemed to melt away, and she even lost sight of her band mates among the crowd. In the space of those moments, she and Cameron became the only two people in the room. His voice drove into her like bullets as he whispered, “And what do you see?”
    She took the time to adjust her mask, simply to shake the passion in his eyes out of her head. No one had ever looked at her like that. She wasn’t sure anyone ever would again.
    After all, she was nothing but gypsy trash.
    Hoping her girlish giggle didn’t belie her raging heart, she took a step back and turned his palm over in her hand. Tracing the calluses ridging his palm, she said, “You work with your hands. No ink stains, so you’re not a writer, however much you might claim otherwise. I’d say you’re a farmer, but since there’s no water to speak of out here, that seems unlikely. You’re a miner.” She regarded him for several seconds before adding honestly, “It doesn’t suit you.”
    He laughed and pulled her in against him again, and this time, she didn’t even have her hand separating them. God, he was so warm, and the heat pouring off his body made her want to curl up next to him and purr like a contented cat. “Everyone out here is a miner, and being trapped underground doesn’t suit anyone. Your betting is too safe for a woman of mystery. Tell me something else.”
    A challenge. This time, the delighted smile rising to her lips wasn’t false. “What would you wager for, then?”
    He grinned. “How about a kiss? We could start there.”
    “And what if I win?”
    He took her hand and led her over to a quieter spot near the entrance. As he placed his hand on the wall above her