Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) by Lois Greiman Page B

swiping his hand away. "Why won't ya leave?"
    "Me duty lies here. I made a vow."
    "To who?"
    "Me mother."
    She stared at him for a moment then laughed aloud. "And would your mother not rather ya keep yourself alive than fulfill your stupid vow?"
    Roman remained silent for a moment. The Highlands were there in his mind suddenly, easing his soul. "'Tis hard to say what me mother would think. She is a ... unique woman."
    "Go home, Scotsman, before it's too late."
    "It's too late, now, lass."
    "No!" she said, grasping his shirt with her left hand. "I will not be responsible for your death. I will not."
    He stared into her eyes. "How could ye take that responsibility?"
    "Don't ya see?" she asked, shaking with feeling, but just then she realized his gaze had fallen away.
    Her blanket had deserted her, it seemed, and his gaze, green and intense, had been snared by her breasts.
    She swallowed hard, but she did not draw the blanket up, for perhaps this was her only chance. "What'll it take, Scotsman?" she asked softly. "What'll it take ta convince ya ta leave?"
    His gaze lifted to hers. Fire burned in his eyes. She watched him tighten his jaw, watched him clench his fists and hold himself back.
    "Dunna tempt me, lass," he murmured hoarsely. "Ye dunna ken what I'm capable of."
    Dear God, forgive her! "Then show me," she said, and slipped the blanket from her body.
     

Chapter 8
    As a child, Roman had seen a brooch made of ivory found in a distant land and brought to the Highlands by a thousand twisted trails. He had thought it the most beautiful thing on earth, smooth, precious, lovely.
    Her skin was like that. By the light of the single candle, it glowed as if with a fire of its own. She'd lost her coif and half her pins in the melee with Dagger's men. Her golden hair hung in loops, half-upswept, half-down.
    It was the hair that he could not resist. Perhaps it was the incongruity of its wild disarray against the neat slimness of her body. Perhaps it was the sheer femininity that drew him. Sitting on the saggy mattress, he dipped his fingers into the wild mass, releasing the surviving pins. The golden strands sighed across his hands, soft as a kitten's fur against his fingers and seeming to caress his very soul. He drew a careful breath, breathing her scent, feeling the very essence of her as he burrowed deeper, sliding his splayed fingers against her scalp.
    Her breathing was raspy. Her eyes fell closed. Her head dropped back a bit as she leaned upon one palm.
    "Lass." He could not help but lean closer and whisper something to her, for her beauty touched his soul. He slipped his hand onto her neck, caressing, soothing. Her flesh was soft and warm. Her throat was slim, long, elegant. He traced its sharp tendon with one finger then slid lower, over her collarbone and softly, ever so softly along the outside curve of her right breast.
    She shivered violently against his touch and breathed hard, fast exhalations that rasped softly against his face.
    Roman slid his fingers around her sides until he felt the sharp ridge of her backbone. He skimmed his fingers lower, slowly lower, until she arched away from his hand, pressing her breasts upward.
    They were beautiful, firm, capped by taut, rosy-hued nipples. He leaned closer, holding hard to the reins of self-control, making each movement carefully until his lips touched the crest of one breast.
    She shrieked softly and jerked beneath him.
    "Lass." Roman raised his head, scrutinizing her face. It was taut with intensity and rapt concentration, beautiful beyond words in the glow of the tallow candle. "Lass," he repeated, tightening his arm where it lay about her back. She felt no more substantial than a flower, no more corrupt than a sanctuary. "Who are ye?"
    Her eyes snapped open like one who's been slapped. "Betty," she said, her tone raspy.
    He could not help but smile, for there was passion as bright as a rose in her face. "Yer more than a simple name, lass. More than..." He shrugged,