My Seduction by Connie Brockway

was traveling in Scotland in November. He hadn’t considered that, never having traveled in Scotland in November, she would not know what was required. But being a lady, she had dressed to travel in the style in which a lady travels.
    “Why would anyone risk her health for fashion’s sake, when—”
    “I hate to contradict you, MacNeill!” Kate interrupted with a faint but triumphant smile. “But my gown isn’t a fashionable choice; It’s my only choice.”
    “Don’t smile at me,” he said roughly. “Do you not understand? I may have killed you with my ignorance!”
    Her eyes rounded in surprise and then softened, dealing a far more telling blow to him than her scorn or accusation ever could have done. “Well, if this is the afterlife, MacNeill, there’s a priest in York who has a fair bit of explaining to do. Don’t look like that. I just need to warm up a bit and—” She broke off, coloring so that Kit knew she had been about to request something to eat. There was nothing. Not yet.
    He straightened. “I’m going to see to Doran and then have a look about. There used to be rabbits aplenty on the moors.” He didn’t tell her that the rabbits, being far more sensible than their two-legged counterparts, burrowed deep during storms. But he would do everything in his power to find some food.
    “Oh.”
    “You’ll be fine here.”
    “I know.”
    “The hearth is deep enough that no sparks will fly out, and I’ll be back before the embers die. You rest.”
    “Of course.
    If he stayed longer, he wouldn’t leave, and she needed food, fresh water at the least. He looked down at her. She’d shut her eyes and was already mostly asleep. She would be fine here. No one came to the castle. No one ever had.
    He found Doran where he’d left him, fidgeting nervously in his traces as the wind buffeted the carriage from side to side. He unhitched and hobbled him, leading him to the ruined side of the castle where a creek overflowed its banks, and let him go.
    Then, after loading and priming his rifle, he headed out into the storm.
     
    Kate slept in fits and starts, awakening with her limbs shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She couldn’t seem to get warm, no matter how close she snuggled to the fire, even though its heat pricked her cheeks and scorched her knuckles as she gripped the blanket to her chin. It seemed forever before she heard MacNeill’s voice.
    “Kate. Drink this.” He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her, patiently trickling the water into her mouth. He was wet. Not damp but soaked through. And cold. So cold. The water wicked into her dress, setting her to violent trembling.
    “I’m so cold,” she mumbled plaintively.
    He eased her to the ground, and she curled on her side, trying to stop the quaking, watching him through slit eyes. He stood up, dropped the sodden cape to the ground, and with a quick, easy movement stripped his shirt over his head. Backlit against the guttering light, his lean body gleamed strong and sleekly muscled, broad and flat-bellied. The firelight prowled over his broad shoulders and curled around his throat but could not reach his features, leaving them in dusky shadow.
    He knelt and gathered her against his naked chest. Already the heat of his blood had reached his skin, and now it sank into her, delicious and warm and life-giving. She should be mortified. She should be trying to free herself. Instead, she burrowed as close as she could physically get, wrapping her arms around his flanks and pushing her cheek into the dense muscle of his chest. She relaxed, absorbing his heat, accepting his body as her bed.
    And slept.
    Kit sank down with his back against the wall, his leg stretched out before him, Kate on his lap. Hesitantly, he stroked the hair back from her face. It curled around his fingers, silky and soft as kitten’s fur, black as oiled satin. He tipped his head back and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.
    She slept on, perfectly relaxed,