Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 02] by Master of The Highland (html) Page A

he’d ever heard about the Bane of the MacLeans—the Legend he’d scoffed at all his life— whirling through his head as if a full score of powerful voiced sennachies stood singing the romantic fluff right into his ear.
He touched his fingers to the almost fully receded bump on his forehead, its persistent throbbing less important than his fervent hope she wouldn’t notice.
’Twas his vain hope the lump didn’t mar too badly the looks that had ne’er failed to catch the lassies’ favor in the days before he’d forgotten how to smile.
“You are gallant, sir,” she spoke again, the compliment going right beneath his skin and melting a good bit more of the ice packed so thick ’round his heart.
“But I would know who you are,” she added, the faint quiver in her voice affecting him more than he would have believed.
“And I you, lady,” Iain returned, dabbing away the blood on her ankles with a strip of linen torn from the hem of his shirt. “Will you grace me with your name?”
“I am Madeline,” she said, a wee trace of sadness dimming her voice.
“Simply Madeline?” Iain pressed, wanting, needing, to know more.
“Aye, simply Madeline,” she echoed, a note of finality coloring her response.
A slight furrow crinkled Iain’s brow, but he tamped down his desire to learn more about her and left her her peace. He, too, had secrets, and darkness best left unveiled.
Setting aside the bloodied cloth, he ripped off a new strip to wipe the blood from her abraded wrists. Blessedly, less raw than her ankles, he tended them with equal care.
And as he did so, he steeled himself finally to look— truly look—at her face.
When he did, he near lost himself in the luminosity of her steady perusal.
Ne’er had he seen such lovely eyes.
Ne’er had a woman’s mere gaze made him feel as if he’d been transported into the land of dreams and fancy . . . as if the very earth tilted and swayed beneath him.
She locked gazes with him, meeting his full on from incredibly large eyes of the same light green of spring’s newest leaves. Thick-fringed brown-black lashes made them appear even larger, while tiny gold flecks within their depths caught the afternoon sunlight and seemed to reflect its warmth straight into every shadowed corner of his heart.
The rest of her undid him, too.
She’d lost her head veil, and the curly spill of her coppery-gold hair tumbled in fetching disarray about her shoulders, its bright gloss making his fingers itch to scoop up great handfuls just so its silkiness could stream across his palms.
So he could bury his face in the curling, glossy skeins and sate himself on its light, heathery scent.
She wet her lips—sensually full lips—lusciously ripe-looking, and just seeing the wee tip of her tongue moisten them had his entire body tightening with a ferocity that stunned him.
A lust-stoked rigidity so shockingly fierce its potency left him half-afraid he’d splinter if he but moved his little finger.
She did move, pushing up on her elbows now that he’d freed her arms, and the motion caused his cloak to slip a bit, giving him a wondrous glimpse of the top swells of her lush, creamy breasts.
A low groan—nay, in truth, more the growl of a starving predator—rose in Iain’s throat, but he battled it back, disguising it as best he could behind a pitifully lame excuse for a cough.
She peered at him, something in the depths of her green gaze giving him the uncanny sensation that she knew his cough had been a ruse.
That perhaps she knew as well that everything about him was a ruse.
Knew, too, saints forbid, that he struggled against a raging desire to yank his cloak from the well-rounded globes of her breasts, exposing their sweetness to his full viewing pleasure.
Indeed, the urge to do so made his hands tremble.
But if she suspected, she glanced discreetly aside, and Iain used the moment to squeeze a much-needed gulp of air down his constricted throat.
Her throat tightened with equally intense emotion, hot, painful, and bitterly sweet, for