The Highlander's Touch

The Highlander's Touch by Karen Marie Moning Page A

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Authors: Karen Marie Moning
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knees, lunging for the gown pooled at her feet, but he moved in flawless accord and she ended up kneeling nose to nose with him, and
he
was holding her dress.
    They stared at each other while she counted her heartbeats; she’d reached twenty before he favored her with a slow smile. Tension crackled in the air between them.
    “You are a beauty, lass.” He cupped her cheek with his hand and swept a light kiss across her lips before she could protest. “Long legs, beautiful hair”—he slipped his hand into it, letting silky strands sweep through his fingers—“and fire in your eyes. I have seen many bonny lasses but I doona believe I have ever encountered one quite like you. You make me think I might discover parts of myself I doona know exist. What am I to do with you?” He waited, his lips mere inches from hers.
    “Let me get dressed,” she breathed.
    He searched her face intently. She held her breath then, terrified that if she opened her mouth she would cry,
Yes! Touch me, feel me, love me, damn it, because I don’t know what it feels like any more to forget that I hurt and that my mother is dying!
    Often, during her mother’s illness, Lisa had found herself longing for a boyfriend, a lover: someone she could take her battered heart to and curl up with, even if only foran hour, for the illusion of security, warmth, and love. Now, half terrified, worried about her mother dying alone, she had a perverse impulse to seek shelter in the arms of the very man sworn to kill her.
    Don’t try to use a Band-Aid on your heart, Lisa
, Catherine would have reminded her, had she been there. Any sense of security or intimacy with him would be nothing but an illusion. She needed to keep her mind clear, not filled with romantic fancy about some medieval Highland laird who might decide to kill her tomorrow.
    He dropped his hand from her hair, skimming her collarbone and curving his fingers over the lacy scallop of her bra. He studied the sheer fabric with fascination, his gaze caressing the uplifted curves of her breasts, the deeper shadow of her cleavage. “Look at me, lass,” he whispered. Lisa raised her eyes to his and wondered what he saw in them. Hesitation? Curiosity? Desire she couldn’t hide?
    Whatever it was he saw in her eyes, it wasn’t a Yes, and this man was a proud one.
    He traced a finger down the hollow between her breasts and the smile he gave her held a sadness she couldn’t fathom.
    “I will send someone to fetch you another gown, lass,” he said. Then he left the room.
    Lisa sank to the floor, clutching the gown.
Dear heavens
, she thought,
what am I going to do?
    *   *   *
    Circenn stomped from her room, his mood worsening by the moment. His body ached from head to toe with the effort of being
gentle
with the lass. His face felt stiff from smiling
gently;
his fingers clenched and unclenched fromtouching the swell of her breasts
gently
. His body rebelled at his gracious, honorable,
gentle
retreat from her room, and the man within him that had been born into the world five hundred years ago roared that the woman was his, by Dagda! Gentleness be damned! In the ninth century a man had not asked—a man had taken! In the ninth century a woman had been amenable, grateful to find such a fierce protector and able provider.
    Circenn laughed softly, bitterly. He’d been far too long without a woman to endure such torment. When he’d walked into the room, carrying the cloak that would have drowned her in its oversized folds, his mind had been focused solely upon covering as much of her as possible—only to find her clad in nothing but two lacy, gauzy pieces of fabric. With little bows! By Dagda, a tiny satin ribbon had perched jauntily between her breasts, and another at the front of the silky fabric that slipped between her legs.
Like a gift
, he thought.
Untie my bows and see what I have to give you. …
    He’d tried to look away. To spin on his heel and leave the room, refusing himself the pleasure

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