The Taming of the Wolf by Lydia Dare

“Ye wish,” and moved to get up from his lap. But he tugged her back down with one arm wrapped around her waist.
    “I just want to take care of you,” he said softly as his hand moved to cup her face. He looked so sincere that she let her body soften against his. He tugged the blanket until it was pulled from between them, and then he readjusted it around her shoulders. He was nearly as warm as the fire in the grate.
    Her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest.
    “I should get a commendation for this,” he murmured. “Valor in the face of confrontation. Cait—” he started. But she interrupted.
    “Take care of me,” she whispered.
    “As long as you’ll let me,” he said as his hand moved in a slow circle against her naked back.
    Cait closed her eyes as she rested her head against his bare shoulder, and a contented sigh escaped her lips.
    He chuckled. “I missed you, too.”
    “Arrogant as ever,” she replied, letting her fingers trail across the expanse of his shoulders, letting his warmth heat every part of her.
    “Is that why you left me for dead?”
    Cait must have misheard him. She raised her head to look in his eyes. She saw pain reflected in his face, and her heart ached at the sight. “Left ye for dead?”
    “You poisoned my tea. Perhaps you remember that?”
    Comfortable as she was on his lap, she wasn’t about to let him call her a murderess. “I most certainly did no’ poison yer tea.”
    He raised one brow indignantly, his eyes boring into hers.
    Cait cringed from the intensity. “I dinna poison yer tea,” she repeated. Then she gnawed on her bottom lip. “I-I gave ye a sleepin’ draught.”
    “I slept for two days!” he growled.
    “It might have been a strong sleepin’ draught,” she admitted as she squirmed, trying to remove herself from his lap.
    His hold tightened. “You’re not going anywhere until we get a few things straight, Caitrin.”
    “Let me go, ye ill-mannered English dog.”
    “Stop moving,” he ordered. “You need my heat.”
    “I’ll manage.”
    His amber eyes darkened. “You’re not going to push me away, Caitie. No matter how hard you try. And you’re not going to poison me again. And you’re not going to run away from me again.”
    She could hear the determination in his voice, and Cait shivered. “I dinna poison ye.”
    His face softened and his clever hands moved across her body, warming her. “No more sleeping draughts either. Is the thought of being with me so terrible that you had to run away?” Dash shifted her in his arms and very gently touched his lips to hers.
    Cait felt his heat encompass every part of her, and she tingled with awareness, wanting more, wanting every part of him to touch her.
    “What are the odds,” Jeannie’s voice preceded her into the room, “that ye’d run inta Mr. MacQuarrie here of all—” The maid’s eyes landed on Caitrin in Dash’s arms and her mouth dropped open.
    “Please, Jeannie!” Cait begged, “Doona scream.”

Eleven
     
    Dash groaned when the maid slammed the door. Blast the woman. Nothing had changed. She still was never around when Cait needed her and always showed up at the most inopportune times.
    At that very moment, the soft fullness of Cait’s breasts pressed against his chest. He wanted nothing more than to taste the rosy nipples he’d briefly glimpsed through her wet chemise.
    “Miss Macleod!” Jeannie hissed.
    Caitrin started to scramble from his lap, but Dash wrapped his arm around her waist. “It looks bad,” he whispered. “But if you stand up, it’ll look worse.”
    Her light blue eyes focused on him, and she nodded. “Jeannie, give me a moment, will ye?”
    The maid punched her hands to her hips and shook her head. “I doona even ken what ta say.”
    “Your mistress will call when she’s ready for you.” Dash speared the irritating maid with his gaze. “I suggest you be available to see to her needs, for once.”
    “Miss—”
    “Jeannie, please,”