When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats

he’d changed his mind?
    “In,” Beathag prodded.
    Still uncertain, Isabail caught Beathag’s eyes and arched a questioning brow. The other woman’s initial request had been for her to sleep elsewhere for the night. Surely she didn’t mean here.
    Beathag returned her stare for a moment, then looked away. “Ask your questions of the chief,” she repeated. Then she gave Isabail a light push.
    Despite the prompting, Isabail was seriously contemplating running back to Muirne. Even the promise of a warm meal was not enough to coax her into MacCurran’s chamber. But the man himself stole her choice away. He appeared at the door, latched a big hand onto her arm, and dragged her into the room.
    Then he shut the door with a decisive snap.
    Isabail’s mouth went dry.
    His size never failed to make her heart pound. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of everything. Everything, that is, except the tawny skin visible at the neck of his tunic and the barest suggestion of hair.
    “This is an inappropriate time to seek an audience,” she said weakly.
    “You think a man willing to kidnap you concerns himself with what others think appropriate?” His hold on her arm gentled, his thumb brushingover her chemise-clad skin in a manner that set all of Isabail’s senses atingle.
    It was a dangerous feeling—because rather than pulling away, Isabail swayed on her feet, tempted to lean in to his touch. “I must return to my chamber. Whatever you wished to discuss can wait until morning.”
    “No.”
    She swallowed thickly. “I will not stay.”
    “Aye, you will.” He tugged her sharply, and she fell against his chest. That solid, divinely warm chest that blotted out the room. “You will because I say you will.”
    Isabail’s head swam, intoxicated by the masculine scent of his skin and the feel of his ropy muscles beneath her hands. It seemed impossible that such a frightening wall of man could spark desire within her—but the proof was in her heartbeat and her unsteady breath. True, she had admired his handsomeness when she’d first spotted him in the orchard at Lochurkie several days ago—had even asked the captain of her guard, the unfortunate Sir Robert, if he was acquainted with him. But that was before he attacked her carriage—and before she’d stood next to him. The only man she’d ever met of a similar stature had been her father. Andrew, her late husband, had been a mere four inches taller than she.
    MacCurran’s hand trailed slowly up her body, sending shivers rippling through her. So large . . . and yet so gentle. When he reached the nape of her neck, he lifted the thick braid that Muirne hadonly just plaited and unwound the gold cord that secured it. Isabail knew she should pull away—make some attempt to stop him—but the tiny thrills that shot through her scalp as he played with her hair ran all the way to her toes. No man had threaded his fingers through her hair in many a year—and God help her, it felt good.
    She let him have his way.
    When he had completely unbraided her hair and spread her tresses over her shoulders with a mild grunt of approval, he paused. “Are you hungry?”
    “That’s a foolish question,” she grumbled, casting an eye at the brazier in the middle of the room. Next to it lay two bowls of broth, the brown juices thick and floating with chunks of meat. “I’ve not had supper.”
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll trade food for information.”
    That was cruel. Isabail had no intention of revealing the names of the five men she knew had laid their pallets under Lochurkie’s roof that night. Not after he’d made such a pointed observation regarding what she’d learned about the MacCurran encampment. He would never release her. The risk of her telling someone what she knew was too great. “I will not,” she said. “I prefer to go without.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    Isabail thought that was the end of it, and she turned to leave. But he