Page 48 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
Emma flushed. “I’m no different than any other lady.”
“Maybe. But I think I’d still prefer yer keen and lively mind.” He paused. “I didnae realize how much ye cared for growin’ things and herbs. I’d gladly ask Kyla?—”
“I’m leaving,” she blurted out and then looked down as he stirred. “I-I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself.”
“It’s nay trouble,” he said softly. “I like seein’ ye happy, Emma.”
She twisted around to face him and realized he’d leaned in closer, studying her. “LadyEmma.”
A smile touched his lips, and he seemed to tower over her, all restless storm and untouched mountain made into a man.
“Lady Emma.” His breath fanned her lips. “Why must ye fight me every damn step of the way?” He lowered his voice, almost as though he was speaking to himself. “And why do I like it so much?”
“Because you are too used to getting your way, Sir,” Emma said flatly. “And you would have us walk a dangerous path that can end nowhere good.”
He cocked his head. “Are ye so sure?”
“Am I—?” Emma growled. “You?—”
Her words were cut off, for a big hand caught the back of her head and pulled her in, lips slanting over hers.
Emma sagged against Laird Ronson for a moment, her entire being lighting up with relief and need—a clash that made her dizzy—and then she reared back.
Holding him at arm’s length, breathing hard, she trembled. “No,no.We cannot do this.”
I vowed that I would not betray Helena any further.
The Laird snagged her wrist and pulled her hand up, then pressed a kiss to her palm. Emma gasped and nearly swooned. It was—why did he insist on pretending to court her?
“Why can’t you leave me be?” she whispered as their eyes met.
“I dinnae ken,” he murmured, and a smile spread across his face as he kissed her knuckles. “But it seems a sin nae to kiss ye.”
“Do you not see that you are leading us to ruin?” she pleaded. “Let me go, My Laird. I beg of you.”
“Nay,” he growled and tightened his grip on her hand.
Emma tried to pull free and instead fell forward, their lips inches apart. She turned her face as he went to kiss her, so his lips landed on her cheekbone instead.
“You would condemn us both for a kiss?” she snarled, glaring at him as tears pricked her eyes.
“Och, aye, lass,” he said. “That and more. I am the Devil of Banrose, after all.” His hand trembled as he cradled her face, and she made to turn away. “Nay, Emma, look at me. Ye compel me. Perhaps?—”
“Stop,” she begged. “Please. You forget that you are my best friend’s fiancé. That the Queen holds your fate in her hands—both our fates. We are not free. And this is not what gentlemen do.”
“And I already told ye, Emma, that I ken ye have nay need or desire for a gentleman.” He leaned in. “I kissed ye, I tasted yer sweetness, and felt yer body beg for more. Ye need a devil, lass.”
“No, My Laird,” Emma countered. To her surprise, she traced her fingers over his cheekbone, and his eyes went wide. “I think you seek a distraction.”
Anger flared in his eyes, and he jerked back. “A distraction? Is that what ye think this is?” he sneered. “Right, right, I forget meself, Lady Emma. Ye fear the rapacious beasts ye think all Scots are—and yet ye willingly spread yer legs for me last night?—”
Emma raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist.
For a moment, they stared at each other, breathing hard, and he shook his head.
“I apologize,” he muttered. “Christ. I do forget meself.” He stroked her face. “I have never wanted to forget meself more. I have never wished that I was free more.” He paused.
Emma’s heart leaped. “What—what do you mean?”
