Page 9 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
Lines formed between MacMasters’s dark brows. “I won’t hurt ye, lass.”
Had the rogue expected a hero’s welcome? “Am I to trust the word of a man who’s murdered two souls before my eyes?”
“Not murdered.” He cast each man a derisive glance. “Though the bluidy bastards would deserve such justice, they’ll be well enough in time.”
“Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I believe it does. I’d like to know who came to my rescue.” Oh, what she wouldn’t have done for some theatrical training. Her voice sounded strained and tinny. Of course, with her heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from her chest, her ability to form any words seemed nothing short of miraculous.
MacMasters studied her beneath hooded lids. He kept his distance. Or so it seemed. Did he see through her act? Despite the potent aroma of whisky that followed him, the man was neither alcohol addled nor a fool. And her performance was indeed rather pitiful.
He stepped past Munro, who lay sprawled face down on the rough pavement. He motioned her to the coach. “Thoughtful of those jackals to provide a fine carriage.”
“Quite so.”
He settled the long gun on the driver’s bench, then closed the distance between them. “Ye’ve no need to fear me, lass. I mean ye no harm.”
Her knees threatened to go to jelly, but she met his gaze head-on. “I’m not going anywhere with the likes of you.”
“I’d wager I could change yer mind.” His eyes bored into her. Perceptive. Intelligent. And not in the least bit reassuring.
He caught one wrist between his long fingers, unyielding, yet gentle. Electricity surged through her at the contact. Nearly a head taller than she, this man was strong and vital. He exuded raw physical power. What would it be like to be held by this man, to drink in the intoxicating mix of masculine strength and the delicious temptation of his touch?
His arms snaked around her. Drawing her near, he studied her. What was he searching for? He’d told her he meant her no harm, but he didn’t trust her. That much was evident. His eyes had narrowed and his gaze penetrated hers, seeming to seek some truth she couldn’t define. What did he hope to find in her eyes?
He dipped his head ever so slightly, bringing his mouth tantalizingly close to her own. His firm lips quirked at the corners and his warmth surrounded her, even as one large hand swept lower. Over her waist. Skimming the curve of her hip. Stirring her most primitive instincts.
She pulled in a breath and steeled herself against the all-too-tempting sensations. After all, she was not a debutante fresh from the schoolroom. She was a woman, experienced in the ways of men.
Pity none of those gentlemen had prepared her forhim.
He’d staggered into the tavern, a drunk in his cups. Now, his movements were confident, his touch sure. No trace of clumsiness. No awkward fumbling. No mangling of syllables and words.
But the distinctive odor of liquor wafting from the man…good heavens, that was it! He’d used that distinctive smell as a form of camouflage. The reek emanated not from the man, but from his garments. Had he applied alcohol to his clothing to appear to be an inebriated lout? Had his uneven gait and swaying stance been nothing more than a disguise?
But why?
Why would he go to such lengths to get to her?
He held her against his lean, hard length, seeming to draw the very breath from her body. For the moment, her questions retreated. She’d written so many tales of daring heroes, imaginary men spun from dreams of chivalry and the myth of one true love. And now, it seemed a living, breathing knight with a brogue had stepped from the pages of her fantasies. She’d been on her own for so very long. She prided herself on her independent nature, her ability to make short work of problems and take care of herself. She’d faced down every challenge that came her way. Alone. Without a man. So why did the way this Highland stranger marched into her life and acted the part of her protector unleash an entirely unprecedented thrill in her heart?
And still, he held her. The curve of his deliciously wicked mouth intensified, as if he’d read her thoughts. This was foolish. There was no time for a dalliance, much less with a man she didn’t even know. If only his nearness did not ignite her awareness of him. Spreading his heat through her limbs. Stirring embers she’d never even known lay dormant. Tantalizing her with the possibility ofmore.
Her senses drowned out her mind’s logical protests as his long fingers dipped lower. His touch fueled the budding flames within her core, the hunger for sensation that seemed a momentary insanity.
His other hand traced the curve of her body. Exploring. Teasing.
Searching for a weapon.
Blast the Scot and my own foolish heart.
The realization dowsed the kindling fire as ruthlessly as a blustery downpour. With all the power she could muster, she shoved the heels of her hands hard against his broad shoulders. His restraining arm fell away, and he stepped back, dangling the folding knife between his fingers.
“Aye, ye’re a clever one, all right.” His mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I knew ye’d come armed. And I don’t doubt ye’d use the blade.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Suddenly, he seemed not a gallant hero, but an arrogant, cynical foe. “Indeed.”
