Page 30 of Saved By the Cruel Highlander
“It was too much for him.” Holly placed her palm flat on Ollie’s belly. “He saved me, but he couldnae save himself. The driver that was with him managed to get him into a cart and take him home, but he was… he didnae make it.”
“I’m sorry.” The Laird’s voice didn’t have the usual growl in it.
Still, Holly didn’t turn around. “Me maither died of a broken heart. When she found out me faither was dead, the life left her, too. I lost both me parents on the same day, and it was me fault.”
She finally burst into tears. They streamed down her cheeks, some dripping onto Ollie, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Nay,” Elias said from behind her, but it didn’t lessen her pain.
Holly brought two shaky hands to her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks and pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes to try and stem the flow. She shouldn’t have said anything—she shouldn’t have dredged up the past because he asked her. He had no right to know, and the past should have been left in the past.
Why does he listen to me ramble on like this? Why am I sharin’ this with someone I just met?
Holly’s shoulders jerked up and down as she sobbed. If she pressed her hands to her eyes for long enough, the Laird might leave her be, and when she removed her hands, he would be gone. She didn’t need anyone except Ollie.
When his hand touched her shoulder, her entire body jerked in fright.
“It’s nae yer fault,” the Laird said.
“Aye, it is,” Holly replied, her hands still covering her eyes. “If I hadnae wandered away that day, they would both still be alive. It’s all me fault.”
“Nay, it’s nae yer fault.” His hand clamped on her shoulder.
He said the words with such authority that, for a second, she wondered if he was right. She basked in that feeling, wanting it not to be her fault. If it were not her fault, she could live without the guilt.
Holly removed her hands from her eyes, the Laird’s hand warm on her shoulder and neck. Ollie was asleep besides her.
She felt dizzy, but it wasn’t from the knock to her head. It was because of the Laird and his words. They confused her. She thought him a beast, but he was capable of such compassion.
“Say it again, please,” she begged.
His hand tightened on her shoulder. “It’s nae yer fault. Yer were a wee lass, and those men were devilish brutes. What else would they be? Kidnappin’ wee girls, takin’ ye like that? They were pure evil.”
More tears came, but they were different this time. They were not tears of sadness but of relief, and they only came in a short burst. She wiped them with the back of her sleeve. She had gone to sleep in her clothes after Cassandra had bandaged her head.
“It’s not true, but thank ye for sayin’ it,” Holly said.
She finally turned to the Laird, his hand still on her shoulder. He looked fierce in the lantern light. His eyes flickered with gold, now more pronounced due to the light. For a split second, she saw him bathed in his enemy’s blood, and then her father covered in blood, and then everything snapped back to normal.
She looked at his lips, the softness of them in the orange glow. She was drawn to them. No, not drawn to them, but to the feeling inside that she would experience momentarily if he kissed her. That was not to say that the Laird was not a handsome man. That was undeniable. He was rugged and strong, with brown eyes that bored into hers, and she liked his touch as he gripped her tightly by the shoulder.
She tried to focus on his touch, to experience it fully. It was only a touch, but it was something she had not experienced before, and her nervousness got in the way of her true feelings. She wanted to enjoy it but was scared to.
Holly stared into his brown eyes, the golden flecks glowing like fires scattered across a battlefield when viewed from a tall tower, and she was afraid. Afraid that he would not kiss her and take away her pain.
Then his hand moved from her shoulder to her chin, and he tilted her face up to better look her in the eye. She wanted to look away, but she could not. She wanted to lean forward and touch her lips to his, but she dared not move.
Then, he did. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers, finally doing what he had set out to do hours ago. At first, she felt a warmth on her lips. A soft warmth as their lips came together. Still, she did not move, unsure what to do next.
Then, like a dam breaking, the cracks appeared. She knew to part her lips, and as she did so, his tongue darted forth to claim her, filling her with a warmth she had never felt before. Her tongue reacted to his kiss, licking at him, dancing with his tongue.
His hands wandered over her body, moving under her clothing to touch the bare skin at her side. Then, he grabbed her and pulled her half onto his lap, his stiffness pressing into her. His hands moved out from her clothing, up to her hair, tangling in her fiery curls.
Their lips moved against each other like dancers doing a reel. Her body tensed for a second, and then she fully gave in, all the tension and stress, all the guilt, leaving her.
The warmth that flooded her pooled in the pit of her stomach, and it became something different. It became desire, and it shook her awake. She reached out, wrapped her arms around him, and placed her hands on his back. Her body shuddered indelight when she touched the tense muscles beneath his shirt, hardened by war.
She breathed heavily through her nose as they kissed, and she clawed at his back to hold on to him. Then, a moan escaped her lips—a low, warm sound.
