Page 18 of Laird of Secrets
“Never what? Kiss you again?” He stopped. So did she.
“That—will not happen again.” She did not want to show how much his kisses had flustered her, weakened her very knees. “I apologize. Please understand it is not in my character to behave so. I cannot think why it happened.”
“Nor is it in my character. But I can guess why it happened.”
She blushed, glad of the growing dark. “And the lovesickness? Your uncle said it has plagued you before.”
He chuckled. “You believed him?”
“It could easily be true, since you freely stole a kiss from a woman you hardly know.”
“I know her better than she thinks.” MacGregor leaned forward, so close she could feel his nearness like a rush all through her. “I was not the only one doing the stealing of kisses.”
She caught her breath. Something irresistible, magical had happened in that cart. It had been unforgettable, and though she felt deeply embarrassed now, part of her wanted to cherish the memory of it. MacGregor hovered near enough to kiss her again. Feeling her cheeks heat even more, she stepped away.
“About the bargain you propose, Miss MacCarran. We might arrange something. If you will keep the evening’s adventures to yourself, I will consider never kissing you again. Is that agreeable?”
“Oh,” she said, flustered anew. She would get the poor end of that bargain; no one would ever kiss her like that again, but she could not let him know that. Furiously blushing, glad of the mist and low light, she turned toward the cottage. With relief, she saw the door was open, golden light silhouetting a woman standing there. “Mrs. MacIan is waiting.”
“And gone again,” he said, as the door closed once more.
“She may not have seen us. No need to go farther, Mr. MacGregor. I can take the keg. It is not so large.”
“Not large, but heavy.”
“I am stronger than you think.”
“Are you, then?” He smiled. “You are already carrying that great sack of rocks. Allow me to play the gentleman. Mary MacIan would have my head if I sent you in there loaded like a packhorse. And if she knew the rest,” he added softly, leaning forward again, “she would have my head for that, too. May that be a comfort to you.”
“It is, actually.” She tilted her head.
“And the agreement?”
“I will think about it.”
“Watch your step, the fog is that thick.” He held out a hand, which Fiona ignored as she walked past him.
Two strides and he was ahead of her. Seeing his wide shoulders and the rhythmic swing of his plaid kilt above strong calves, she remembered wanton kisses and the fervor she had felt—and once more felt cheeks, her throat, her upper chest grow hot with embarrassment, and something more. She had allowed it, even encouraged it, but it could not happen again. Yet her heartbeat quickened at the very thought.
“Mr. MacGregor,” she called.
“Kinloch, if you please. Dougal, if it pleases you more.”
“Kinloch,” she said firmly. “Let us agree to forget what happened this evening.”
“Every bit of it?” He turned and walked backward, the keg casually propped on his shoulder. “I think I will remember some of it always, Miss MacCarran.”
So would she. “It was of no consequence. Just the moment, and the fear, I suppose. Sir, will you stop?”
He did. “I cannot forget it, but trust I will never say a word of it to another.”
Relief went through her. “If we keep that secret, and stay quiet about the incident on the road tonight, everyone will benefit. And I promise not to tell the MacIans.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Tell them or not, as you like. They are kin.”
“Reverend MacIan would go to the authorities.”
“You could try to convince him,” he said.
