Page 22 of Stealing Sophie
With his free hand, he touched her hair, smoothing the gossamer strands that fluttered in the night breeze. He traced his knuckles over her cheek, along her jaw, cupped the side of her face in his hand. He let his fingers slide into the thickness of her hair, so soft and cool to the touch that he took in his breath sharply.
“Tell me what you think should happen,” he whispered, as he rubbed his thumbover her cheek. He lowered his head a little, felt her breath gentle upon his lips. “What you want to happen.”
She tilted her head in his hand, closed her eyes, and did not speak. But he felt her heart beating in tandem with his.
She shook her head a little as if to clear it. “I want to sleep.”
“I am sure of it. What more?”
Her eyes drifted shut. “Well...if you were to kiss me again,” she whispered, “perhaps we would see...what would come of that.”
Desire swept through him like a crashing wave. Slipping his arms around her, he lowered his head and kissed her, his heart leaping like wildfire.
Another kiss followed that, a chain of kisses, and he could not seem to stop. Each felt deeper, fuller than the last. She tasted of flowers, mountain air, a hint of whisky. As she gasped and pressed closer, Connor forgot all else but her. No barriers existed between them, no danger, no doubt, neither seemed a stranger to the other.
She tilted her head and sighed, lifted her hands to cup his shoulders, opened her mouth slightly under his, and let the kiss intensify. He parted her lips with his own, tasting the moistness within. He felt himself harden and fill, wanted desperately to sink into the luscious sensation of her.
The feel of her firm body against his inflamed him further, and the heavy pulsing need began, the craving that could not be satisfied with kisses. He traced his fingers along her neck, smoothed over her shoulder, brushed lower, so that his fingers shaped the creamy upper curve of her breast, and the stiff roundness of the bodice beneath. He slid further down, to the small, taut span of her waist confined in stays and satin. Moving his hand under her cloak, he found the spot at the small of her back where he had earlier torn the stitches of her dress to loosen her stays.
He did not know what was happening to him. He must not take her here, now, like the brute she thought him to be. Nor would he surrender to the desire that skewed his mind away from its logical, reasonable purpose.
Heart pounding, he felt her lips quiver against his, questing for more. He summoned inner strength and broke away.
For a moment, he tipped his brow to hers and held her by the waist, catching his breath. She touched his jaw, fingers gentle as butterflies. Her touch was poignant and forgiving. Connor squeezed his eyes shut. He did not deserve her forgiveness, her gratitude, her goodness. He did not deserve to kiss her as he had done.
“I do not even know you, Connor MacPherson,” she said softly. “And you should not be touching me at all, I think. But when you do, it feels...good.”
He exhaled a rueful laugh. When and if it happened, lovemaking with her would be magnificent, he realized, beyond any dream or hope he could have. Each time they kissed, he sensed her passion rising hot to meet his own, and with it, something deeper.
Silent, he could think of no good reply to her words. He had not anticipated the desire he felt for her; it went beyond a simple lusty urge. Hellions and temper fits, those he understood and could handle. He had not expected sweetness and thankfulness in his stolen bride. Nor had he been prepared for his strong feelings around her.
Marrying an impetuous virago just to protect her was one matter. But he felt a new and dangerous of quicksand beneath him now.
“I want you to know,” she said, “that I am not frightened of what may happen next.” But her voice quavered. ”If my brother intended us to marry, he had his reasons. Did he only want to help me escape my father’s promise to Campbell of Kinnoull?”
“Sir Henry,” he snarled, “is not of Kinnoull. He holds the damn place illegally—so I have heard. And he has no right to you.”
“Illegally? He is a magistrate, so I doubt that. Sir Henry is a decent man, I suppose, but I never wanted to marry him. I tried to tell him that when I dined with him this evening, but he gave me no chance and scarcely listened to me at all on anything.”
“Because he is not a decent man, madam,” Connor growled.
“Every man has his strong suit, Mr. MacPherson. Sir Henry expressed genuine concern and distress for my clan’s troubles. But I must say, I am grateful to you for rescuing me from marriage to him.”
How did she manage to put a shine on it? “I am no hero. Do not think it.”
She tipped her head. “I confess, I am rather enjoying being stolen away.”
“Enjoying it?” He stared at her.
“It is...rather thrilling.” A sparkle danced in her eyes. “I have a deplorable craving, sir, that has never been satisfied.”
Connor wished she had not said that. He waited.
“I have a taste for adventure. It is a lamentable quality, along with my temper. And my craving has never been met until tonight.”
Adventure? The girl had acted as a Jacobite spy, so her brother had hinted. What more excitement could she want? Connor scratched his head, bewildered.
“I do not have much backbone, and no chance to test it. So this is thrilling.”
