Page 2 of Never Kiss a Scot
“Thank you, my lady, I’ve already been seen to. I was just looking for a room to warm up in a bit before going to bed.” His gaze searched hers, and she had a suspicion he was expecting her to challenge him, but she had no reason to. He was Rosalind’s brother and quite welcome here.
“Well then, come sit by this fire. I just finished my novel and was planning to retire soon. I’d be happy to lend it to you—if you enjoy novels, that is.” She returned to her chair and picked up her book, then came back and placed it in his hands. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He stared at the title. “Lady Jade’s Wild Lord? Thank you.”
It was an L. R. Gloucester novel, a torrid Gothic novel, and he was staring at it with a reverent expression that tugged at her heart. Like a man who hadn’t held a book in his hands in years.
“I’m afraid I’m still at a loss as to your name. Which one of Rosalind’s brothers are you?”
His storm cloud colored eyes darted around the room before they came back to her. “How do you know about us?”
“Oh, she told me all about the three of you. Let me guess…” She tapped her chin, grinning. “Are you Aiden, Brodie, or Brock? I shall guess…Aiden.”
He snorted. “Like hell. Do I look like some young pup?”
He certainly didn’t. He looked more like a Scottish Highlander out of her girlish fantasies.
“Brock then,” she said. “You look like a Brock. It’s a very old name, Brock. I like learning about names and their meanings. Did you know Brock means badger?” She stared at his lips, surprised at how full they looked. Then she wanted to kick herself. She should not be dreaming about this man’s lips. He was a guest, and she needed to act like a proper lady, not some wanton creature obsessed with someone’s mouth.
“Badger?” He tilted his head. “I didn’t know that.” Those full lips curved into a smile, and she couldn’t help but grin back. Her heart raced wildly as she met his eyes. His devil-may-care grin hit her so hard that she had trouble standing. Brock set the book down and suddenly caught her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body.
“It’s a custom from my village to offer a kiss to those whose families are about to be joined.”
A kiss? Excitement shot through her like quicksilver. Perhaps she would finally get to know whether her Gothic novels were telling the truth about kisses.
“Really? I’ve read about parts of Scotland, but I’ve never—”
His arm around her waist tightened, and she pressed against his body, feeling the hard muscles of his tall frame against her soft curves.
“Shush, lass, and let me keep with tradition,” he whispered, then bent his head and slanted his mouth over hers.
His taste exploded upon her tongue, seducing her with dark excitement. A hint of brandy was still on his lips, and she relished it. One of his hands dropped from her waist to cup her bottom. She squeaked in surprise against him and then moaned as he fisted his other hand in her hair, pulling her head back so he could deepen the kiss. Her knees buckled treacherously, and she tried to think, but it was hard to be rational when her stomach was filled with such a wonderful swooping feeling. She was kissing Rosalind’s brother…
Joanna pulled herself away enough to separate their lips. She was amazed at the riotous sensations she was experiencing from just a single kiss. Maybe kisses really could be perfect. How could she feel something invisible yet so tangible when she didn’t even know this man? It didn’t make sense, and she liked things to make sense.
Get control, Joanna—you don’t swoon at kisses. Kisses can’t be nearly as good as they are described on paper.
Yet Brock’s kiss had been exactly that—devastatingly perfect. Of course, she had no way of knowing if all kisses were like that or just his, given that this was her first.
“This is traditional where you come from?” If all the ladies in Scotland were kissed like this upon meeting a man…Lord…
His lips twitched. “Old as the bones in the hills.”
She kept her palms pressed on his chest, knowing she ought to push away, to behave like the English lady she had been raised to be. But part of her, a much stronger part, wanted to toss the rules of good behavior aside and do anything for just one more kiss. She looked up, gazing into his grayish-blue eyes.
“And I suppose it would be rude of me to break with tradition.”
His now arrogant smile would’ve made her slap him if she wasn’t so desperate to lose herself in his kiss again.
“Incredibly rude. You’d be insulting my entire clan.”
Her pulse fluttered, and she sucked in her lower lip briefly as she anticipated another kiss. “Well, Mother did raise me to respect other cultures.” She slid her palms up his chest and curled her fingers into his black shirt as their mouths met and that addictive fire burned through her all over again. She clung to Brock, exploring his mouth with hers, their tongues touching gently before the kiss became more insistent.
His hands moved back to her waist, tugging at the blue sash above her hips as his other hand pulled pins loose from her hair until he was able to slide her hair ribbon free. Then he was pulling her wrists together, winding the sash around them. Her body melted at the sudden domination and the thrill of him binding her, but she tried to react rationally.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a breathless mixture of anger, fear, and arousal. “This can’t be traditional.” She tugged on her now bound wrists, staring at him, hoping he would explain himself.
“I’m sorry about this, lass, but I can’t have you calling for Lennox.”
