Page 17 of A Rogue in Moonlight
She touched her mouth to his again, of her own accord, surprising him wholly. He groaned low in his throat and gave in to that caress, her body warm and tight in his arms, pulsing, heating, while the cart rumbled onward. Only he and the girl knew what the blanket hid, or how that kiss tumbled full into another as if some magic spell had taken hold of both of them.
He could not account for it, could barely think. He was not drunk. He was his usual sober and wary self, yet this happened. He was fully capable in mind and judgment, yet he was kissing this girl as if he had known her all his life, as if he had loved her forever, as if he were drunk indeed with lovesickness.
It was like tasting fairy whisky, or seeing the first bright burst of dawn—unexpected, miraculous, to be savored, a thing that could change a man if he let it.
The kiss renewed between them. He touched his tongue to the soft, moist curve of her lip, and pressed his body to hers, hard and ready. He felt and heard her soft moan. She was not rejecting him—she was enjoying it. He would have pulled away, but she pressed closer with a little sound of passion and surprise.
“Aye?” he whispered. Sliding his hand along the curve of her hipand waist, sensing the heat of her body, he shaped her luscious curves with his palm. And then halted, fingers taut, waiting, a question.
Her hands slid over his shoulders to his neck, her fingers threaded into the thickness of his hair. She wanted this. He was surprised, sensed she was too. Her hand slipped over the width of his shoulder and down his arm, a slow advance—
The rumbling cart slowed, and Dougal pulled away, breathing fast, hard. She turned away, ducked her head, curling on her side.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“Miss, I—” He was hardly sure what had happened. “Pardon.”
She did not answer. He pulled the blanket aside and peered out.
And saw Ranald staring down at them from the bench. The air was fresh, foggy, dim. “Ready?” the old man asked.
“Ready,” the lass said, and sat up. Hay bits were in her hair. Dougal sat up too.
“Mrs. MacIan’s house is just there in the cove,” his uncle said calmly. “We cannot take the cart down there in such a mist. But you can walk.”
“Aye,” Dougal said gruffly.
“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” She straightened her bonnet, rose to her knees, brushing at her skirts. She did not look at Dougal.
Dougal came up and stepped over the side of the cart. He turned to reach up and help her down. Under his hands, her slim curves fit so neatly, felt so good that he just wanted to pull her close again. He slid her to the ground and they stepped apart quickly, looking away from each other.
“My knapsack,” she said, reaching back.
Dougal grabbed the pack from the cart. Then he groped beneath the straw until he felt the hard shapes of the kegs hidden beneath thick straw. The revenue officers had nearly discovered those. He drew out one ceramic crock wrapped in straw and tied with string. Tucking it beneath his arm, slinging the knapsack over his shoulder, he turned.
“Let me escort you to the house.” He gestured for her to precede him. The fog was thick here, so near the water, and the twilight turned it to a lavender mist. He could see the warm glow of brightly lit windows ahead.
She tilted her head in silence. He could still taste her lips, still felt his heart pounding, and wondered what she thought. Then she yanked the knapsack from his shoulder, swung it to her shoulder, nearly knocking herself over.
“No need to go with me,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor, and Andrew,” she told the two still gaping at them. “Farewell, Kinloch.” She turned to walk along the road.
“Do not let her go, Kinloch,” Ranald said. “She’ll break an ankle in this murk and mist on the path down to the cove, and Mary MacIan will be after us all for it.”
“I need to bring the whisky I promised Mary MacIan.” Dougal shouldered the keg and followed the girl. She was certainly not just another dull teacher from the city, afraid of everything. She was young and lovely. She was stubborn, independent, intelligent.
And she kissed like a fallen angel, seductive yet innocent. Even if he craved more of that, craved to know more about her, he could not trust her. Nor could he allow a woman in his life. Not now. Not yet.
Especially the sister of a gauger.
Chapter Four
The MacIan cottageappeared through the fog, and ghostly mist drifted across the loch beyond the house. Walking toward it, Fiona glanced over her shoulder.
“I do not need an escort, Mr. MacGregor.”
“Rogues about,” he said, shifting the cask on his shoulder. “And the path to the cottage is uneven. You could slip and fall, carrying those rocks.”
“You are carrying something too, and could stumble.”
