But for now . . . he reveled in the giddy pleasure of chasing after her.
He caught up with Allie on the leeward side of the abbey’s ancient nave. She waited for him with shoulders pressed to the wall, lungs heaving, a devilish smile pinking her cheeks.
He ached to keep walking forward, to push through the mass of her skirts, and press the length of his body to hers. Of a certainty, she would feel like heaven, lush and round where he was lean and firm.
She was not overly tall, his weeladra, but not short either. The perfect height for kissing, as he well knew. He wouldn’t have to bend his head down more than a few inches to press his mouth to hers.
But he had meant what he said several nights past. He wouldn’t be her plaything—a flitting distraction from the load of Kendall’s demands and the pressing weight of her uncertain future.
No. He wanted inside that tightly locked heart of hers. And he wanted her towanthim there, to plead with him to stay.
And if that meant denying himself the kiss he craved so badly it set his hands to trembling . . .
Well, so be it.
To that end, he stopped a respectful three feet away and smiled.
Allie’s returning grin was rueful. “Does that devastating smile of yours ever cease?”
He grinned even wider. “The Swooner, ye mean?”
That earned him a laugh. “The Swooner?”
“Aye, that’s what Malcolm calls it.” He demonstrated the smile again, the muscles in his cheeks bunching.
She pretended to flinch and held up both hands, as if warding off a curse. “Snuff it out. My eyes hurt!”
“Och, The Swooner isn’t that bad. You’re being a mite dramatic.”
“It should be called The Dazzler,” she countered, her gray eyes sparkling with vitality against the olive of her skin. “It has a tendency to blind one’s good sense.”
Ah.He liked the sound of that. At least, as it pertained to her.
“Shall I dazzle ye some more then, my lady?” He leaned forward, her pull so relentless.
“I fear I am only capable of fending off one sun today.” She glanced meaningfully at the weak sunlight overhead. “You may have better luck tomorrow.”
Laughing, he extended his arm for her to take. She threaded her gloved hand through his elbow, the touch sizzling his nerves. He adored these moments the most, when she leaned her weight into him and he could fantasize about keeping her beside himself forever.
They strolled along the ruined wall, sheltered from the bracing wind that rippled the sea grasses along the cliff top.
“Have you always used The Swooner as a weapon?” she asked as they skirted a patch of nettle growing around a toppled pillar.
The unexpected question startled a laugh from him. “Pardon?”
“Come now.” She fixed him with a look. “We both know your charm is as dangerous a weapon as any sword.”
She wasn’t wrong.
He was merely surprised that she had noticed. But by now, he should have expected her perspicacity.
“Have ye not heard?” he said in return. “The poet is mightier than the sword.”
She laughed. “But neither is as mighty as The Swooner, I wager.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed.
“But youdothink of your charm as a weapon, do you not?” she insisted.
