Helpless, he kissed her wrist again, lingering this time.
Her breathing caught, a wee catch in the back of her throat. That unguarded sound, coupled with the frantic tattoo of her heartbeat, sent triumph flaring through his veins.
“Ye are not unmoved either, lass. The thump of your pulse betrays ye.” He nuzzled her palm before pressing a kiss there. “Admit it.”
His words broke the spell.
Her fingers curled inward, and she pulled on her wrist, demanding to be set free.
He released her instantly.
They stared at one another, a scant foot of space between them. Their harsh breaths filled the air.
How easy it would be to cross those final few inches and let his mouth find hers. To rediscover if her kisses still ignited flames in his chest.
He remained rooted in place.
“I am sorry that Colonel Archer—Fletch—is your close friend. But that means you know, as well as I, what a good man he is. I don’t . . .” She drifted off.
“Ye don’t what, lass?”
“I don’t want you.” She said the words slowly, as if pulled from deep within. “I don’t want the life you could offer me. Not anymore.”
The truths punched through the hazy lust of his thinking.
I don’t want you.
Reality washed over him, as brisk as adookingin the North Sea in January.
I don’t want you.
Tavish took a step back, nodding.
Of course.
Eejit.
Why would she want him when someone like Fletch was an option? And she wasn’t wrong. Fletchwasa good man.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Aye. Of course. I agree. Ye deserve better than I can offer ye.”
“Captain, I—”
He stopped her with a slice of his hand. “There is nothing more to say between ourselves. Ye have the right of it. I will rely on yourself to tell Fletch about our marriage when the moment is right. Just . . . delay the betrothal until after I meet with the procurator fiscal.”
She met his gaze and nodded once before leaving as quietly as she had come.
But not before Tavish noticed her hand, the one he had kissed, clenched tight into a fist.
13
Seven Years Earlier
August 25, 1810
Pettercairn, Scotland
Arranging all the pieces for a secret marriage was a Herculean task.
