Just as she’d figured, he did look in the trunks. He turned then and moved back toward the door. She prayed her skirt wouldn’t pick that moment to drip on him; it didn’t.
The door closed. She exhaled then, very quietly still because he was just outside the door. She didn’t move until she heard an odd sound.
She listened keenly and realized the odd noise was the sound of his sodden boots squishing across the bedroom floor. She almost wished she could have floated on the ceiling and watched him in that flooded room.
She knew he must be searching the bedroom and she waited, perched tensely on the wooden clothes rod. Finally she heard the squishing again and the bedroom door clicked closed.
With a deep breath she sagged back against the wall, then swung down from the rod. Still being cautious, she only opened the door a small crack. She didn’t trust him.
She listened, but heard nothing, so she opened the door and looked out quickly. She made straight for the door, thinking if she could get back downstairs, then she could get away.
Her hand closed over the cool brass doorknob. She turned it slowly.
He could be in the hall.
The doorknob stuck. She frowned down at it, then slowly turned it the other way. Nothing.
She jiggled it as she turned it toward the right, then left again. She stared down at the brass placket with a sudden feeling of sinking dread.
“Looking for this, George?”
She inhaled sharply, then her shoulders sagged and her hand just fell away from the door handle. She needed a moment and shoved a tangle of snarled hair back from her face before she turned around.
Eachann MacLachlan leaned against a bedpost, his wet boots tossed to one side. One hairy male foot crossed the other while he watched her with that arrogant and sardonic expression she really hated.
In one hand he was holding up the key. She looked from the key to his face. Even in the dim firelight she could see a bright red slap mark from the towel on one cheek and part of his jaw. For the briefest of instants, a small humane part of her was aware of how that must have hurt.
But her sense returned. He didn’t need her pity. He needed a good thrashing for what he had done to her. She gave him a look as haughty as she could drum up.
They both just stood there.
Finally he pushed away from the bed and walked slowly toward her. “You’re causing a lot of unnecessary trouble for yourself.”
“I’ve caused trouble?”
“Aye.” He was barely a foot away.
“Me?” She almost shrieked the word.
“You’re lucky I’m a patient man.”
She saw red. She drew back her hand in a fist and threw a hard punch right for his cocky face. He caught her fist the way he’d caught the apple. His huge hand just snatched it in a snap.
He held it tightly, just as his dark green eyes held hers with an unfamiliar gleam. He pulled her against him with a hard jerk. One hand pinned her fist behind her back and the other hand slid to her neck and gripped it.
She never took her eyes off him. Something in his look mocked her. She wanted him to see her anger, to feel the heat of it the way she did.
Her blood felt like it was burning through her body. Her emotional control was stretched so thin it felt as if it would snap any moment.
She tried to kick him.
He stepped back just as her knee came up. “Stop fighting me. You won’t win.”
“I won’t give in.”
“Neither will I.” His words were a challenge, but the look he had was what kept her silent. It was unsettling because it no longer mocked her. It was different. Raw and intense.
His gaze flicked to her mouth. The hand that held her neck tightened. She could feel pressure from his thumb. Then he lowered his head.
