Ewan's lipscurved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Ye're nae stupid, lass. Reckless, maybe. Foolish, definitely. But nae stupid."
"How would ye ken?”
"I just ken.”He smirked. "More like a laird's instinct.”
He was so close now.Close enough that she could see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, could make out the darker ring around his irises, could feel his breath ghosting across her face.
Close enough thatif she leaned forward just slightly, just a few inches, their lips would touch.
The thought senta jolt of something hot and electric down her spine.
What are you thinkin'?He killed Mollie. He's yer kidnapper. Ye cannae and ye shouldnae think of things like that.
But her bodydidn't seem to care what she should or shouldn't do. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her skin felt too hot and too tight, and there was a strange, liquid warmth pooling low in her belly that she'd never felt before.
Or,no, that wasn't quite true.
She had felt it.Twice before, actually.
Once,when Ewan had first appeared in her chambers, all dark eyes and dangerous grace in the moonlight, looming over her bed like some dark angel come to steal her away. And again during the ride, when his arms had tightened around her waist and his voice had rumbled through his chest and into her back, when she'd felt the solid warmth of him pressed against her from shoulder to hip.
This waswhat the books had described. The romances Mollie had smuggled to her, with their flowery descriptions of desire and passion and want.
The way the heroines'hearts would race when the hero drew near. The way their skin would flush, and their breath would quicken. The way they'd feel simultaneously terrified and exhilarated, caught between the urge to flee and the urge to move closer.
Desire.
That's what this was.This tightening in her stomach, this hyper-awareness of him as a man rather than just her captor, this sudden overwhelming urge to close the distance between them and discover if his lips were as firm as they looked, if his beard would be soft or rough against her skin, if he'd taste like danger or something sweeter.
She was attracted to him.
To her kidnapper.
To the manwho'd killed her only friend.
Shame washed over her,cold and viscous, dousing some of the heat in her veins. What kind of person felt desire for someone who'd caused so much pain? What kind of woman looked at her friend's murderer and felt her body respond with want instead of revulsion?
A terrible person.The worst kind of person.
And yet shecouldn't seem to look away from him. Couldn't seem to move back, to put proper distance between them. Couldn't seem to do anything but stare at his mouth and wonder.
"Lass."Ewan's voice was rough, strained. "Ye need to stop lookin' at me like that."
"Like what?"The words came out barely above a whisper.
"Like ye wantto eat me. Like ye want me to kiss ye."
Maia's breath caught.Did she? Want him to kiss her? The idea should horrify her. Should make her recoil in disgust.
But it didn't.
God help her,it didn't.
"I—"She didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to explain the confusing tangle of emotions in her chest, the grief and guilt and shame all twisted up with this inexplicable attraction.
"I daenae,"she finally gasped.
Ewan watched her face,his dark eyes tracking every flicker of emotion.
