“Just because you are helping me doesn’t mean you get to command me,” she spat, clenching her fists at her sides in such a display of defiance that he wanted to claim her all over again.
He stepped forward, taking hold of her chin between his thumb and forefinger, not missing the hitch in her breath as he did so.
“Wrong, lass. As long as ye’re in me castle, ye’re mine to command. And when I say leave, ye leave. Because if ye stay, I cannae promise yer precious reputation will be intact in the mornin’. Do ye understand?”
She pushed herself to the edge of the table, but he could not let her escape that easily.
He placed his arms on either side of her waist, trapping her between the table and his body, watching her shiver beneath him, her pupils dilated with lust.
“Do ye understand?” he repeated.
She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Men are all the same,” she muttered, pushing against his arm with all her strength.
He was forced to step back or fall on top of her.
“Yes, I understand,” she said, the same frown remaining on her face as she rose to her feet, pulling at her skirts, which had ridden up almost to her knees. He averted his gaze so as not to put her right back onto the table and have his way with her. “Good night, My Laird.”
He did not look at her again until he heard her soft footsteps retreating and the door clicking shut behind her. He picked up his wine glass, downed its contents, and threw it forcibly into the fire.
Leah closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath after that explosive kiss.
She walked to her bed, then back to the door, and after a moment, found herself pacing feverishly, listening to the sound of the crackling fire and wondering what she had allowed to happen.
He kissed me. And I kissed him back.
She was uncertain how exactly it had come about. She had been aware of him approaching her, the same heat in his expressionthat she had felt when he had sat across from her in the carriage. He had advanced on her so confidently. Never had a man approached her like that.
The men in Society were all about showing her their wit or intelligence. They often spoke down to her or muttered about her reputation behind her back. None of them had ever looked at her as though they wanted to possess her.
She thought back to the feel of the hard table against her back, his rough movements as he pushed himself between her legs, pressing her body beneath his and claiming her mouth in the most intimate way possible.
She could not imagine that Magnus Shaw cared very much about reputation and propriety. The very center of the man seemed to be a wild storm.
She looked down at herself, suddenly wishing to dispense with the gown that clung to her like a foreign skin. She ripped at the fabric, tearing it off her body with swift, jerky movements. She hated the idea of him being married, of another woman having had the chance to be with him in such a way.
Was he always like this, so brooding and angry with the world?
She shook herself, surprised by the rage that coursed through her at the idea of him sharing his inner feelings and emotions with another woman. He was so closed off, so disinterested in the world. Most of the time, he looked bored with the life he hadto lead. He had not danced with a single woman at the ball. It hadn’t appeared to even occur to him as a possibility.
What did that to a man? How did he become who he is?
She startled slightly at the sound of a door slamming loudly beneath her room. It had not come from inside the castle, and she went hesitantly to the window to look down at the castle grounds.
As she stared into the darkness, through the rain pelting the windowpane, she could see very little. The room behind her was far too bright to discern anything clearly.
She darted about the room, blowing out all the candles until she walked back through a murky gloom, illuminated only by the fire’s dying embers.
She went swiftly to the window and looked out, intrigued by what could possibly be happening outside the castle in the middle of a storm. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the scene below her.
A figure was striding across the lawns, his white shirt billowing, his hair sticking to his back as the rain and wind whipped at him.
It was undoubtedly MacWatt, but she could not tell what he was doing. As she watched, hidden by the darkness, she saw him reach a small hut at the edge of the forest a few feet from the castle walls.
He ripped off his shirt, just as she had ripped at her dress only minutes before, and threw it behind him. She clutched her throat at the sight of all that hard flesh, his taught skin glistening as he bent to the ground and grabbed an axe from a small wooden crate at his feet.
He backed away, picking up a large log from a pile beside him and placing it on a horizontal beam at his feet. After a short pause, with a practiced stance, he swung the axe in a graceful arc over his head. He began to hack at the wood, chopping it into smaller pieces, which he methodically discarded into the pile at his back.
Leah was unsure how long she watched him, unable to tear her eyes away from his rippling flesh as he chopped at the wood repeatedly until there was very little left for him to cut.
