But he kept his mind on the wager as he kissed her brows and her temple, then below her ear lobe and along the soft curve of her jaw.
Her breath trembled. Then came the softest moan from the depths of her throat.
Still, he resisted what he longed for above all else.
Her lips.
Her breathing stopped, she whimpered, and then, as he feather-touched his lips to the corner of her perfect mouth – close, but not touching – she turned and pressed herself to him. Reaching a hand to the back of his head she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down, pressing her lips to his mouth. Deliberately, passionately, without any restraint.
She was his.
His arms wrapped her and, as their lips met, a wild passion surging unbidden between them. He was lost, his head whirling,scarcely aware of where he was, all he knew was her taste of apples and roses, her scent, the warm soft body pressed close that he enfolded in his arms.
He smiled against her mouth. “Seems ye’ve tricked me intae losing the wager.”
The little sound that came from her throat, halfway between a moan and a soft laugh, drove him out of what little remained of his senses. “Best wager I ever lost.”
The kiss deepened – molten heat blooming between them, her hands fisting his shirt, his arms drawing her closer, the world narrowing to the space they shared.
Even the swirling of bagpipes coming loud and clear on the battlements, splitting the air with urgency, took moments to penetrate the fog of Kenneth’s brain. But when the sound hit home, he froze. Selene jolted away from him, although his arms remained at her waist.
“What is it?”
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, registering the meaning of the sudden sound breaking through the night.
The war pipes were an unmistakable call to action.
Then came the shouts.
He pulled away, listening or a moment. “Something is wrong. The pipes arenae played that way unless an enemy is approaching. We may be under attack.”
Selene gasped, a hand wavered at her throat. “Is this?—?”
“I dinnae ken what it is lass, I must go and join me men.”
Kenneth tore himself away from her, his breath harsh with a sudden scalding rush of fear for her safety.
He seized her hand.
“Come. Until I discover what this is, ye must stay in yer chamber and bolt the door. Dinnae open it fer anyone until I come fer ye.” He was already striding toward the door holding fast to her hand as he spoke.
Hastening beside him, she opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “Dinnae argue, me sweet lass. I ken where is safest fer ye.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He planted a brief kiss on Selene’s forehead and, leaving her to secure the latch inside her bedchamber, he raced back to his own chamber, boots skidding on the stones as he ran. He seized his broadsword from where it rested against the wall. He cast an eye at his flintlock with its bayonet still fixed from his training bout, and snatched it up. He paused briefly before replacing it on the table. The night was dark and he had no wish to take time to load it. Besides, in a close fight, he relied more on his trusty sword. The familiar weight of it steadied him, steel biting cold into his palm as he turned and thundered back, hurtling along the passageway and down the stairs.
Shouts echoed through the keep, boots pounding as men rushed to the courtyard. The shrill wail of the war pipes cut through the night, their warning as sharp and furious as any blade.
Kenneth burst out of the keep and raced across the courtyard. Callum and a few of his men were already there.
The portcullis loomed ahead, half-lit by the oil lamps, its iron teeth remaining firmly in pace. He quickly climbed up to the guard house where torches positioned high on the outside walls provided enough light to see who was approaching along the road.
Movement flickered in the dim light. He was able to make out a small band of armed men emerging from the mist rolling up from the sea – perhaps twenty in number. Four were mounted, sitting on their horses with the easy confidence of seasoned riders, while foot soldiers followed in a loose formation behind them.
The lead horseman raised a banner, its colors visible in the torchlight. It was the yellow and red of MacLeod of Raasay. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding. These were Laird Halvard’s men, not the enemy he’d been dreading.
He let out a low groan.
