Threading her fingers into his hair, she kissed him back eagerly, tangling her tongue with his.
He made a low sound in his throat. His hand slid up her back and over her shoulders and neck, to cradle the back of her head, as he deepened the kiss further. His teeth grazed her lips, and she trembled against him.
She felt cherished. Desired. Like she was the only thing that mattered in his world.
But she wasn’t.
There was Isla Macquarie. His betrothal. His duty.
The thought splintered the enchantment, like an axe through pine.
Wrenching her mouth from his, Hazel stumbled back. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. Her lips felt swollen, sensitized. Her entire body thrummed with need, yet this time, she mastered it.
Thistime, she used her wits.
“No,” she breathed. “We must stop.”
Craeg watched her, his chest heaving. His eyes had deepened to black, his hair mussed from her fingers. His lips parted as he readied himself to speak.
“Don’t,” she cut him off, harsher than intended.
She became all too aware then of the gulf that separated them. Suddenly embarrassed by her work-worn hands, stained from years of collecting and mashing herbs. By her faded blue kirtle, patched and threadbare in places. By her lack of refinement.She didn’t belong in this castle, or with this man. And she wasn’t interested in becoming his mistress either.
She might be low born, but she deserved a future. A chance at happiness. A man who was free to give himself to her.
He took a step forward, but she raised her hands, warning him from getting any closer. “No,” she gasped. “It was a moment of madness. Ye were relieved to hear yer mother’s fever had broken … and I was giddy with exhaustion.”
Aye, that was it. The warmth of the fire. The wine. His proximity. Tiredness. They’d all lulled her into doing something foolish.
The heat in Craeg’s eyes banked. “I’m—”
“No,” she interrupted him once more. “Let’s forget this ever happened.” She backed up then. “I need to check on Lady Liza.”
Craeg stood in the center of his solar, his breathing ragged. Still staring at the door that had just thudded shut behind Hazel. The ghost of her taste lingered on his lips.
Lucifer’s prick.Had he no self-control?
Running a hand through his hair, he turned toward the fire. His lèine was rumpled where her hands had gripped it. His mouth felt bruised from the force of their kiss.
He could still feel the softness of her lithe body pressed against his; could hear the small sound she’d made when he’d deepened the kiss—half moan, half surrender.
The Lord smite him, he wanted to follow her out that door, pull her back into his arms, and kiss her until the rest of the world disappeared. Her embrace had brought oblivion. For a few blessed instants, his mother wasn’t deathly ill, the walls of this castle weren’t closing in on him, and he wasn’t promised to another. Nor was he his father’s son.
Heat flooded through him then. His rod had turned to wood in his braies. Had she felt that too? Was that what had startled her?
He’d crossed a line. Where was his honor now?
It’s beginning, a cruel voice whispered to him.Yer tainted blood is showing itself.
His mother struggled to draw breath in a nearby chamber, and here he was, sticking his tongue down the herb-wife’s throat. He found Hazel attractive. Her company both calmed and invigorated him. But that was no excuse. He’d taken advantage.
Sinking into his chair, he growled the filthiest curse he knew. Faolan padded over and rested his chin on his knee, whining softly.
“Aye, I know,” Craeg muttered. “I’m a turd.”
Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling beams. The wood was dark with age and smoke, scarred by centuries of fires. Solid. Dependable. Unlike him.
“Shite,” he breathed. He needed to be on the mainland, at Murray’s side. It would be better, for everyone, if he spent the rest of his days swinging a blade at the English. Better if someone else ruled Moy.
