She laughed and the gentle tinkling sound echoed through the dim light. “Is yer opinion of yerself so high that ye think ye’re the only man who can help me?”
“Nae.” He lit another torch and turned to her again, her torch between them. “I think that after an hour in yer torturous company m’ kin would all turn to the Menzies’ side.”
She stopped walking and stared at him like he’d just put a hand to her. Hell, he’d gone too far. The thought of making her cry hooked him in the gut more deeply than he expected it would. He enjoyed their banter. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. What the hell did he know about a lass’s sensitivities? He was used to making them giggle and groan. Not weep. And why did he care so much about this particular lass? Why did simply looking at her inspire him to write new verses describing every facet of her?
“Come now,” he said before he thought about it some more, “ye must admit that ye’re opinionated and stubborn and no’ always pleasant to be aroond.”
Her eyes opened wider and he closed his mouth. He could write a dozen lines of words worthy of his father’s lute but he didn’t know what to say to comfort a lass.
But this lass didn’t need comforting. What he thought was insult in her eyes was scorn, smoldering and robust. “This isn’t yer feeble attempt at an apology, is it, Grant?”
He smiled. Something thoroughly wicked snapped across his back and seared his blood just taking in the sight of her against the soft torchlight, ready to take him on. She was no thin-skinned flower, able to throw a strike but unable to take one back. He liked it. He always had.
Damn him.
“I’m glad I’m not pleasant to be aroond, Grant,” she said, moving to pass him. “If I can make yer stay here less tolerable, then my duty is—”
Closing his fingers around her wrist, he pulled her back and hauled her hard against him. He didn’t give her time to protest but leaned over her, and cupping the back of her head in his palm, he captured her mouth with his and kissed her like he didn’t have a right to and he didn’t give a damn. His tongue delved deep within her parted lips, stroking her, tasting her, and hell, but she tasted fine. When her tongue met his, caressing him in a fevered dance as old as time, he closed his arms around her tighter and pressed his hips to hers.
She gasped at the feel of his iron-hard cock nestled against her and tried to break free. He let her and she swung her hand around and slapped him across the face. For a moment, while his cheek stung, he simply stared at her, breathing her in, basking in the full glory of her will to hate him. He took a step back, but she followed. She made no further objections when he pushed her up against the wall.
He knew he should stop. He usually possessed much more control than this. But Janet Buchanan tempted him beyond his endurance and drove him mad with the need to conquer her.
Stretching her arms over her head, he settled his weight against her and ravished her mouth, her tongue. She moved against him until slowly, she curled a calf around his leg, opening herself to him until he thought he might go mad.
“I won’t be yer conquest.” She broke their kiss and breathed hard beneath him.
“Fine.” He licked the seam of her mouth. “I’ll be yers.”
She smiled at him for the first time and he fought the maddening desire to stop everything and think of the right words to describe it. He wedged his hips deeper against hers and rubbed her while he explored the deepest corners of her mouth.
He could take her. He knew what to do, what to say, and how to move to make her wild for him. But something stopped him.
It wasn’t because she was a Buchanan, or because she might cut his throat later for plundering her against a tunnel wall. And hell, but he wanted to plunder her. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life, and that too frightened him. She had fire and fearlessness that drew him like a moth, helpless to resist. She was unlike other lasses he knew, and because of that, he didn’t want to treat her like a common wench. She wouldn’t want that either. He was getting the hell out of here as soon as he took care of the Menzies. He likely would not see her again for a long time and he feared that if he took her and left her, his tortured heart would not be able to stand it.
“Janet,” he whispered, dragging his lips over her chin. “I…” What? What did he almost tell her? That she made him feel like he could be content to do nothing more than sing about her glorious face, her honeyed mouth, and her fiery tongue? That she tempted him like no other lass before her to stay with her, to make her a permanent part of his life if she’d have him. No. “Janet, I think I hear yer brother.”
She cast a worried look down the dimly lit tunnel, then back to him. “Why did ye kiss me?”
How the hell was he supposed to answer that?
“I told ye already,” she warned with a tight whisper. “Never again take such liberties with me.”
“Ye enflame m’ blood,” he admitted to her on a ragged breath, “and tempt m’ to tame that wicked tongue.”
A flash sparked her eyes like lightning across the sky. “I would never let ye tame me,” she promised with zeal, lifting her chin.
She seared his blood with desire. His nerve endings burned with the force of it. His muscles throbbed to hold her, but she was too dangerous to his heart.
Thankfully, the rest of the hunting party had arrived, their footsteps shattering images of her naked and panting beneath him. Images of himself doing everything to please her. Only her.
Damn it, she made him ponder permanent things he thought he wasn’t ready for. He had to do what he came to do and get out before he promised those things to her.
Chapter Eight
“They never once challenged yer kin fer the castle?” William Buchanan asked Darach while they stood on the battlement wall watching the Menzies ride over the ridge, approaching Ravenglade.
Darach shook his head, keeping his eyes on the Menzies. “Never. ’Twas yer kin only who challenged us.”
