Suddenly the snarling beast was ripped off her.
Patrick had wrestled the wolf to the ground, one arm wrapped around his neck. The animal's long teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he twisted wildly, gnashing and snarling at his captor. Lizzie knew from his size how strong the wolf must be, but he was no match for the fierce warrior. Patrick's eyes were cold and determined, not a hint of fear in their dark green depths.
She stared in awed wonderment as he subdued the ferocious animal as if he offered no more fight than a rabbit. She'd never seen anything like it—his strength was extraordinary. His arm squeezed around the wolf's neck, the muscle in his arm bulging against the leather of his cotun like a boulder, until the wolf hung limp.
Lizzie swore she saw regret on his face as he tossed the lifeless animal to the side and came quickly to her.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded dumbly as he helped her to her feet. “I—I'm fine.” She struggled to control her stammering tongue. But the strain of what had just happened, added to the horror of the earlier attack by the MacGregors, proved too much. She didn't care. Her carefully wrought composure dissolved. She could barely stand, her legs felt so weak. Her body began to shake uncontrollably, her throat tightened, and hot tears stung her eyes.
He was standing so close to her, all six feet plus inches of masculine strength. So solid and safe. Her valiant protector. It seemed only natural to seek the safe enclosure of his embrace. She ran into his arms, burying her head against the hard wall of his chest. He smelled … wonderful. Warm. Of leather and pine needles and strength. Savoring the distinctly masculine scents, she closed her eyes. Only then did the tears start to fall.
Patrick MacGregor, a man known for his cool authority, for his decisiveness in battle, for his strength and toughness in the most extreme conditions, was at a complete loss. He looked down at the flaxen head of the tiny feminine bundle against his chest and didn't know what to do, having little experience with comforting weeping women. He felt a hard twinge in his chest. A flood of warmth that almost bordered on … contentment. An emotion so foreign to him, he didn't know what to make of it.
After a moment's confusion, he relaxed and acted on instinct, allowing his arms to come around her and snuggle her closer to him.
He figured it was the right thing to do—despite the fact that it seemed only to make her cry harder—when every muscle in her body seemed to heave a sigh of relief and she collapsed limply against him.
He felt a surge of protectiveness. An overwhelming urge to keep her safe. Ironic, given his task.
Still, it pleased him that she'd turned to him so easily. He knew not to read too much into it; he was convenient, nothing more. And she'd been pushed to the end of her rope by the day's events. But it didn't mean he didn't like it.
Holding her like this, it felt … nice.
More than nice. He couldn't help but notice how well they fit together. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and his arms wrapped perfectly around her. Her hair smelled like lavender, and was so silky soft that he couldn't resist the urge to touch it. He let it slide under his palm as he stroked her head soothingly, his own pulse beginning to slow.
Her weeping did not diminish his opinion of her strength. The lass had been through a lot today; she'd earned the right to her tears. She wasn't the only one reeling from what had nearly happened.
He didn't know how to describe the feeling that had shot through him when he'd heard the wolf howl. His heart had seized for one paralyzing second. If he didn't know better, he would think it had been a flash of panic—laughable under ordinary circumstances.
But these were hardly ordinary circumstances. If anything happened to the lass, he would have only himself to blame. He'd put her in this position. She was his responsibility.
Unlike the attack on her carriage earlier, the wolf had not been planned.
After a few minutes, her sobs began to slow, and he became uncomfortably aware of the effects of holding her so closely. The incredible softness of her breasts crushed against his chest made his blood fire. He felt the weight come over him. The heavy pull in his groin. The hardening. It had been too long since he'd had a woman, and it had caught up to him—at the wrong time.
She sniffled and gazed up at him with watery eyes, her long lashes clumped and spiky. Her face was bathed in tears and moonlight, with an opalescent glow that seemed almost unworldly. For a moment it was only the two of them, man and woman, in a realm untainted by blood feuds. In a world where a Campbell heiress might welcome a MacGregor suitor. Where deception was unnecessary. Where kissing her seemed the most natural thing to do— the only thing to do.
Her mouth, with her soft pink lips parted only inches below his, tantalized. A sweet, sugary confection for a man starved with bitterness. Aye, she was ripe for seduction. He just hadn't anticipated how strong the urge would be for him to do so. He ached to kiss her, to take her lips beneath his and slide his tongue deep in her mouth until her breath came fast and hard. Until she moaned for him. He could almost taste her honey sweetness beneath the saltiness of her tears. His entire body felt possessed by desire. The primitive call was bone-deep, encompassing every part of him.
He lowered his head.
And stopped.
It was too soon. One wrong move could ruin everything. She was a frightened lass; he couldn't take advantage of her vulnerability. Not yet, anyway.
He knew he'd been right when her eyes widened, as if all of a sudden realizing what she'd done, and she pulled away. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … I didn't mean …” There was a long moment of awkwardness, where she fumbled with her skirts and took great efforts to wipe away the dirt and leaves that still clung to the wool where she'd fallen. “What must you think of me?”
He knew from the way she avoided his gaze that she was embarrassed. “I think that you were scared. I was here. There is nothing to explain.”
Her gaze met his uncertainly, as if trying to convince herself of the same. She managed a tentative smile. “It seems I am doubly indebted to you and owe you thanks again for saving my life. If you hadn't called out when you did …” She shivered, her gaze falling on the dead animal.
Her gratitude weighed uneasily upon him. “I would never have allowed you to come out here on your own if I'd suspected. But it's unusual to see wolves in these parts.” He looked with regret at the fallen beast. “Stranger still to see one on its own.”
She made a face. “I'd rather not see any.”
“Soon enough you will get your wish.” His words came out harsher than he'd intended, and he explained. “If the king has his way, there will be no wolves left anywhere in the Highlands. Forty years ago, it was necessary to build spittals on the roads for travelers to take refuge. Today, it is rare to see a wolf at all.”
