Summoning what was left of her resistance, she wrenched free of his hold. “You forget yourself, sirrah.” Lifting her chin, she gazed deep into his eyes so there would be no mistaking her meaning. He was a guardsman and not a suitable suitor. “It was a kiss, nothing more. A mistake, and one that will not be repeated. Do not touch me again.”
Words, Patrick thought, had not the power to strike a blow. He was wrong. She didn't want him. He could see it in her eyes: He wasn't good enough for her. And she didn't know the half of it.
By all that was holy, if there were any justice in this world, they would be equals in every way.
He buried his resentment behind a stiff bow, his jaw clenched tight. “I apologize. I didn't realize it was so distasteful to you.”
She reached out to grab his arm. “No, I …” But her words fell away as her hand dropped back to her side.
He could see the turmoil on her face, in her eyes, but it did not lessen the sting of her rejection. “You need not worry that I shall make that mistake again. I'll not press my attentions where they are so obviously unwanted.”
It was clear that she didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry.”
He watched the sweet red mouth he'd just kissed tremble. But nothing could stir the cold, hard stone in his chest. He was a fool to let her get under his skin.
He made no move after her as she turned and ran down the hill toward the castle. He watched her, though, bitterness and longing twisting seamlessly inside him. The smoldering resentment born in a man who wanted something desperately but knew that it didn't rightly belong to him. She was innocent—
Nay, not so innocent.
The knowledge clawed at him with a viciousness that surprised him. Elizabeth Campbell had been kissed before. Thoroughly kissed. And from the way she had responded to his touch, he suspected that she'd done more than kiss.
How much more?
The question ate at him unrelentingly, a primitive voice in his head that wouldn't quiet. Every instinct clamored with possessiveness.
He told himself it was because of his plan. She might not be as easy a mark as he'd thought. Experience would make her less likely to fall into his seductive trap and perhaps even make her wary.
But the intensity of his reaction told him that it was more complicated than that.
Never had a kiss ignited into passion so quickly. He'd been a few minutes away from tossing her down on the grass and taking her right here—like some damn animal. Elizabeth Campbell was far more desirable than he'd ever anticipated.
Patrick's blood had cooled, but his body still teemed with restless energy, his lust far from sated. Lust that would make him lose focus if he didn't do something. Hell, he was already losing focus.
He needed to keep his mind on his goal, not on his rock-hard erection. This wasn't about bedding the lass, it was about getting his land back.
He needed to clear the haze, and there was only one way to do it.
Chapter 8
It was only a kiss.
A lapse in judgment. No reason to keep punishing herself for it.
But when Lizzie returned to the castle, the turmoil had not lessened. Her heart wouldn't stop racing, her mind was going in a thousand directions, and she felt perilously close to tears. She'd never felt more confused, more uncertain, in her life. All she wanted to do was forget about Patrick Murray and how incredible it felt to be in his arms. Forget the way his mouth felt on hers, the hot, spicy taste of him, the imprint of his big swordsman's hand on her breast.
Forget that it had ever happened.
But what if I can't?
She quieted the voice in her head the only way she knew how, by attacking the duties for the day with even more than her usual zeal. The remainder of the morning she spent changing the bed linens in each chamber, and fluffing and airing the pillows and hangings. Not hungry, she skipped the midday meal to polish the silver candelabra, and then the furniture. In the afternoon, she swept and mopped the floors until they sparkled. Usually the maids performed such tasks under her supervision, but Lizzie needed the distraction. It worked. The physical labor finally succeeded in clearing her mind.
Only when every muscle in her neck and back ached and she could no longer move her arms did she stop, collapsing in her room in an exhausted heap. So tired that had she not been covered in dirt, she would have simply gone to bed. But when her bath was brought up, she roused herself sufficiently to sink into the warm water of the deep copper tub.
She closed her eyes, wanting to drift away into nothingness, but the memories found her. The more she tried to push them away, the harder they came.
Even bone-deep exhaustion, it seemed, could not cure what ailed her: the knowledge that she'd acted disgracefully. Not just in allowing him to kiss her, but in her reaction afterward. It wasn't Patrick Murray's fault that she lived in fear of repeating her past mistakes. She'd welcomed his kiss, even encouraged him, and then when he'd taken her up on her wanton offer, she'd lashed out.
Though he'd covered it quickly, she'd seen it in his eyes—her cold rebuff had hurt him. He thought she'd rejected him because of his station. But it was much more complicated than that.
