He swore, covering her mouth with his to prevent the refusal from passing her lips. He groaned at the contact—at the taste—sinking into her, digging his fingers through her hair to bring her mouth more fully against him.
His body heated, hardened, overtaken by dark, primitive urges of a man intent on claiming the woman who belonged to him. Blood surged through his body as lust gripped him in its inextricable hold.
He wanted to punish her for denying him, for denying this, for bringing him to this barbaric state.
He wanted to sink into the warm, honey recesses of her mouth and devour her. To force her to admit what was between them.
Not just passion.The flash of rationality pierced the black haze. It was more than passion. Something far deeper and far more meaningful. And he wanted her to acknowledge it. He forced himself to cool and eased back to coax her lips apart with gentle, deft strokes of his mouth and tongue.
But God, she was sweet. Honey on his tongue. He wanted to sink into her, to delve into the warm sugary recesses, but instead of demanding with the force of passion, he cajoled with infinite tenderness.
His forbearance was rewarded by a soft moan as she opened her mouth and returned his kiss, surrendering. To him. A bolt of pure masculine satisfaction surged through him as strong as after any battle he’d ever won.
He knew she’d felt it, knew he was not alone in the force of emotion that made his chest ache with every tentative sweep of her tongue. His tongue circled hers in a slow delicious dance, delving deeper and deeper. She sagged against him, her body melting into his. He groaned at the contact, at the incredible sensation of all those ripe curves pressed up against him.
The sound startled her out of her trance. With a cry she jerked away, the movement as emphatic as a slap. She stared at him, breathing hard. Her gaze shuttered, but she still bore the stamp of their passion in her swollen lips and flushed cheeks. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
He flinched. “Why not?”
She shook her head, tears blurring her luminous green eyes. “I just can’t. Please don’t ask me again.”
This time when she turned to leave, Duncan didn’t stop her. His body felt coiled, ready to strike, and he didn’t trust himself. His hardened heart felt the pinch. Her refusal, in the wake of his own weakness for her and the passion that still seized his body, was a double betrayal.
He clenched his jaw, biting back the flare of disappointment. He’d thought…
What, that he meant something to her? He was a damned fool thinking he could read emotions in a kiss.
What the hell had he been thinking? Kissing her only made him more crazed. Lust blinded him to his purpose. He was here to clear his name, not to wake the ghosts of the past.
She wanted him, but not enough to overcome whatever it was that held her back from helping him. It wasn’t just loyalty to her husband, but something else. She was hiding something and he intended to find out what it was.
Chapter 13
The conversation with Duncan stayed with Jeannie long after she’d left his room. She’d had her questions answered, but it hadn’t made anything easier, only more complicated. The initial anger that had flared between them had been dulled both by the fever and by understanding. What had once seemed so clear was now clouded by a different perspective—his perspective.
He left me.And she would never forget it, but she was not completely without fault. Map or no map, on some level Duncan felt she’d betrayed him. By not telling him about her father she’d put her loyalty to her clan above her loyalty to him. Honor and integrity permeated every fiber of his being, she’d never thought he would put that aside to help her father. Should she have trusted him? She didn’t know, but he was right—implicitly she’d made a choice.
And she’d done so again, choosing to protect her son rather than help Duncan clear his name. Guilt that she could not completely ignore gnawed at her. She’d wanted to agree to help him. The words had been right there on the edge of her tongue. But she hadn’t given in to the impulse. She couldn’t trust him, not with her son’s future. Once she’d been willing to risk everything for Duncan, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake again—not when Dougall could be the one to suffer.
But it was dangerous without having anger as a shield between them—as that kiss had demonstrated. She’d felt the undeniable tug, drawing them together. It would have been so easy to fall into his arms again. Terrifyingly easy. It was getting harder and harder for her to resist, but she steeled her heart against him, avoiding being alone with him.
She wasn’t the only one to feel his magnetism. Over the next few days while Duncan recovered his strength with alarming alacrity, she’d done her best to keep Ella away from him—with little success. Every time Jeannie turned around, Ella was sneaking into his room or following him to the stables, the hall, or the barracks on some pretense or another. To his credit, Duncan did nothing to encourage her, but his indifference had the opposite effect than the one intended. Ella never could resist a challenge. And if her formidable grandmother could succumb, it was only a matter of time before Duncan did likewise.
Ella couldn’t hide her fascination with their uninvited guest. Nor for that matter could most of the women under or over the age of sixty. Yesterday, when Duncan joined his men for the first time to practice his sword skills in the yard, the entire female population in the castle seemed to stand still when he removed his shirt. She’d never seen so many women gathering water from the well, which happened to be located near the practice yard, and the keep’s windows had never been so clean.
Ridiculous.But Jeannie found her gaze straying more than once to the tanned chest gleaming in the sunlight. When he held his sword above his head and his muscles flexed…her body tingled in places she’d long forgotten. His raw masculine appeal was undeniable.
But not for me.
The truth, however, did not quiet the dull ache in her chest.
Beth’s mooning grated more than the others, not because of what Jeannie had seen or because Duncan gave any indication that he noticed, but because the girl was young and pretty, and as innocent as Jeannie had been once—a long time ago.
But as trying as the past few days had been, Jeannie knew that it would soon be at an end. As his sword practice yesterday proved, Duncan’s recovery had progressed to the point where he would soon be well enough to travel.
She intended to remind him of that fact. Entering the hall, she found him breaking his fast, Ella perched on the table beside him, chattering animatedly, and Beth opposite, elbows on the table, chin cupped in her hands, utterly enthralled. Both girls seemed to be suffering from the same malady—an acute case of hero worship.
He’d done nothing but shoot a few arrows and swing his enormous two-handed great sword around, but even hampered by his injury, there was something special about him. He stood out like a king upon beggars. His physical strength, confidence, and authority could not be masked, despite his best attempts not to draw undo attention to himself. She supposed his handsome face didn’t hurt either. She could only imagine what would happen if it became known that he and the legendary Black Highlander were one and the same.
