She shrugged arrogantly. “Perhaps. But it’s not as if I have much to live for. I have no memories, and everyone I know is using me for their own purposes—whether it’s to lift a curse or get their hands on a fortune that may or may not belong to me.”
She would never do it, of course. She wanted to live. She wanted that more than anything, or she wouldn’t be here.
Finally, he rolled onto his back again, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and groaned irritably. “Youaremad,” he said. “Fine. If you must have your way, I will be a gentleman for the night, and take the floor.”
He rose, fully nude, and reached for the folded woolen blanket that was draped over the brass footboard.
Catherine couldn’t look at him. He was too attractive, too spellbinding. Instead, she turned her gaze to the fire, where the flames seemed to dance with delight as he moved across the room. When at last she heard the sound of the blanket unfolding and flapping outward to cover him, she carefully looked down.
He was stretched out on his back on the braided rug at her feet.
“Thank you.” She stood up and stepped over him. “Now close your eyes and don’t look.”
“How you torture me so,” he said with frosty sarcasm, covering his eyes with a hand while she removed her skirts and bodice and hung everything on the chair. Wearing only her shift, she dashed across the floor on her tiptoes and scrambled into the bed. Quickly she turned down the lamp and drew the covers up to her ears.
Everything was quiet in the room except for the sound of the fire snapping in the grate. She rolled over and faced the wall, and was very aware of Lachlan’s movements as he, too, rolled to face the other direction.
***
Contrary to whatever form of torture Lachlan expected to endure while sleeping naked in a room with Raonaid (he’d had visions of waking up with his wrists tied to the bedposts while she chanted some dark spell), he somehow managed to sleep for an hour or two. When he woke, it was nearly dawn and the rain was no longer beating against the window. The fire had gone out, and the only warmth came from a few red-hot embers, pulsing like quiet heartbeats in the ash.
He rolled to face the bed. Raonaid, too, was curled up on her side, facing him. The sight of her lovely, curvaceous figure in the dim light was enough to affect the tempo of his heart. He felt yet another unwelcome surge of arousal in the pit of his stomach, which fanned the flames of his discontent, because he was sick of the torture. He was a man forced to live alone, without intimacy in any form, for if he ever made love to a woman, he would become a murderer.
As a result, he’d had very few intimate encounters since the night of the curse in Kilmartin Glen. In the early months, a few generous young lassies had been willing to pleasure him with their hands and mouths, but even that had troubled him, and he had not enjoyed the experiences.
He remembered pulling one eager lassie to her feet halfway through a session of oral frivolities, apologizing to her gruffly, then stalking off and concluding the matter with his own hand, outside in the bailey, alone in a dark corner behind a wagon stacked with empty whisky barrels. It had been a low moment.
Now, he yearned not only for sexual release, but for any form of intimacy. It had been a long time since he’d been touched by a woman. There had been no caressing, no kissing.Nothing—until his botched seduction in the stone circle the day before, when the floodgates had opened to a raging tidal wave of desire.
All at once, he realized he was breathing heavily while watching the rise and fall of Raonaid’s ample bosom beneath the covers. It was a beautiful but dangerous thing to behold, so he turned his gaze to her face instead.
She was as lovely in sleep as at any other time, and there was something surprisingly peaceful about her, which contradicted everything he knew and remembered about her.
Strangely, that made him hate her now more than ever for locking him up in these shackles, cursed to a life of isolation, forced to avoid the attentions of any woman who so much as smiled at him.
Another part of him, however, wanted to climb into bed with her, roll on top, and settle himself snugly between her soft, luscious thighs. He would kiss her lips, caress her, and, when she was ready, slide into her womanly depths with a profound and satisfying groan of liberation.
Lachlan shut his eyes and tried to think of something else—anythingwould do—but the effort was futile. He would have to get up.
He was about to do so when Raonaid stirred and moaned softly. She inched a little closer to the edge of the bed and wiggled her hips across the mattress. He could smell her perfume, faint in his nostrils after the storm but still present, nonetheless, and it irritated him further, due to the frustration it caused.
His mind reeled with confusion. For three long years he had dreamed of achieving vengeance against this woman. He had loathed her with every inch of his being, even imagined watching her die. He still loathed her now. But despite all that, he had been teasing and flirting, and he wanted overwhelmingly to touch her.
Which told him one thing: the flirting had to stop. It was too dangerous and vexing. He had wanted to punish her, to make her afraid, but as it turned out, he was only punishing himself.
Rising to his feet, he left the pillow and blanket on the floor. For a moment he stood over her broodingly, watching until she rolled onto her back. Then he turned his eyes away, donned his kilt in silence, and quietly left the room.
***
Catherine’s eyes fluttered open, and she sat up quickly. A bright, hazy beam of sunlight was shining in through the window. The blanket Lachlan had used was in a jumbled heap on the floor, and his tartan was no longer hanging before the fire. The room was quiet, and he was gone.
Tossing the covers aside, she rose and crossed to the window, drew the drapes, and looked outside at the storm-ravaged stable yard below. Some of the shingles had blown off the roof, and the muddy ground was littered with leaves and broken branches that had blown down from the trees. A shimmering cloud of mist rolled close to the ground.
Lachlan emerged from the stable just then, walking purposefully back to the inn, and she was relieved to see him. He had mentioned he would secure another horse. Perhaps that was his task just now.
Catherine hurried to don her skirts and bodice. A moment later, he knocked lightly at the door, then entered without waiting for an invitation and barely looked at her as he spoke. “You’re up, I see.”
His dark hair was tied back with a leather string, and he looked rugged and handsome in the morning light, with his tartan pinned neatly at his shoulder, his sword belt buckled loosely at his hip. His shirt was clean and dry, and at some point he had shaved.
