Clearly, the man’s conscience was clear. He was not fretting about the men he hadkilledduring the night, or the fact that he had kidnapped the fiancée of a prominent English military officer, who was likely hunting him down like a dog at this very moment. He was not the least bit concerned that she might outwit him and escape while he slept. No, the Butcher rested peaceful y, serene and tranquil in his hidden lair, confident that his terrified prisoner would not rise up in a panic and stab him in the back if he inadvertently let go of her for even thesmallestfraction of a second.
It was unlikely to happen, of course. He would indeed feel the slightest move on her part, for his arms were locked about her waist, pinning her against him. The mere sound of his breathing—so close, so steady and deep, like waves in the ocean—kept her riveted andstill, for fear of waking him.
Silently, without moving a muscle, she let her gaze wander about the dimly lit cave, looking for something she could use as a weapon if an opportunity presented itself. She saw only the unlit fire and cast-iron pot, the basket of bread, some blankets, and his axe and broadsword, not far from where they lay.
Careful y she reached out to touch the axe, mostly out of curiosity, but felt the immediate, subtlepullof her captor’s body. His hips pushed forward, and she froze,controllingher breathing, for he might not be so weary after a brief nap. He might decide he did have the strength, afterall, to do more than just lie beside her. He might choose to help himself to her virtue and doallthe wicked, lusty things he had talked about on the horse.
Her stomach flipped over suddenly at the memory of that conversation. She could not seem to purge it from her mind.
If only she could sleep. She would need her wits about her in the coming days and could not afford to be sluggish of mind.
A suddenthumpoutside the cave entrance caused her to jump. Her heart beat in her chest like some wild, fluttering creature as she stared wide-eyed into the mist for the other Highlander, who wanted to hack her to pieces and was probably coming to do it now.
But it was only the Butcher’s big black horse, wandering freely outside the cave, his head bowed down to the ground as he tore at the grass with his teeth. Listening to the sound of the animal crunching, she let out an anxious breath and felt her captor snuggle closer, as if he sensed her unease and was urging her to relax.
Afullhour must have passed while she lay staring with bloodshot eyes at the light outside. Then suddenly the Butcher stirred and drew in a deep breath.
“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned, tucking his knees up behind hers. “I feel good. Did you sleep, lass?”
“No,” she curtly said, feeling the stiffness of his arousal.
He leaned up on an elbow. “Why not? Was the bed not soft enough?” He paused and leaned closer, looking at her careful y. “How old are you, lass?”
“I am two-and-twenty. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
He ran his big hand over the curve of her hip and thigh, and she felt a strange, disturbing tension in her belly. “A grown woman, then. Worldly and experienced…”
Sheswallowed anxiously. “A grown woman, yes. And experienced enough to know a gentleman from a savage.”
“Then you do not need any lessons from me about the difference between the two?”
“I certainly do not.”
The Butcher paused, looking down at her legs while he gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts in his fist. Inching them up, little by little, until her bare calves were exposed to the knees, he said in a low, husky whisper, “That’s too bad, lassie, because I’m anexcellentteacher. And yousmellvery nice.”
“Do I?” She voiced the reply in a blasé tone, despite the fact that her chest felt like it might explode.
Slowly, he nuzzled her shoulder with his chin, as if he was studying her response to his touch.
Amelia lay verystill, resting her cheek on her hands, struggling impossibly to behave as if this were nothing to her.
She would not react to his overtures, nor show fear or slap his hands away, for that might only provoke him. With any luck, a façade of boredom and indifference might douse the fires of his current inclinations—whatever they were.
“Aye, fresh as a spring daisy,” he said. “Verytempting in the morning.”
He continued to stroke her shoulder with his chin while her heart raced like a hunted fox.
“You, on the other hand, arenottempting in the least,” she said. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Is it because of how we met? Without a proper introduction?”
She turned over to glare up at him. “You came tokillmy betrothed, and you almost chopped off my head.”
He let out a breath. “I knew I should have worn the silk jacket. Now I’ve spoiled everything.”
Good Lord! Was he making fun of her? Or was he deranged?
“Get up,” he said, vaulting lightly over her body, rising to his feet, and belting his scabbard around his waist.
