He blinked at her in surprise for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “How very, very innocent you are, Fia MacLeod.” He touched her cheek, traced the edge of her scar with his fingertip.
She reached up to touch the scars on his face too, but he grabbed her wrist, his grip hard, his smile fading, his anger chilling. “I don’t want your pity. I said go.” He went to the door, opened it, and waited for her to walk through. She turned in the doorway, and through the window behind him, she saw the bonfire flare to life, the orange flames leaping into the indigo sky
Then the door closed, and she was left in the dark.
Dair paced the floor of his chamber until his leg burned, willing away desire, regret, guilt, and a host of other emotions too numerous to list. He wanted Fia. Desire still burned, simmered, hummed in his veins. This was more than simple lust—he recognized that. Her kiss was tentative and endearingly clumsy, her reactions new and momentous. Yet her kiss set him on fire like no other kiss, no other woman he’d ever known. Another minute and he would have picked her up, tossed her on the bed, and taken her. But she was a virgin, and he—well, come morning, she wouldn’t be a maid any longer, and he would still be mad, with one more black regret on his conscience.
He went back to the window and stared out at the fire, and the silhouetted figures dancing around it. She’d find someone else to kiss her tonight. He was sure of that. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so vulnerable . . . another man would smile at her, take her hand, draw her into the shadows. And that wasn’t the only danger. He pictured her hurrying along the cliff path toward the fire, shaken, made clumsy by his stupid lust. It was dark, easy to trip . . .
Dair swore softly. He grabbed his plaid, tucked a dirk into his belt, and went after Fia.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dair hurried along the edge of the cliff. He knew every rock, every hillock, every bump in the path, even in the dark. He ignored the ache in his leg. He didn’t stumble or hesitate. He stalked steadily on toward the fire, and Fia.
The sky above him was black velvet, the stars shining like jewels. The ocean glittered like a flirtatious woman’s eyes. Not Fia’s—she didn’t know how to flirt any more than she knew how to kiss. The kiss had been his fault, even if she was the one who’d started it. He could still taste her, smell her scent on his skin, heather, honey, and woman. It was madness to go after her, madness upon madness.
Fia MacLeod had known only one kiss—his. His body stirred, instantly, urgently hard, and he wondered if he’d lit the same fire of need in her that she’d set ablaze in him. He still told himself it was an entirely different male instinct that had him striding through the dark to reach her—that he merely wanted to protect a vulnerable girl from the kind of harm that drunken men might do to someone so untried. They’d blame it on the drink, the pagan fire, the darkness, but it would be all Fia—her vulnerability, the unknowingly sensual, sexual, innocent draw of her.
He heard laughter and singing as he approached the fire. The sea breeze was benevolent tonight, carrying glowing sparks high into the air like fireflies, where they danced over the heads of his clansmen. The piper was playing a reel, and couples whirled in and out of light and shadow. Dair squinted through the smoke and searched the faces. He couldn’t see her.
Someone rushed past him, bumped into his shoulder—a lass chased by a lad. She paused, looked at him, and her eyes widened in horror at the sight of him. Then she was gone, rushing into the dark.
Waves of smoke and heat made faces ripple, shift, glow. He saw Annie, Niall, Ruari, Ina . . . Meggie MacLeod was dancing, her pale skirt a moth in the firelight, her golden hair shimmering, her face alight with joy. Couples were already pairing off, lads pulling lasses into the darkness. Some stood in each other’s arms by the fire, kissing . . .
He saw the lush, blood-red gleam of russet curls, saw a lass held tight in a lover’s arms.Fia?Dair recognized the man—John Erly. He held her close, and her hips shifted against his as he plundered her mouth. John tugged the ribbon from her hair and filled his hands with the glorious red locks. Dair clenched his fists, started forward. He’d drag Fia out of the Englishman’s arms if he had to . . . but the woman laughed, high and flirtatious. It wasn’t Fia. He looked around, frantic now. Where the devil was she?
A hand on his sleeve made him turn. The top half of her face was in shadow under the damned crown of flowers. The sweet scent of it took him back to his chamber, reminded him of the feel of her in his arms, the taste . . . The firelight lit only her sweet, half-parted lips, still kiss swollen and pink, enticing. His heart pounded like a drum, and longing flowed through him in a rush. “You’re here,” she said, her voice husky, barely audible over the laughter and the music. He watched her lips curve into a smile. His body ached for her. She held out her hand, and he took it, clasped her fingers in his, and even that simple touch shot through him, raised his cock further still.
“You’re here,” she said again, stepping closer. The scent of roses and meadowsweet and lavender mixed with wood smoke, sea wind, and Fia.
“I want—” he began. What did he want? To drag her into the shadows, lay her down in the soft grass under the stars, and make love to her. Oh yes, he wanted that very badly indeed. He pulled her into his arms, pressed her body to his, let his mouth find hers. He kissed her in the firelight, in full view of his clan and her sister. Where was his good sense now, his honor? He didn’t know, didn’t care. He heard voices around them, laughter, music. No doubt folk had seen, were watching him claim her, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t tear his lips from hers. She met him kiss for kiss, copying, learning fast, tangling her tongue with his. She made soft sounds only he could hear as her arms crept around his neck, drew him closer, invited him to deepen the kiss, to do more . . .
A movement beyond her shoulder caught his eye—someone coming toward him out of the darkness. He knew her at once—Jeannie, her image blurred and distorted by the smoke rising off the fire. Dair’s chest tightened with dread, guilt, and anguish. Jeannie’s pale hair was loose on her shoulders, the dark pools of her eyes fixed on him, filled with sorrow. Dair felt his bones turn to water. He pushed Fia away, thrust her behind him, faced Jeannie as she stepped through the haze, coming for him.
But it was Logan who stepped around the fire. Angus was behind him, his face grim and gray. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Dair’s belly caved against his spine.
“Dair? Thank the Lord I found you,” Logan said. “Your father’s home, but he’s hurt. You’ve got to come at once.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Fia felt Dair’s body stiffen in her arms, and he stopped kissing her. She opened her eyes, looked at him in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at something behind her, desire fading to horror in his eyes. He pulled her arms away from his neck, thrust her behind him, set his hand on his dirk. She peered around him, saw Logan, his expression filled with sorrow. Her heart dropped to her belly.
“Your father’s home, but he’s hurt . . .”
The breath left her lungs. She heard the dismayed cries of those who stood nearby. Pleasure turned to despair in an instant.
Fia reached for Dair, but he stepped away, and her hands fell to her sides, empty.
“John, where are you?” he called. “Fetch Moire.”
He began to walk away with Angus, and Fia hurried to catch up. “I can help.”
Dair didn’t reply, but Angus nodded, so she followed, her heart pounding.
There was a cart nearby, and Dair climbed aboard without even a glance in her direction. It was Angus who lifted Fia onto the back. Logan climbed up next to her.
“What happened?” Dair asked Angus as the cart jerked forward.
