“I cannot take this,” he murmured.
“Take what?”
“You. Them.”
I didn’t understand his meaning, but I let the silence linger, hoping he would continue.
“I want to be the only one to look at you,” he finally said, raising his eyes to me. “Forgive me, Roses. I want to immerse myself in you and keep your light all to myself. I try to maintain control, yet you make it so very difficult, with your hair and your breasts and your lips for all to see.”
My hands could not get enough of the feel of his thick hair and his sun-dark skin. “My lips are yours,” I said, kissing his face, his closed eyes, his lips. “My breasts are yours. All of me. Yours.”
I continued to kiss him and offer myself to him, every word of it the truest truth. I was his. And he was mine, even if this truth wasn’t fully confirmed or allowed. He was here with me, and that was truth enough.
I could sense that his fury was mellowing, transforming into heat. When his temper had cooled, he pulled back. Carefully, so as not to ignite him, I unfastened the pin that held his kilt securely in place. I unwrapped the sash of his kilt. I gently pulled up his shirt, easingit over his head. I traced my fingers over the masculine lines of his shoulders.
He lifted me and placed me on the bed. He lay next to me. Neither of us spoke for a minute or more, simply reveling in each other’s nearness. I felt it, and I sensed he could, too; we were where we belonged: together.
I began slowly. “Warrior?” I said.
He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for my question.
“You haven’t married every woman you’ve shared a bed with.”
He paused before answering. “Nay, not a single one.”
“Have you shared a bed with very many women?”
He contemplated me lazily, and a subtle grin played at the corners of his mouth, as though he was mildly satisfied by my inquisition. His beauty, as his arrogance and the innate authority of him played across his handsome face, was stunning. Here was a man who women fought over. They swooned when he walked into a room. They very nearly fainted when he flicked them a glance. I had heard it discussed over the table of Laird Ogilvie, and now I’d seen it for myself. The attentions of Wilkie Mackenzie were a conquest, an aspiration, a dream. The fresh memory of all those women, batting their eyelashes coquettishly, it boiled in my veins. One in particular. And Wilkie looked almost amused, now that his own jealousy had eased. “Are you jealous, my love?”
The image of Maisie Morrison resurfaced, infuriating me. I was beyond jealous.
He smiled widely, flashing white teeth. He laughed at my expression, and the sound of his laughter sparked my desire and also my relief; I felt his laughter in my intimate places, and I went wet and achy for his touch. “Your face, Roses. You’re quite adorable when you’re jealous. Those women don’t exist for me now. There’s only one woman I want in my bed, and she’s here, frowning at me.”
I sat stonelike, but my heart thumped heavily with desperate, jaded love. “They existed for you tonight,” I commented quietly, remembering their hands touching his arms and his hair, and his unruffled allowance of it.
“I was being polite to our guests and nothing more. I’ve encouraged Kade to keep them well entertained, and he seemed more than up to the task. The rest of them were circling him like hungry wolves. I, on the other hand, took little pleasure in the conversation, especially as Angus Munro was leaning ever closer to you, drooling on you, and fairly fondling you.” This last line was delivered like a quiet swipe, as though I’d invited Angus Munro—nay, begged him—to do what he had done.
“If you had been close to me, he wouldn’t have touched me.” I was surprised at the petulance in my voice. I felt close to tears at my own need and at the extreme heaviness of my love for him. I didn’t want to invite an argument with him, but I couldn’t stop myself.
His irritation was detectable. “If I’d been closer to you, I’d have had a difficult time of not ravaging you right there in the corner. Your dress is too revealing.”
“You prefer Maisie Morrison’s dress?” I asked him, wishing I hadn’t. Yet I continued. “Are you spoken for, warrior?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does Maisie believe you to be something more than an acquaintance? Is she your betrothed or not?”
He paused as though considering whether to tell me the truth of it. “Nay, Roses. She isnotmy betrothed. Maisie Morrison and I shared a fleeting moment. She means nothing to me. Knox strongly wishes me to consider her for marriage, to secure the much-needed military alliance with the Morrison clan. I have not agreed. I urged him to negotiate for the alliance to be secured through some other means. I told him that I would prefer that my acquaintance with Maisie remain entirely in the past. And I told him my preference.”
I steeled myself for his answer as I asked him, “And what was his response?”
“We’re still discussing the matter.”
Which very probably meant that the laird had refused to allow him to marry me. The sorrow and jealousy that washed through me gave a bite to my words. “If you prefer the Morrisons’ dresses and the company of their beds, then you should go to them. As you have before.”
Wilkie was still for a moment. His voice softened a degree. “Don’t be daft, lass. You’re the only one who has touched my heart. Come here to me. Let me soothe away your jealousy with my kisses.”
I remained indignant. I did not move to him. I was picturing another woman in his bed, two of them, kissing him, touching his hair. The thought scalded my emotions, upsetting me greatly.
