Page 49 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

She could feel the tremor in his hands where they cupped her face, could see the hunger burning in his dark eyes. The air between them crackled with tension, heavy with want and the promise of what could be.

"Colin," she breathed, her fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer even as he fought for control.

His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, and she couldn't help but part her lips slightly at the touch. The small action made him groan low in his throat, a sound that sent heat spiraling through her entire body.

"Ye're going tae be the death of me, lass," he said roughly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he lowered his head again, capturing her lips in another kiss that was deeper, hungrier than the first.

Morag's hands slid up to tangle in his dark hair. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened for him without hesitation, earning another of those delicious groans that made her pulse race.

Colin's hands moved to span her waist, his thumbs brushing just beneath her ribs in a way that made her arch against him. The thin fabric of her nightgown seemed to burn away under his touch, and she could feel the heat of his palms through the linen.

"God, ye taste sweet," he murmured against her mouth, his voice thick with desire. "Like honey and fire."

Morag's response was lost as he kissed along her jaw, finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that made her gasp and clutch at his shoulders. His lips were warm and soft against her skin, but there was nothing gentle about the way he was claiming her, marking her as his.

"Colin," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "please..."

The plea seemed to snap him back to reality. With visible effort, Colin pulled back, his breathing harsh and uneven. His eyes were nearly black with want, but there was something else there too—concern, tenderness, and an iron will that was fighting against his baser instincts.

"Nay," he said quietly, though his voice shook with the effort. "Nae like this. Not when ye're still recoverin'."

"I'm fine," Morag protested, reaching for him again, but Colin caught her hands gently in his.

"Ye nearly died three days ago," he reminded her, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Ye're still weak from the poison. I willnae take advantage of that."

"It wouldn't be taking advantage," she said, frustrated by his nobility even as she admired him for it. "I want this, Colin. I want ye."

"And I want ye," he replied fiercely, his grip on her hands tightening. "More than I've wanted anything in me life. But when we take that step, I want ye strong and sure, nae recovering from an ordeal."

He shifted slightly, pulling her down to lie beside him on his makeshift bed on the floor. His arms came around her, holding her close against his chest, and she could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm.

"Rest now," he murmured into her hair, his voice still rough but gentle. "Let me hold ye while ye sleep. That's enough for now."

"Colin," she whispered, tilting her head up to look at him in the moonlight.

"Aye?"

"When I'm better... when I'm strong again..."

"When ye're strong again," he promised, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, "I'll show ye exactly how much I want ye. But fer now, just let me take care of ye."

Morag settled against his chest with a soft sigh, feeling safer and more cherished than she ever had in her life. As sleep began to claim her, she was dimly aware of Colin's hands stroking through her hair, of the gentle rumble of his voice as he whispered endearments in Gaelic that she felt in her very bones.

The next morning, Morag slipped from their bed early, her heart still racing from the revelations of the night before. She needed air, needed movement, needed something to occupy her hands while her mind processed everything Colin had shared with her.

She found plenty to keep busy with in the great hall, where many of the displaced villagers were still recovering. Morag threw herself into organizing their care, distributing food, and ensuring everyone had clean bedding.

Later that morning, Morag found herself drawn to the training yard by the sound of laughter. She stepped outside to see Colin working with a group of village boys, his shirt discarded and tossed over a nearby fence post.

The sight made her breath catch. Sweat gleamed on his broad shoulders as he moved, each muscle clearly defined beneath sun-bronzed skin. Dark hair dusted his chest, tapering down to a lean waist that spoke of years of hard training and battle. When he raised his arm to demonstrate a sword position, Morag found herself transfixed by the play of muscles across his back, the way his body moved with fluid grace despite his size.

"Nay, Jim, keep yer guard up like this," Colin said, adjusting the boy's wooden sword. His voice was gentle, patient—so different from the commanding tone he used with his men. Morag watched, mesmerized, as he crouched down to the boy's level, the movement causing his muscles to shift and flex in ways that made her mouth go dry.

"Like this, me laird?" the boy asked eagerly.

"Aye, much better. Now try it again, but slower. Speed comes with practice."

When Colin straightened and turned slightly, Morag caught sight of his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, the sheen of perspiration that made his skin gleam in the morning light. She found herself remembering the feel of those shoulders beneath her hands the night before, the heat of his skin, the way he'd trembled when she'd touched him.