Page 17 of Laird Of Her Heart

Good Christ. Where had she learned to kiss like this? The query threatened to gut him but he decided to ignore it and simply enjoy.

He explored her mouth, her chin, her neck—she really seemed to enjoy that. His hold on her breast never wavered, because it was far too delightful to release. She was perfectly proportioned, sensual and woefully overdressed. He worked at the buttons of her tunic. They were impossibly small, but he managed to get them open, even though she attempted to distract him with maddened kisses to his neck.

When he separated the placket and gazed down at her breasts, he blinked. She wore another garment, one that covered her in a band. Though he tugged it this way and that, he could not figure out how to remove it. If this was some kind of Cameron chastity belt, it was truly heinous.

“The hook is in the back,” she gusted in a breathless voice. She leaned to the side, but in the shadows he could not see what he was doing and the odious contraption would not come undone.

She wailed in frustration at his fumbling attempts. “Untie me. I’ll do it.”

Dominic stilled. Disappointment flickered through him. It was foolish of him to assume her passion was true. It was an old gambit of captured women, to seduce a man to the point he loses all reason and then lure him into lowering his defenses. Dominic would not be had. “I canna untie you, lass.”

She rolled back over and glared at him. “Why? Are you into some kind of Fifty Shades thing?”

His brow rippled. “I doona understand the meaning of this Fifty Shades thing.”

“Yeah, well nobody does. Not really. Just untie my hands.”

“I canna untie you.”

She blew out a breath. “You can tie me back up once I take off my bra. Okay, Mr. Grey?”

Who?

But he didn’t ask. He studied her. Though she seemed sincere, he could not slough off the fact that she’d not been completely honest with him. He knew it to the core of his being. He could not take the chance of untying her, even for this.

Even for the glory this might become.

He shook his head. “Nae.”

She growled—something ferocious that sounded like “fine”—and with great effort rolled away from him. He felt a hint of guilt then, at keeping her tied, making her so uncomfortable, but it was consumed by the fire of his passion that, now inflamed, would not recede.

He lay back, closed his eyes and tried not to think of her taste, her scent, the curve of her breast.

He tried not to dream of her.

He failed.

* * *

Maggie woke up alone, but wrapped in a warm cocoon. It occurred to her that at some point, the highlander had woken up, untied her and left.

She tried not to let disappointment ripple through her at the fact he hadn’t tried once more to remove her bra. Hell, that he hadn’t kissed her again.

The kiss still danced in her mind. She swore she could still taste him.

She sat up and glanced around the tent. She was gratified to see a flagon of water and something on a plate on the table. She extricated herself from the furs and padded over to see that it was. Her nose wrinkled. An oat cake. She picked it up and nibbled at the corner. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t orgasmic either. At the very least, it stopped the rumbling in her stomach.

If she kept eating like this, she might lose Survivor kind of weight.

She pushed her hair out of her face—without her brush she probably looked like a Chupacabra—and peered out the flap of the tent. Other than a few murmured conversations the camp was quiet, but she wasn’t a fool.

The Macintosh would not have untied her unless he was certain she couldn’t run. She glanced at the woods and had a momentary urge to flee, but pushed it away with a sigh.

Fact was, she didn’t want to leave him. Not really. After that kiss, she wanted only one thing.

More.

Whatever this was, this adventure—or hallucination—she owed it to herself to explore it. Her only regret was that she really wanted her locket back. It meant the world to her.