Page 73 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“Think about it. Do you want a docile husband who only awaits your command, or a man like this?” And then he did what he’d been wanting to do since she walked into the room. Since before then.

He set down his glass, stood and yanked her into his arms.

And he kissed her then, like a wild beast, a man who took charge, a savage predator who’d caught the scent of a willing mate and didn’t hesitate to take what he wanted.

To his delight—after a moment of hesitation—she responded with equal fervor, wrapping her arms around him and scraping at his nape with her fingernails as he devoured her.

Or she devoured him. It was difficult to tell.

Hell.

Bloody hell, he wanted her.

He wanted her here and now.

He wanted to lay her down on Mother’s Aubusson carpet and strip her naked, feast on her, and then, when she was pleading for more, mount her. Take her.

He knew the rules. He knew what seducing a lady in his father’s library meant if they were caught. For someone like him, there was only one outcome.

Marriage.

Which was why he had resisted for so long.

But Isobel?

She was a woman he wouldn’t mind being bound to.

She was the first woman who’d engendered such thoughts in his mind. Such . . . inclinations.

Indeed, she was the only woman he’d ever met who make him consider a serious pursuit.

But she deserved better than a hot and heavy coupling on Mother’s Aubusson carpet. She deserved a bed.

With that thought, he whipped her up into his arms, reveling in her weight against his chest, her warmth, her scent surrounding him—for surely it was the scent of her arousal. Suffused in lust and determination, he headed for the stairs.

And abruptly stopped.

Horror rose within him.

For there in the library door, stood Edward Pennington and William Swofford, both dusty and travel-worn. Both with great grins on their faces.

“My man,” William said. “Never say you’ve started the party without us?”

Chapter Fourteen

As mortifying as it had been to realize Nick’s friends had witnessed their passionate kiss, Isobel had a difficult time worrying on it.

The kiss, that glorious conflagration, overwhelmed everything else.

She lay in her bed and stared at the canopy above her and relived it over and over again, until dawn broke. And then, because she was so tired, she remained in bed and continued to muse over it, until a maid scratched on her door with a tray of hot chocolate, croissants, and fruit.

She ate at the little table by the window, staring out at the sea, and then she crawled back into bed until Catriona came to find her.

“Isobel. Aren’t you the lazy one?” She laughed as she plopped onto the bed.

“I’m on holiday,” she reminded her friend. Catriona had always been one of those annoying early-bird types, chirping about what a lovely day it was and why spend it in bed?

“You’re missing all the fun.”