she’d stood at the window and admitted it, not ten minutes ago.
“Let me go, damn you.”
She was beautiful, vibrant, alive. His cock swelled in his breeches. He raked his gaze down her body. Her bare breasts were tipped with dusky nipples, pebbled into hard little points, making his mouth water in anticipation of suckling one as he touched the other, rousing her passion . . .
Yet perhaps the state of her breasts had nothing to do with arousal. It was more likely due to the cold draft in the room.
He wanted her, but he could not take an unwilling woman. His code of honor wasn’t quite as rigid as hers, but it did know certain limits. Though those limits begged to be redefined at this moment.
“You want me.” It came out as a near growl.
She shook her head. “No! No, I do not.”
With his free hand, he reached behind him, gently slipping one finger between the silken lips of her sex. He found her slippery, open, ready for him. She jerked under his touch and let out a squeal of dismay.
He removed his hand and held his finger up before her, showing her the glistening proof of her arousal. “But you do.”
She stilled beneath him and stared up at him with hard, determined jade-colored eyes. Only her fingers moved—curling and releasing relentlessly above her head where he pinned her wrists.
She spoke quietly. “My body remembers you, Cam. It remembers this place, this bed, the nights we spent here.”
He nodded in understanding. His body remembered too.
“The flesh doesn’t know right from wrong. It doesn’t understand honor. It has no conscience. But my soul does, Cam. My heart does. To take your pleasure with me now will destroy all the memories I have of you, all the affection I’ve held for you over time. Please.” A single tear escaped her eye and traveled down the side of her face, but she didn’t blink.
“You want me, Sorcha. You love me, and it is me you desire, not Alan MacDonald.”
“I beg you. Please don’t do this. Don’t force me to do something that will make me hate you forever. Please don’t destroy me. I haven’t the strength to resist you, but if you do this now, know that my heart and soul will never succumb. Is that what you want?”
Struck dumb, he merely stared at her. What did he want from her? First and foremost, he wanted her body. But he wanted more. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d accept anything less than the whole, especially from a woman he cared for so deeply, who occupied his thoughts night and day.
He was a bloody fool to have waited until her wedding day. If only he’d understood his feelings before he’d seen her with Alan tonight.
Nevertheless, she’d given herself to him freely once, and she would do so again.
Alan came to slowly, the throbbing in his head and body guiding him through a haze of pain back into reality. He lay on his stomach, and his shirt was gone. He crawled onto his knees, gripped his head in both hands, and took stock of his surroundings.
He was at home, and there were people all about. Sorcha’s family—her father and brothers and sister. A fresh, cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and the smell of peat smoke wafted pleasantly through the air.
Someone smacked him on the shoulder. “Aye, we can see that yer awake, but Stewart willna release me to me bed till I’ve stitched ye up nice and tight.”
He turned to stare at the woman who’d spoken. As shrunken and wrinkled as a dried-up apple, Mary MacNab gazed at him with cruel, ice blue eyes, small pinpricks of light nestled in the tanned-leather skin of her face.
Alan winced as his head pounded harder. Mary MacNab. What in God’s name was she doing here? She was the town healer, well-known for her poor bedside manner toward men. It was rumored a man had wronged her once, and she held a grudge against his sex ever since. While she was ever kind and gentle with women, she seemed to relish a man’s pain.
He rubbed his temples, and the memory of the night’s events
“Let me go, damn you.”
She was beautiful, vibrant, alive. His cock swelled in his breeches. He raked his gaze down her body. Her bare breasts were tipped with dusky nipples, pebbled into hard little points, making his mouth water in anticipation of suckling one as he touched the other, rousing her passion . . .
Yet perhaps the state of her breasts had nothing to do with arousal. It was more likely due to the cold draft in the room.
He wanted her, but he could not take an unwilling woman. His code of honor wasn’t quite as rigid as hers, but it did know certain limits. Though those limits begged to be redefined at this moment.
“You want me.” It came out as a near growl.
She shook her head. “No! No, I do not.”
With his free hand, he reached behind him, gently slipping one finger between the silken lips of her sex. He found her slippery, open, ready for him. She jerked under his touch and let out a squeal of dismay.
He removed his hand and held his finger up before her, showing her the glistening proof of her arousal. “But you do.”
She stilled beneath him and stared up at him with hard, determined jade-colored eyes. Only her fingers moved—curling and releasing relentlessly above her head where he pinned her wrists.
She spoke quietly. “My body remembers you, Cam. It remembers this place, this bed, the nights we spent here.”
He nodded in understanding. His body remembered too.
“The flesh doesn’t know right from wrong. It doesn’t understand honor. It has no conscience. But my soul does, Cam. My heart does. To take your pleasure with me now will destroy all the memories I have of you, all the affection I’ve held for you over time. Please.” A single tear escaped her eye and traveled down the side of her face, but she didn’t blink.
“You want me, Sorcha. You love me, and it is me you desire, not Alan MacDonald.”
“I beg you. Please don’t do this. Don’t force me to do something that will make me hate you forever. Please don’t destroy me. I haven’t the strength to resist you, but if you do this now, know that my heart and soul will never succumb. Is that what you want?”
Struck dumb, he merely stared at her. What did he want from her? First and foremost, he wanted her body. But he wanted more. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d accept anything less than the whole, especially from a woman he cared for so deeply, who occupied his thoughts night and day.
He was a bloody fool to have waited until her wedding day. If only he’d understood his feelings before he’d seen her with Alan tonight.
Nevertheless, she’d given herself to him freely once, and she would do so again.
Alan came to slowly, the throbbing in his head and body guiding him through a haze of pain back into reality. He lay on his stomach, and his shirt was gone. He crawled onto his knees, gripped his head in both hands, and took stock of his surroundings.
He was at home, and there were people all about. Sorcha’s family—her father and brothers and sister. A fresh, cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, and the smell of peat smoke wafted pleasantly through the air.
Someone smacked him on the shoulder. “Aye, we can see that yer awake, but Stewart willna release me to me bed till I’ve stitched ye up nice and tight.”
He turned to stare at the woman who’d spoken. As shrunken and wrinkled as a dried-up apple, Mary MacNab gazed at him with cruel, ice blue eyes, small pinpricks of light nestled in the tanned-leather skin of her face.
Alan winced as his head pounded harder. Mary MacNab. What in God’s name was she doing here? She was the town healer, well-known for her poor bedside manner toward men. It was rumored a man had wronged her once, and she held a grudge against his sex ever since. While she was ever kind and gentle with women, she seemed to relish a man’s pain.
He rubbed his temples, and the memory of the night’s events
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