Seduced by a Highlander by Paula Quinn Page A

mayhap it was her heart she heard thudding furiously in her ears. She hated him for speaking her name with such tenderness, such intimacy that it felt as if he were touching her even when he wasn’t. It reminded her of how at ease she’d felt with him the day she met him. Of the way his gaze lingered over her features, as if her plain face delighted him. She had gone to bed that night wanting to know him better, wanting to lose herself forever in the sound of his laughter.
    “Ye’re even bonnier in the moonlight.”
    Aye, it was her heartbeat. Her palms felt moist and her breath labored. Unbidden memories of the tender smilesthey had shared, the sweet, musical lilt of his voice when he told her the story of Arthur and his brave knights, came rushing back to her, softening her kneecaps, melting her bones to the core. Scoundrel bastard. He practiced the charm and mannerisms of the most eloquent nobleman, but his urbane grins were meant to ignite passionate responses, like a cat playing with its prey. The mystery was why had he chosen to continue to play with her.
    “Why do ye waste yer flowery words on me, when there are at least a hundred ladies in the palace”—finally, she turned to face him fully—“and mayhap some men, as well, who would enjoy hearing them?”
    Genuine humor curled his mouth as his eyes washed over her like a sunrise, heating everywhere they settled. “Because ’tis no’ their enjoyment that concerns me, but my own. That is why I’d rather be here with ye than with anyone else.”
    She gave him a doubtful look. He was eloquent, all right—his words sprinkled with a thick Highland burr to make him all the more peculiar. Her family was responsible for his uncle’s death. He had to hate her. He was after something. She was sure of it now, and she was almost sure of what it was. What if the revenge his kin had taken on her father was not enough? What if, after ten years, their demand for justice had returned and they wanted proof that the lethal arrow came from her father’s quiver? She was there when the MacGregor Chief killed her father. She’d heard what her father’s closest friend, Kevin Kennedy, had shouted out moments before her father was murdered. She was sure the Devil MacGregor had heard it, too. Had he sent his son to her to discover the truth? Why else would Tristan MacGregor pursue her throughout the palace? She should not have come. Dear God, hecould swerve any woman from her most stubbornly held convictions. And she had to hold tight to hers.
    Straightening her shoulders, Isobel called up her strength of will. MacGregor’s attempts to find the truth, no matter how determined they were, would fail.
    “Walk with me.” He stepped closer to her. So close, in fact, that her breasts grazed his chest. She moved back, doing her best to ignore the clean scent of heather that clung to him.
    “No, I must return to my brothers.”
    “Then I will walk ye back to them.” He hooked his arm at her and waited for her to accept.
    She stared at him with scathing anger coloring her cheeks. “That is what ye want, is it not?” Her breath nearly stopped when his eyes dipped to the heavy rise and fall of her bosoms. “Ye want to give one of my brothers a reason to fight with ye.”
    Flicking his keen gaze back to hers, he said, “By yer own admission, ’tis Alex who is foolish enough to try to open old wounds. I simply want to walk with ye, and if I have to escort ye back inside to do it, I will.”
    “So, what ye are saying,” she accused, folding her arms across her chest, “is that I have no choice.”
    “Aye, ye have two,” he corrected. Oddly, there was no trace of victory in his tone. “Ye can choose to be with me alone or in the sight of many. As fer myself, I’d prefer yer first option. I risk as much as ye if any of my kin see us together.”
    “I doubt that.” Isobel looked toward the palace and then back at him, trying to decide what to do. Would he truly follow her