Page 63 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“What I meant—”

“I understand your intent.” She advanced on him, a cool blonde Fury. A woman who wasn’t going down without a fight, which proved how frightened she was. “What I cannot fathom is why you want my secrets.”

She stood before him, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing. He leapt to his feet, but Miss MacDonald’s wrath sparked, a firework gone awry.

“You follow me home, write whatever tripe strikes your fancy, and you think you have the right to question me?”

“You asked for my help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.” Words so sharp she nearly hissed them.

“Then what was that pretty plea I heard at Artillery Ground?”

Her hems covered his shoes. Heat bounced between them. His, hers. Emotions boiling. Miss MacDonald looked as if she’d come fresh from a tussle, cosmetics smudging smoky lines around her eyes, and her lipsfaded carmine. A proud, glorious, passionate mess. A woman who didn’t like needing a man.

Her brows pinched, the fight fading from her eyes. “I...”

He waited, but whatever needed out wouldn’t come easily.

“Let me refresh your memory. You said, ‘Come with me, please.’ I detected a note of desperation in your voice. A woman who didn’t want to be alone.” A pause and, “Or are you about to tell me how mistaken I am?”

Composure rippled through her. She stood tall yet older as if the day had aged her.

“You’re right. I don’t want to be alone.”

Her voice was loneliness and a whiff of despair, the sound reaching into his heart.

Honest hazel eyes met his. “When I’m with you, I feel... safe.”

“You’re not alone. With me, you never have to be.”

Her eyelids quivered shut as if he’d delivered a healing elixir and she the dying woman who needed it. Blue shimmered seductively on her shoulder. A gap showed between skin and silk, a fragile shadow. An opening. He touched it and won her sharp inhale. Miss MacDonald trembled when he slid the fabric off her shoulder. The hat she held slipped to the floor.

His gaze dipped, fascinated by two hard nubs straining against silk.

He dragged both sleeves down her arms. This was heady, the sight of her skin intoxicating. Miss MacDonald wavered, a flush spreading up her chest and neck. She gripped his waistcoat, twisting the cloth.

Mere inches separated them when she said a resentful, “I don’t want to want you like this.”

He crushed her sleeves in both hands.

“You mean the unceasing need to breathe the same air as mine, to hear my voice as I crave yours, the anticipation, hanging on what you might say or do next because you are the most irritatingly captivating creature?” He exhaled long, his breath stirring her hair. “That kind of not wanting to want someone?”

Her lust-black gaze enthralled him.

“Yes.”

“Now you know how badly I want you.” His voice was hoarse, primitive.

Her mouth was inches under his. “Why?”

Desire unspooled, maddening carnal layers of it. He slid both hands into her hair. Bright red earbobs slanted on his wrists and hairpins clattered to the floor. His fevered hands roamed over her neck, her shoulders, and her hair.

Her grip on his waistcoat was unyielding.

“Why, Mr. Sloane? Why me?”

His mind raced with garbled nonsense. To say he’d slay dragons for her if the mythical beasts still roamed the Highlands? Or that he’d happily lay her clan’s dagger at her feet? Most startling of all was his wish to give his name, his heart, and anything else the Scotswoman wanted. If he said that, his hazel-eyed cat would unsheathe her claws and race for the door. Thus, he let the next thing tumble out of his mouth.