Page 22 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Marjorie fell back asleep almost at once. But Cormac had tossed and turned with the sleep of the damned, as though he were off to face the hangman in the morning instead of the Aberdeen quays.

Finally, he rose to look at her. Her bare arm stretched across the bed, silvery in the moonlight. It was lean, pale like ivory, and it mesmerized him. For all her posturing, she was so delicate, so vulnerable.

He longed to touch her, to feel the velvet of her skin under his fingers.

He could stroke that arm. He’d draw his hand to her shoulder where he’d pull her blanket down, reveal the rest of her.

He could climb into the bed, pull the blanket over them both.

Beneath the bedding, she was barely clad . . .

He clamped his eyes shut.

He needed to remain focused, on his guard, which meant not imagining her naked body beneath gauzy linen. It meant not kissing her, not dreaming of holding her close in bed.

Gathering his wits, Cormac wandered to the window, estimating dawn was still over an hour away. Marjorie’s breathing was slow and even, so quiet he needed to strain to hear. He’d let her rest a while longer.

He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the windowpane, tilting it to catch the light of the setting moon on his cheek.

He recalled the madness that had accosted him earlier, just there at the window.

Like a fool, he’d gone to stand behind Marjorie.

The mere feel of her before him, jiggling and grunting to unlatch the damned glass, had him yearning and ravenous, like some cursed rutting beast.

And then she’d pinched herself and sucked her thumb into her mouth, and the look of her rounded lips had been so erotic, it’d been all he could do not to pull her tight to him and grind his base flesh into her backside.

Later, too, she’d licked her food from her hand like some sort of wild, carnal creature.

Just a mouth, merely her fingers, and yet the sight of each had his thoughts spiraling to dark places where her tongue played along his flesh.

The young girl he’d once adored had grown into this spirited, impassioned woman, this sensual woman. And she was driving him mad, igniting desires he thought he’d doused long ago.

She’d always been a wonder to him, her boldness and her bravery, and so the adult she’d become was no surprise. He considered her laughter, her crusading ways, her passions.

Her kiss.

He’d been forced to recount that ridiculous incident with Bridget to get it off his mind, grasping at humor to eradicate the pain of his longing. And then she’d asked about his battles, and he’d clung to that same humor to hide the pain of his past.

She’d sat so close to him on the bed, though, and she’d kept edging closer still, until she was laughing and swatting at him as she’d done as a child.

Only this time, Cormac wanted to do much more than simply engage Marjorie in a playful tussle.

What if he’d simply grabbed her and crawled atop her?

Would lust have replaced the laughter in her eyes?

Those eyes. Her eerily vivid blue-green eyes had been riveted to him for the telling of his tale, as intent on him as when he’d taken off his plaid.

His muscles clenched with the memory. The way she’d watched him had nearly been his undoing. He’d wanted to ask her to undress him instead. To tell her to undress him.

And how she’d stared at his pallet, as though it were evil itself. Had he read disappointment on her face? For the briefest moment, he hoped she’d say something. Invite him to her bed. But she didn’t.

And of course she didn’t. She was good and proper. Too good and proper. Too good, at least, for one such as him. He could spend a thousand lifetimes atoning for his sins, and still he’d never deserve her.

He scrubbed at his face, longing to see an absent sun peek over the horizon.

What was he doing sharing a room with Ree? He was a brute for putting her in this position. An unmarried lass in the company of a creature like him?

He’d taken advantage of her on the beach.

And she’d been as perfect as a spring morning.

Opening to him, touching and whispering, in ways so sweet and hot that he thought he’d died and landed in paradise.

She’d been such a revelation, he wished he’d die, so that he’d no longer have to face this torture, the beautiful woman who’d never be his.

He was darkness and killing and shame, and he’d never be worthy of her.

Marjorie was dredging up painful, dangerous notions. Sympathies he’d thought long ago extinguished stirred to life in his chest. Feelings for her, for others like this boy Davie. He’d spent a lifetime building walls against such emotion. He needed to fight it harder than ever now.

He’d loved this woman as a child. But children were fools, with no idea about the real world and its suffering. It was all disappointment in the end. He imagined Marjorie’s only encounter with such profound sadness had been thirteen long years ago, when Aidan was taken.

She’d learn the lesson again, though, soon enough. And he hated the prospect. He’d help her search for the boy, but he braced for the inevitable despair they’d find at the end of the road.

He attuned himself to her breathing. It felt like a transgression, like he was spying on her. But the sweet sound of her was an irresistible balm to his soul.

Poor, lovely Ree. For all her mettle, she was still such an innocent.

There was no way to protect her from it all.

Would that he could’ve left her at home and searched for the boy on his own.

But he’d known he had no choice but to bring her with him.

If he hadn’t, she’d surely be storming the docks this very evening, and all alone.

Or worse, with that sodding Archie character. Archie would’ve figured out a way to help her without sharing a room, without compromising her.

Rich men and friends in high places. He scowled. He knew in his heart that Archie’s way wouldn’t have kept her safe.

No, keeping Marjorie close like this was the only, best way to keep her from harm. And more than finding Davie, more than Cormac’s own safety, Ree’s welfare was paramount. If anything were to happen to her, he’d become completely unmoored.

That there was someone as good and as kind as Ree in this world had been the one thing keeping him going all this time. Cormac had seen such horrible things; he’d give his life, sacrifice what little humanity was left to him, to protect her from it all.

As though summoned by the intensity of his thoughts, she sighed and muttered in her sleep. There was a rustle and a shifting, and then the rhythm of her breath once more.

He girded himself. Her sighs were quiet, but they reverberated like thunderclaps through his core.

He imagined he could detect even the smell of her, permeating their small space with the intoxicating scent of sleeping woman.

She’d seared him through, and not even the cold, bare timber underfoot was enough to ease the heat of his body.

He knew he shouldn’t look. He should give her some semblance of privacy. But Cormac couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer to her.

He felt his feet moving before he knew what he was about. And then he did realize, and still he paid it no heed. Rather, he imagined himself a man moving through a dream, his movements inexorable, him helpless to stop them.

His first sight was of her lips, parted slightly. Soft and full, they appeared dark in the shadows, the shade of a ripened plum.

She lay on her side, her hands pressed palms together, resting under her cheek. Her hair lay strewn behind her, and curls that shone light brown in daylight spread across her pillow, streaking behind her like a dark wing. Her, an angel in flight.

Slowly, he reached out. Gingerly, he traced a lock of hair from her brow. He froze, waiting, but she didn’t rouse.

Then Cormac smoothed his hand over her hair. It was coarse but somehow smooth, too, skeins of uneven waves tickling his palm.

And still her breathing didn’t alter, and so he grew bolder, bringing his hand to her shoulder. Her bones were sleek and delicate, too fine for the weighty burdens she bore. He’d always thought of her as such a dauntless, braw thing, but truly she was a fragile creature.

He stroked his hand lower, and his groin tightened at the feel of her torso, the soft curve of it, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He imagined the bare skin beneath the fabric.

Her breasts would be pale and perfect. They’d fill his palms, neither too big nor too small, and he’d bury himself between them, a man come home.

He stroked lower still, his body humming now, alive. If before he’d imagined he was asleep and dreaming, there was no fooling himself now. He was awake, alert, and entirely aroused.

He dragged his hand over the blanket covering her legs, and the wool rasped against his fingers. He remembered those damned trews. They’d outlined her curves, hugging her legs, clinging in the cleft between. It had been all he could do to keep his wits about him and not come at the sight.

He stroked along her thigh. It sloped elegantly down, to bended knee, then to lean calf. Carefully he cupped her ankle, and the bone seemed perilously frail. Never before had she struck him as more a woman than she did in that moment. Never had she seemed more exquisite, more precious.

A vision came to his mind of taking both his hands, gripping those calves. Flipping Marjorie flat on her back, spreading her, mounting her.

He pulled his hand back as though burned.

The game he played was more dangerous than any wartime spying or any dockside brawl.

Hissing a breath, Cormac took up his plaid. Wrapping it about himself, he curled on the floor once more, where he’d wait for the sun to rise and the angry flesh of his body to retreat.