Lizzie lingered over her food, taking another piece of brown bread and slathering it with fresh, creamy butter, even though she'd had her fill. She sat at the dais beside the bailiff and the seannachie along with other high-ranking men of the clan, the room buzzing with the loud voices of the guardsmen who'd decided to drown the hardships of the day in a hearty amount of cuirm. Her gaze shifted more than once toward the door, wondering what was keeping them.

It was only the concern that the lady of the keep would feel for her guests, she told herself. But the longer the delay, the more obvious the lie. Her concern was for one man.

Patrick Murray fascinated her. Everything about him seemed intense—larger than life—from his impossibly handsome face to his strength to the darkness and turmoil she sensed simmering just below the surface.

As the minutes ticked by, she became even more convinced that something was wrong. So when the young Murray warrior she'd spoken to earlier—Robbie, she recalled—appeared at the entry to the great hall, his eyes frantically scanning the room, she practically leapt to her feet and hurried across the crowded room.

“Is there something wrong?”

Her fingers clutched the wool of her skirts, already anticipating the answer.

Robbie nodded. “It's the captain, my lady.”

Her heart plummeted. “What's happened?”

She could tell that Robbie was uncomfortable—as if he weren't sure he was doing the right thing.

“Please tell me. I only wish to help,”

she urged gently.

“He's unconscious, my lady.”

He lowered his voice, and she could see the worry in his roguish gaze. “I thought he was dead. He's lost a lot of blood.”

“He's wounded?”

Lizzie couldn't control the high pitch of her voice.

“Aye.”

“But how?”

Her mind shuffled through the day's events. She'd known something was wrong. How could she have missed it? “Was he shot?”

The young warrior shook his head. “Nay, he took a blade in the side.”

Surely she would have seen an injury of that magnitude? “But when? How is it possible?”

When Robbie started to look even more uncomfortable, she said, “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

Not wanting to waste a minute, she motioned for a serving girl and gave her orders to have the healer meet them in the barracks right away with her medicines. Thinking of what else they might need, she told the girl to find hot water and fresh linens and bring them as well. And some broth. And plenty of whisky.

A few minutes later, she entered the barracks with Robbie. Patrick's men had laid him on a pallet and were gathered around, staring at him indecisively. Lizzie waved them out of the way and knelt beside the unconscious man, feeling a strange tightness in her throat and chest—as if the swell of emotion inside her had suddenly grown too large to hold.

Why he should affect her so, she didn't know. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing such a big, powerful warrior blazing with life suddenly cut down. His face was bloodless. Fear trickled down her spine. It was easy to see why Robbie had feared he was dead: He looked it.

She put her hand on his cheek, shocked by the cold clamminess of his skin. Leaning over him, she put her cheek next to his mouth. Her chest heaved with relief when she felt the warmth of his ragged breath sweep across her skin.

Though faint, it was a sign of life—one that she intended to hold on to.

He would not die. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Fionnghuala, the healer, arrived, and with the help of Robbie and another of Patrick's men, they removed his cotun and shirt, slowly revealing the broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and powerful chest that looked as if it had been ripped from steel.

Jesu!

The shock was like a lightning bolt running through her body. Her mouth went dry and she stared at him, utterly transfixed by the naked display of blatant masculinity. She'd never seen his like—his arms and chest could have been chipped from stone. The shape of each hard muscle was carefully honed to lean precision, not an ounce of fat to mar the sharply defined edges.

His skin was dark and smooth but for the smattering of warrior's marks that gave testament to his profession. He was a man who lived by the sword, and his body bore the scars to prove it.

Her palms itched to feel him, to lay her hands on the hard muscle, to trace her fingers across the ridged bands that were packed in tightly formed lines across his stomach.

Magnificent. Her body flooded with awareness. With heat. With desire. With a sharp yearning that gathered with the intensity of a maelstrom inside her.

Until the healer peeled back his shirt enough to reveal the gaping wound at his side.

She gasped, and her stomach rolled in revolt. How could he have stood, let alone ridden for hours, with such an injury?

The cut sliced across his side from back to front, starting at his shoulder blade and ending a few inches above his waist. It was splayed open, red and raw like a side of beef, the edges crusted with thick globs of blood and tissue, and so deep that she could see the white of his bones. The meal she'd just eaten threatened to return, but she swallowed it back. A steady stream of blood trickled down his side, gathering in a pool on the pallet. His side and stomach were streaked with the stains of blood that he'd obviously made a recent attempt to clean away.

Her eyes sought the grim gaze of the healer, silently asking the question she dared not put to words.

“The blood still runs red, my lady,”

the old woman said, offering some ray of hope.

It hadn't festered … yet. But they could both see that he'd lost too much blood.

The healer started peppering questions to his men and soon grew impatient with their vague responses. It made Lizzie wonder if the Murray clansmen had something to hide. Eventually, however, they were able to determine that Patrick had received the injury weeks ago. A rudimentary attempt had been made to stitch the wound closed, but it must have reopened during the fighting today.

He'd been bleeding for hours.

Her chest tightened, thinking of the wolf's attack. Of how the added struggle must have sapped Patrick's strength—yet he'd hidden it well. She'd never guessed.

Why hadn't he said anything?

Her mouth tightened. Patrick Murray was clearly a man who would not ask for help. What was the fascination with Highlanders and invincibility? Something in the blood, she supposed, along with a healthy dose of stubborn pride.

She squared her shoulders, determination set across her face. “What can I do?”

“We'll clean the wound as best we can and stitch it closed again. I'll apply a salve, and then 'twill be in God's hands.”

The healer's voice did not hold much promise.

“Nay,”

Lizzie said with a fierceness that shocked her. “It's in my hands.”

She felt the weight of all eyes upon her, and heat rose in her cheeks. Despite the blasphemy, however, his men looked at her approvingly. Embarrassed by the outburst, she explained to the healer, “This man saved my life twice today, I can do no less.”

The healer gave her a look that said she understood more than Lizzie might want her to, then she turned to Patrick's men. “I'll need a few of you to hold him still while I work.”

The men did as they were bid, and the healer began her preparations. Once everything was in place, they began. Using damp swathes of linen, they carefully washed the blood from the wound. Anxiety made Lizzie's heart pound erratically. She was trying to be careful, but when he flinched at her touch, she gasped and pulled her hand back.

“You're doing fine, my lady,”

the healer encouraged her.

“But it's hurting him.”

“Aye, and it will hurt much worse before this day is done. If you've not the stomach—”

“I'm fine.”

Lizzie gritted her teeth and kept swabbing the red, angry cut, steeling herself for his flinches of pain. She wiped her hand across her forehead when they were done, relieved, until she saw the healer lift the flagon.

“What are you doing?”

“The whisky will help wash away the poison.”

Lizzie had heard of this but never seen it done. Having splashed claret on an open cut before by accident, she couldn't imagine … it would be excruciating. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“I've seen it help, my lady,”

Robbie added.

Lizzie swallowed and braced herself. “Do it.”

Patrick's eyes opened as a guttural cry emitted from deep in his lungs. The sound cut her to the quick. His guardsmen held him down, but it was horrible to watch as his body twisted with pain. Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, he stilled.

The healer took out the needle and fine silk thread. “This is going to take a while. I need you to hold the wound closed as I stitch it together.”

She looked to the guardsmen. “You'll need to keep him very still. The tissue around the wound is tender and will cause him a great deal of pain.”

Lizzie felt as if she didn't breathe for an hour, every inch of her body on edge as the healer worked down the gash methodically. It was a long, painstaking process that taxed every ounce of her strength. When the healer was finished, they applied a salve and a fresh linen bandage over the wound.

“I don't understand how he walked around for weeks with a wound like that. It must have pained him something fierce,”

the healer said, shaking her head.

“The captain doesn't feel pain like most men,”

Robbie said admiringly. “He's endured far worse.”

“Aye,”

added one of the older warriors. “See that right there?”

He pointed to a round scar on Patrick's shoulder. “Took a hagbut shot in his sword arm and fought for hours afterwards.”

Lizzie clamped her lips tightly together. “Everyone feels pain,”

she said. “Some are just too blasted stubborn to admit it.”

Now the men gaped at her as if she'd blasphemed. “I'll make sure to tell your captain exactly that when he wakes up.”

Gazing at the handsome but incredibly pale face of the man lying on the pallet, she prayed she had the opportunity to give him that piece of her mind.

He didn't want to remember.

Patrick struggled against the images, against sleep, but the dream kept coming. Faster now. Barreling toward him with the force of an avalanche. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He couldn't escape the memories …

Of a deep sleep and the sweet sound of his mother's voice sifting through his dreams.

Except that it hadn't been a dream.

“Wake up, Patty! Get dressed. Hurry, my love.”

His mother's voice, he realized, except that it didn't sound like her at all. His mother was happiness and light, not anxiety and terror. He opened his eyes. Her pale face lit by a single candle appeared like an apparition floating in a sea of black.

He knew from her expression that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

A cry tore through the night from outside: “They're coming!”

Campbells. The Campbells were coming for them.

He remembered the bitter taste of fear. And the shame. He was ten years old. Almost a man. He shouldn't be scared. He was a warrior like his father. And like his father one day, he would be chieftain to his cousin Alasdair Roy.

He could still feel her hand cradling his face with tenderness. Could still see the green eyes that mirrored his own, gazing at him so lovingly. “I need you to be brave, my love.”

She'd known—she always knew what he was feeling. “Take your brothers and run deep into the forest. Hide there until someone comes to get you when it's safe.”

He didn't want to go. The forest was haunted and rife with faeries.

But he hid his fear and nodded. “But what about you?”

“I'll not leave your father. Don't worry.”

She pressed her hand on his face. “Annie and I will be safe.”

His mother was a Campbell born. Sister to the Laird of Glenorchy, the man who'd sworn to clear the MacGregors from their land.

He shook his head mulishly. “I won't leave you.”

“You must,”

she said sternly, more sternly then she'd ever spoken to him. “I need you to take care of your brothers. I'm counting on you.”

And he could not—would not—disappoint her.

In his dream he wanted to argue, wanted to beg her to come with them, but his dream wouldn't listen. So he'd left his mother behind, taking the sword that she'd given him— a real one of steel, not of wood like he normally used—and ran, leading the seven-year-old Gregor and five-year-old Iain into the trees until he thought his lungs would burst.

He'd gone about a mile before he remembered his badge. The chieftain's badge his father had just given him. The badge that had been passed down in his family for generations. “Guard it well, my son.”

His legacy. The symbol of his clan. He wanted to throw up with shame. How could he have forgotten it? His father had trusted him; he couldn't let him down.

It doesn't matter! Patrick shouted to the boy in his dream. But the boy couldn't hear him. The boy thought nothing was more important to him than the badge.

God, how wrong he was.

Patrick left his brothers with a stern warning for them not to move and turned back for his treasured badge.

He smelled the smoke first. It filled the night with a black, thick haze, burning his throat as he ran toward the keep. He was running harder now, the heavy sword etching a deep line in the dirt beside him.

Breaking through the trees, he saw the flames. They filled the night sky with flickering shards of orange along the banks of Loch Earn, engulfing everything in their wake.

His eyes blurred, stinging with smoke and disbelief. His home was … gone.

People were everywhere. Running. Screaming. Trying to escape the fire and the Campbell swordsmen who'd overrun the village.

He knew what it meant but didn't want to believe it.

He knew his father would never let this happen … not while there was a breath left in his body.

Patrick raced toward the keep, not heeding the flames. As he drew closer, the bodies of his father's guardsmen confronted him like angels of doom at the gates of hell.

Bile rose in his throat, but he didn't stop running. Not until he saw the familiar plaid in a bloody pile at the foot of the stairs. “No!”

He threw himself on the still body, burying his head against the powerful chest, not caring that tears were streaming down his cheeks. “Father!”

Someone tried to pull him off and he reacted, slashing his sword in an arc but connecting only with air.

The man who'd grabbed him swore, holding him by the neck in a viselike grip. Patrick thrashed wildly, trying to break free from the Campbell warrior's hold.

“What should we do with him?”

the man asked.

“Kill the whelp,”

another man said. “If he's old enough to carry a sword, he's old enough to die by one. Besides, MacGregors are a vengeful lot. Look at his eyes. He'll be back for us one day.”

Patrick hit the ground hard and saw the blade flashing above his head.

He wanted to stop the dream. Wanted to change the memory. He tried to thrash away, but it wouldn't let him go….

“No!”

His mother's voice came from out of the darkness. “Don't hurt my …”

Patrick's chest burned as the images assaulted him mercilessly. His mother jumping in front of him. The Campbell unable to stop the sword. Her chest splayed open instead of his.

“… son.”

The sound echoed in his head relentlessly—the gurgle of death. He would never forget that sound for as long as he lived.

“Mother!”

The cry that had torn from his lungs had not been human. It had been twisted with agony and rage and helplessness. He'd gone berserk, lifting the heavy sword he'd dropped at his father's side with strength he didn't know he possessed. It was strength born of hatred. The strength of a boy thrust brutally into manhood.

He remembered the surprised expressions of the two dead men as he'd left them before he'd escaped into the forest. But it would never be enough to replace the parents he'd lost.

Killed by Campbell greed.

A soothing hand on his forehead eased the haunting memories. The dream faded, and he slept.

Patrick woke to the sound of an angel. Or perhaps he'd died and gone to heaven, for he seemed to be floating on clouds so soft was the surface upon which he lay.

He tried to open his eyes, but they resisted; his lids seemed to be weighted down with lead. He attempted to lift his head, but when the tiny movement caused an ax to split through his skull, he thought better of it. Content to float on the cloud a little longer, enfolded in soft linen and warm furs, his cheek pressed against a pillow of feather, the subtle scent of lavender filling his nose, and the angel's song lulling him back to sleep.

His eye cracked open. Cloud? Pillow? Angel? What in Hades … ? He wasn't floating in the heavens, but lying in a bed. It had been so long since he'd slept on anything other than dirt and brush, he almost didn't recognize it.

Where am I?

He tried to remember, but his brain wouldn't work properly. Everything was disjointed … fuzzy.

Until the bedclothes were pulled back and a velvety soft hand skidded along his bare chest. The gentle touch was like a firebrand, startling him awake—fully awake. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed a delicate wrist, looking into the crystal-clear blue eyes of his angel, Elizabeth Campbell. A very shocked Elizabeth Campbell.

She gasped and the heavenly song came to a sudden stop. “You're awake!”

“Where am I?”

he demanded, his voice as dark as his head, hating this feeling of confusion. He was lying in a strange bed half-naked, his head splitting apart, more thirsty than he'd ever been in his life.

What had she done to him? Had she discovered who he was? Had he been imprisoned?

For the first time, he looked around the room. If this was a prison, it was the most luxurious one he'd ever seen. The room was enormous, perhaps twenty feet square, with an unusual vaulted stone ceiling and plastered walls painted a soothing yellow. Two large leaded-glass windows enabled an abundance of sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floors. There was a large stone fireplace at the opposite end, and fine furniture scattered across the room. In addition to oil lamps, he counted two silver candelabra. Above his head, he saw a canopy of heavy silk curtains between intricately carved wooden bedposts. The bed, the decoration, the furnishings … all were rich enough to house a king.

He squeezed her wrist a little more tightly and repeated roughly, “Where am I?”

“I heard you the first time you bellowed at me,”

she reprimanded him with a sharp glance, not perturbed in the least by his burst of anger. Anger that had cowed many men. Hell, he must be getting soft. “You are in the tower of Castle Campbell,”

she explained. “In my cousin's bedchamber, actually.”

Fit for a king all right: King Campbell. He—an outlawed MacGregor—was sleeping in the Earl of Argyll's bed. The world must have come to an end. He swallowed the irony and looked around again, trying to remember. “How did I get here?”

Carefully, she pried his fingers from her wrist and stepped away from the bed. Standing with her back to the sunlight like that, her hair caught in a golden halo of light, and her skin as delicate as alabaster …

The air shot from his lungs as if he'd just been socked in the gut.

She didn't just sing like an angel, she looked like one. My angel.

Her delicate brows gathered together across her nose. “You don't remember anything?”

He shook his head, the small movement making him wince with pain.

She was at his side again, touching him. Her hand on his forehead. “Are you all right?”

She sounded … concerned, as if she were worried about him. “As long as I don't move my head.”

“Then I suggest you lie still,”

she said with a teasing smile. She poured a glass of water from a pitcher at the table beside the bed and handed it to him. “Drink this. You must be thirsty.”

He drained it quickly, the cool liquid sliding down his parched throat like ambrosia.

Handing the empty glass back to her, he asked, “Now tell me how I happen to find myself asleep in the Earl of Argyll's bed.”

A pretty pink blush crept up her pale cheeks, and once again she stepped away from him. “You were very ill, and the healer said you needed to be kept warm.”

She motioned to the fireplace. “As this is the only private chamber with its own fireplace until the new tower and range is completed, it made sense.”

He frowned. “Ill?”

“Your men found you in the barmkin unconscious from the wound you received in your side.”

She gave him a long look. “A day and a half ago.”

Damn. Apparently his injury had finally caught up to him. Normally the sign of weakness would annoy him, but not this time. If he'd known blacking out would get him half-naked in a bedchamber alone with her he might have tried it sooner. And from the way her eyes were avoiding his chest, he sensed that she was no longer thinking of him as a patient.

“You'd lost so much blood, we thought you'd died,”

she added. “How could you say nothing of your injury?”

He shrugged. “I didn't think it was that serious.”

Her expression changed from concerned to irritated— angry, even. “Not serious? How can you say that? You were walking around with an open gash in your side about a foot long. Surely you must have felt it? Surely it must have pained you?”

Her anger—and the hint of sarcasm—momentarily took him aback. “A bit,”

he admitted reluctantly, not quite sure what to make of this side of Elizabeth Campbell. His delicate little kitten, it seemed, had claws. “But it feels much better now.”

A little sore, but he felt better than he had in weeks.

“Of all the stubborn … foolish …”

Her eyes flashed, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The ferocity hinted at the strong, passionate woman burning behind the paragon of duty and virtue.

God, he wanted her. As he'd never wanted anything before in his life. With an intensity that should have alarmed him, if he hadn't been so consumed with other matters. Like covering her with his body and lifting her hands above her head so that she was stretched out beneath him as he eased himself slowly inside her.

“You could have died,”

she seethed. “Would have died were it not for the healer's help.”

“And yours,”

he said, holding her gaze intently. The idea of her caring for him … he liked it.

She dropped her eyes. “I did very little.”

She lied. It had been her soothing his dreams with her songs and gentle hands.

Avoiding his gaze, she approached the bed, once again the dutiful lady of the keep. “I've come to check on your wound,”

she said briskly. “I can come back if you'd rather do it later.”

“Nay.”

The idea of her hands on him … “Now is fine,”

he said, his voice unmistakably husky.

She hesitated, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest to the bedcoverings slung low across his stomach. Apparently he was feeling much better, because he stiffened like an untried lad under the weight of her gaze.

He sensed her nervousness but made no effort to cover himself. He liked her skittish, liked that she was aware of him.

“Very well.”

He lay back on the pillow and watched her as she worked. She leaned over him to examine the bandage, and her delicate scent hit him. Damn, she smelled good. Fresh and flowery. Like the lavender that scented his pillow. She wore a simple brown wool kirtle and fitted jacket that hugged the gentle curves of her breasts. Lush, round breasts that he was painfully aware were only inches from his mouth. He could lift his head and bury his face in their softness.

A lock of her hair fell forward on his chest. The feathery brush of flaxen silk on his skin nearly made him groan.

“Sorry,”

she mumbled, quickly tucking the errant lock behind her ear. Still bent over him, she lifted her eyes to his. “I have to pull the bandage back to check beneath. It might hurt a bit.”

He was in pain all right, but not from his wound.

His cock felt as if it might explode. She was so close. He couldn't breathe; every inch of his body was honed to a razor's edge. Somehow he managed a strangled, “Fine.”

Gently she pulled back the bandage, and he could see the carefully stitched wound. It looked good. Surprisingly good. Annie would have nothing to complain about—not that it would stop her from trying.

Elizabeth took a damp cloth from the basin and gently wiped away the dried blood. He closed his eyes, his skin flaming when she touched him. Her hands on his body were maddening. Torturous. An exercise in restraint for a man who had none.

Take her.

His pulse raced, his breath jagged, his patience run out.

Her fingers skimmed over his ribs to his stomach, to the waist of his breeches.

Too damn close. But not close enough. He was hard as a rock, primed for her touch, and all he could think of were those velvety hands closing around him.

Lizzie's heart pounded in her chest. Her hands were shaking as she ministered to the wound, as she'd done for two nights and a day.

But this time was different.

This time he wasn't unconscious, but fully awake. The skin that she touched was warm and pulsing with life. Tension crackled in the sultry air between them. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, watching her intently as she ministered to his wound. There was something wickedly satisfying about the knowledge that her touch affected him. It made her feel … desirable.

She dabbed the damp cloth along the bottom of the cut near his stomach, trying not to notice how hard it was. How defined the muscles were. The problem was that she was noticing and her hands weren't following direction. She accidentally brushed the edge of the bedsheet slung low over his hips, coming into contact with his manhood. His very prominent manhood. For just an instant, her gaze lingered on the bulge underneath the sheet.

Mother Mary.

His hand whipped out to clasp her wrist. “Enough!”

His voice was ragged and raw with pain. Her gaze shot to his face, despair plummeting through her chest. “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”

His eyes locked on hers—the brilliant green so dark, it appeared almost black. She could see the tension coiled in him, the strain, in the slight flare of his nostrils and the tiny white lines etched around his mouth. “Not in the way you think,”

he said roughly. “You'd best leave. Send someone else to finish.”

Lizzie sucked in her breath as the wallop of hurt hit her hard across the chest. Her eyes widened in horror. She'd thought he was attracted to her. God, what a fool she was. Despite what had happened with John, she was far from experienced. She tried to look away, but there was nowhere to hide. He was holding her so close, the hand wrapped around her wrist as rigid as a band of steel. “Of c-course.”

Stammering. Her humiliation was now complete. With a choked sob, she tried to jerk away, but he pulled her against him with a harsh curse. The hand she instinctively braced against his chest to break her fall was the only thing preventing her from collapsing on top of him.

She gasped, the breath knocked out of her—not from the harshness of the movement, but from the force of the awareness that crashed over her at being held so close to him. So close that her breasts grazed his chest and only inches separated their mouths. The warmth of his breath swept over her lips. She could taste the hint of spice on her tongue, and all she could think about was pressing her mouth against his.

What would it feel like to kiss him? Were his lips as impossibly soft and velvety as they looked? Would he be gentle or hard? Entreating or demanding?

The temptation was torturous. His dark, masculine scent filled her senses. And he was so warm, his skin almost hot to the touch. Her body felt flush and prickly, engulfed by his heat. She could hear the pounding of his heart—or maybe it was hers.

She gazed at him, wide-eyed, trying to read the thoughts behind the implacable fa?ade. His expression was tight, unyielding. His eyes were dark and hard. He looked as though the last thing on his mind was kissing.

She was a fool, allowing herself to get caught up like this. Hadn't he just made very clear that he wanted nothing to do with her?

“Don't,”

he said harshly. “What you are thinking is wrong.”

Hot tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. “You don't need to explain. I should go.”

She tried to lever her body off his, but it was like trying to bend steel. The hard, muscular wall of his chest didn't budge, nor did the arm holding her.

He uttered another oath, muttering something about her being too damn innocent.

In that he was wrong.

“Look at me,”

he ordered, his fingers gently tipping her chin. Reluctantly, she complied. “I don't want you to touch me, because it feels too good.”

The muscle below his jaw pulsed. He leaned closer, his mouth a hairbreadth from hers. Her heart fluttered wildly—erratically. Startled, she felt the slightest brush of his lips against hers, like the whisper of a feather—so soft that she wondered whether she'd imagined it—before he pulled back with a groan. “It's all I can do right now not to pull you down on top of me and kiss you until you beg for me to take you.”

The heat in his voice left her no doubt that he meant what he said. The idea of ravishment didn't frighten her as much as it should. Two spots of color burned high on her cheeks. She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

He dropped her wrist, releasing her, but she didn't move right away. Couldn't even if she wanted to. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own—being near him like this felt too good.

His confession shouldn't have made her so absurdly pleased … but it did. A flush of pleasure rushed up her cheeks. She bit her lip and said shyly, “I didn't realize …”

“I know.”

His gaze deepened. “But now you do. I want you, and I'm not gentleman enough not to do something about it.”

Her eyes widened again, taking in the dangerous-looking man lying half-naked beneath her. He was right about that—he didn't look anything like a gentleman. He looked like a warrior. Like a man hanging very close to the edge of civility. Why wasn't she frightened? “I see.”

“So if that makes you change your mind about your offer—”

“I'm not changing my mind,”

she said firmly. The look that passed between them in the silence that followed was so thick with intensity, it was almost palpable. She felt the connection, the cinch that was pulling them closer and closer. Tighter and tighter.

She realized her words might have sounded like an invitation. Blushing, she pulled away. “I mean, well, these are unusual circumstances. There's no reason to think something like this will ever happen again. One of the maid servants can tend to your bandage from now on.”

He gave her a look that suggested it might not be so simple, but she chose to ignore the implications.

She moved toward the door, stopping suddenly and turning to give him one last glance. “So you'll stay?”

Their eyes connected with an intensity that told her she was a fool. What sparked between them was not confined to this room.

“Aye, lass, I'll stay.”

She smiled, more relieved than she wanted to acknowledge. But a small part of her wondered whether she'd just opened Pandora's box and invited in more than she could handle.

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