A few days after Jamie Campbell's fortuitous departure, Patrick strode outside for the first time in nearly a week. The brightness of the sun surprised him, and he had to squint for a few minutes to allow his eyes to adjust.

His short—and nearly catastrophic—sojourn out of bed a few days ago had hit him harder than he'd expected. The pretext he'd come up with to avoid coming face-to-face with Jamie Campbell had proven more real than he wanted to admit.

He'd sent word for Robbie and warned him to keep clear of the Enforcer, who would recognize him from their time together on Lewis. They'd come up with a plan to leave for a few days if it proved necessary, but his luck, it seemed, had turned when Jamie had been called away.

Though he was still appallingly weak, Patrick knew that he could delay no longer. Tonight would be one week after the attack, and he would meet his brother as originally planned—if Gregor dared show his face after what he'd done.

The persistent mist clouding his mind since the attack had cleared. Whatever personal qualms he'd been feeling about deceiving Elizabeth—Lizzie, her brother's nickname, suited her—had to be put aside. The thought of Glenorchy getting full possession of his land was like uisge-beatha poured on an open wound. He'd die before the son of the man responsible for his parents’ death married her. Nor could he allow Argyll and Glenorchy to join forces against his clan.

The barmkin was crowded with clansmen going about their daily activities. Children playing shinty in the yard, a group of women standing around the well filling their buckets and gossiping, a few more with baskets in the garden, gathering vegetables, herbs, and the fresh flowers that he'd noticed filled every room of the gloomy old keep. Yet despite the grim, austere fa?ade, the inside of the keep was warm and comfortable—homey, even—and he knew exactly who was responsible for making it so.

There were not many men about, which given the late morning hour wasn't surprising. The warriors would already be hunting or practicing their battle skills, and the farmers would be tending their fields and livestock.

As Robbie and Hamish had been to see him earlier, he knew he would find his men with the other guardsmen, practicing their skills with the bow on the far side of the barmkin—near the terraced garden.

He noted a few raised eyebrows as he approached. “It's good to see you looking so hale, Captain,”

Robbie said, moving forward to greet him with an enthusiastic clap on the back. Patrick knew that his men had been more worried than they'd wanted to let on. They'd been through a lot together and weren't only kin but brothers by the sword.

“Aye,”

Finlay added before Patrick could respond. “With you taking up residence in the earl's chambers, we thought you'd take advantage of all the comforts of the keep for a wee bit longer.”

It was an innocuous enough statement, but coming from the Campbell guardsman, it made Patrick's instincts flare. Advantage? Of all the comforts? There was a hard gleam in his eye that Patrick didn't like. He'd been right to be wary of this man. Nevertheless, Patrick feigned an ease he did not feel, not wishing to put the man any more on guard. “My place is with my men.”

He forced a relaxed grin to his face. “And from what I saw of that last shot,”

he said to Robbie, “I'm not a minute too soon.”

Aware of the pretense, Robbie gave him a good-natured lopsided smile and a mock salute. “Aye, Captain.”

“Don't you mean my men?”

Finlay said. “I was told that you had decided to stay on. And I am captain of the castle guardsmen.”

Patrick's face gave no hint of the reflexive surge of angry pride that he felt by the other man's blatant attempt to flex his muscles and intimidate him. It would take one move to wipe the smug smile off his face, but instead Patrick nodded. “Aye. I was told you could use some extra sword arms. Was I misinformed?”

They stared at each other for a long pause. Though he knew he should do what he could to appease the Campbell guardsman, Patrick could not force himself to stand down. It wasn't in his nature. They might have been stripped of their land, their homes, and their wealth, but the MacGre-gors were descended from kings—he bowed to no man. Pride was all they had left.

“Nay,”

Finlay admitted. “You were informed correctly.”

Robbie moved in to defuse the situation. “We were just about to move the target back a few paces.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Patrick said, “Maybe you better think about moving it forward.”

The men laughed, and Robbie made a disgusted face.

“Perhaps your captain will show us what he can do with a bow?”

Finlay said. There was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.

What Patrick could do was stick the arrow right between Finlay's beady eyes from one hundred paces away. Mac-Gregors were the best bowmen in the Highlands, and Patrick was second in skill only to his cousin. But skill such as his would be noticed—and remarked upon. He didn't want to do anything to draw attention to himself.

A sudden silence fell over the men, but it was not for the reason Patrick thought.

“He'll do no such thing!”

He spun around at the familiar voice, surprised to see Lizzie fast approaching from behind.

He quirked a brow in question. As if she knew what he—and every other man—was thinking, she quickly explained her presence in the middle of the men's practice. “I saw you over here and”—her cheeks flushed prettily—“I wondered that you were out of bed. The healer said you would need a few more days to recover.”

“Thank you for your concern, my lady, but Fionnghuala”— the old biddy—“is being overly cautious. I'm recovered well enough to resume my duties.”

She bit her lip, looking as though she wanted to argue, and were it not for the crowd of men listening, she likely would have done so. He found it amusing that this wisp of a lass would tread where few others had.

“Very well, if you are sure—”

“I am.”

Their eyes met for an instant before she suddenly dropped her gaze. For the first time, he noticed her clothing. She was wearing simple clothes—a rough woolen kir-tle and plain linen sark. They suited her. Without the farthingale, he could see her trim waist and the slim curve of her hips. She was a tiny thing, and the stiff lace and layer upon layer of skirts drowned her natural willowy figure. A large basket was draped over her arm, and he noted the tips of her sturdy leather boots peeking out from below her skirts.

“Are you going somewhere, my lady?”

“I thought I'd collect some of the wildflowers that grow on the top of the brae.”

He frowned, looking in the direction of the hill she'd pointed to. “You shouldn't go outside the castle gate without an escort.”

Particularly when his brother was likely lurking nearby, waiting to meet with him.

“It's no farther than a few hundred feet—”

“I will go with her,”

Finlay volunteered.

“That won't be necessary,”

she interjected, perhaps a little too quickly. “You are needed here with the men. But if you can spare Patrick for a short while, there is something I would like to discuss with him.”

Patrick caught the flash of animosity directed his way before Finlay covered it with a sycophantic smile. “Of course, my lady. Though with his injury I'm not sure how much use he'll be to you. Maybe we should send another man along just to be safe.”

Patrick's reaction was instantaneous. He stepped forward. The muscles corded in his arms and shoulders as one hand clenched in a fist as if he had it around the other man's thick neck. Finlay didn't know how close he was to finding himself flat on his back. Patrick had more strength in one arm then most men did in two. Weakened or not, if Patrick let loose, the square, heavyset guardsman would stand no chance in a contest between them.

Blood pounded through his veins. It was one thing to ignore a subtle challenge and quite another to ignore an outright slur of his warrior's abilities. Nor was he one to duck from a fight.

Sensing the dangerous undercurrent running between the two men, Elizabeth stepped between them, putting a staying hand on his chest. It proved surprisingly effective, the gentle touch more powerful than the edge of a claid-beamhmór.

“I'm sure that won't be necessary, Finlay. Anyone who has seen Patrick fight would never doubt his abilities. You forget, he defended all of us admirably while injured. Should the need arise, he should be able to handle a bow well enough.”

She looked to Robbie for assistance. “Isn't that so?”

“Aye. Here, Captain,”

Robbie said, handing Patrick his bow. “Take mine. It appears I have little use for it anyway,”

he added with mock derisiveness.

The men laughed, welcoming the release of tension. Elizabeth took the opportunity to lead him away before Finlay could find more reasons to object or slurs to cast.

Patrick slung the bow over his shoulder and followed her across the barmkin and out the gate. She slowed to allow him to walk up beside her. They walked in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the sun and fresh air. It was a beautiful day. After so much rain, the colors of the landscape seemed even more vibrant against the clear blue sky.

It didn't take long to reach the top of the hill. Bending down, she began to collect the colorful bluebells. A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile as he noticed how much care she took in choosing each one, examining the petals and testing the strength of the stem before plucking the flower from the ground. He shook his head, wondering at the attention to detail and the obvious pride with which she attended even the smallest of her duties.

It wasn't that she was a perfectionist, but simply that she took pride in her task and possessed an uncanny ability to make everyone comfortable.

From the short time he'd spent in the keep, he'd noticed that very little escaped her attention. She took her role as lady of the castle seriously. It was also clear that she'd been groomed to the position from birth. Again, he thought of what she would be giving up. But the thought of Glen -orchy's son was enough to keep any residual pangs of conscience at bay.

Seeing that this was going to take a while, he sat down, resting his back against a tree, content just to watch her as she flitted around like a wee sprite, her fair hair shining like white gold in the sun and her eyes sparkling with excitement.

It was rare to see her smile so freely, without restraint. He'd noticed it the first time he'd seen her. Happiness tinged with uncertainty. The smile of a person who never knew when disaster would strike but knew that it would. Something he could understand, and one of the things that had drawn him to her. He assumed it was the result of her stammer and her previous romantic disappointments. And like him, she'd lost her parents at an early age.

From the furtive glances directed his way, he could tell that she was aware of his eyes following her.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching you.”

“I can see that. But do you have to do it so … intensely?”

He cocked an eyebrow, enjoying her discomfort. “It's my job.”

She scowled. “Well, if you are simply going to watch my every move with that enigmatic expression on your face, at least come over here and make yourself useful,”

she said, holding out the basket.

He chuckled and made a slow show of strolling to her side. But the obvious enjoyment she took in her task was contagious, and soon enough he found himself exclaiming over her finds with nearly as much enthusiasm as she did.

To a man forced to seek shelter in the wild, the Highlands were an inhospitable place. But through her eyes, he saw the beauty of the countryside anew.

“You mentioned something you wished to discuss with me?”

“Oh, I …”

Two pretty spots of pink appeared upon her cheeks. “I can't seem to recall.”

He gave her a look that said he knew exactly what she'd done. It seemed Elizabeth Campbell had no great fondness for her cousin's guardsman, either. “If you remember, let me know.”

“I'll do that.”

She picked a few more stems and added them to the growing pile in the basket. “I was surprised to see you in the practice yard today.”

She paused, then added shyly, “I didn't mean to interfere with your duties.”

Patrick gave her a long look, knowing she meant it as an apology. A lass had no business interfering in a warrior's work, but he could not muster the admonition. It seemed he'd developed an annoying proclivity for having her worry about him.

“You didn't interfere with anything. I'd only just arrived myself.”

As they started to walk back, he adjusted the basket, which had grown quite full.“I don't think your captain is particularly anxious to have us join his guardsmen.”

She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, a steely glint in her crystalline gaze. “It's not his place to decide.”

Her voice was every bit as hard and uncompromising as her brother's, and it took him aback. Her gentle, sweet disposition made it easy to forget the life of privilege and power from whence she came. But Campbell blood stirred in her veins, and he'd best remember it.

She smiled and the glint was gone. “My brother made his instructions clear enough. Finlay can be … difficult, but he is a good warrior. You'll let me know if—”

“ ’Tis nothing I cannot handle.”

It would be a cold day in hell before he went running to a wee lass to fight his battles for him.

Her mouth quirked as if she could read his thoughts. “I'm sure there is very little you cannot handle.”

Their eyes met. There was nothing suggestive in her voice, but her obvious faith and confidence in him had the same effect. It warmed a very cold part of his heart. He smiled wryly. “Oh, you'd be surprised.”

She laughed and they continued down the hill. He studied her out of the corner of his eye, taking in the details that had become so fascinating to him: the delicate profile, the slim nose and petal-soft pink lips, the long lashes that fanned out at the edges, giving her eyes a seductive tilt, and the smooth, creamy skin flushed from exertion and the sun. But it was her eyes that truly mesmerized, dominating her elfin face. Crystal clear and as blue as the sky was wide, set off by arched brows drawn with a faint hand.

Everything about her seemed so fragile, but he knew it was deceptive. She was stronger than she looked.

He couldn't understand how someone had not snatched her up by now, and he wondered if he'd been wrong about her—was it Elizabeth who did not want to marry? He spoke his thoughts aloud. “How is it that you have not yet married?”

She stiffened ever so slightly, a flash of raw vulnerability on her face. The same vulnerability that had drawn him to her initially, making him yearn to protect her and pull her into his arms.

The same vulnerability that he'd come to exploit.

It stopped him cold. In focusing on the plan to return his land to his clan, he'd failed to consider what it would do to Lizzie. Just when her feelings had become important to him, he didn't know—but they had.

His deception would hurt her.

Eventually, he would have to tell her his true identity, but he knew if she ever discovered why he'd targeted her, it would hurt her far worse. She would never forgive him.

She stopped and turned to face him, a wistful smile upon her mouth, and he felt like an ass for invoking the painful memories. “It's not for lack of trying. I'm surprised you have not heard of my marriage woes. Or, I probably should say, engagement woes.”

He shrugged, despite the fact that he knew of them very well. It was the reason he was here. “Perhaps a word or two.”

She sighed, taking a deep breath. “My cousin has ar ranged three betrothals for me, but none of them have ended in marriage.”

“I'm sorry.”

He reached out and put a hand on her arm and then didn't know who was more shocked by the gesture.

“I'm not. It was for the best.”

“There is no one you have wished to marry?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps once, but that was a long time ago.”

The smile on her face was strained with the obviously painful memories.

He felt a primitive flare of anger, and a not insubstantial flash of what could only be described as jealousy. If Montgomery hadn't already paid for his sins, Patrick would have enjoyed making him do so all over again. “In any event,”

she continued, “it will soon be irrelevant.”

His mind snapped back to his plan. Feigning ignorance, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“When we were attacked, I was on my way to Dunoon to discuss this very subject with my cousin.”

“He has arranged another marriage?”

She shrugged. “Nothing has been formalized yet, but my brother informed me that one is in the works.”

Good. She'd not completely resolved herself to marrying Glenorchy's son. If he'd learned one thing about Elizabeth Campbell in their short acquaintance, it was that she took her duty very seriously. It would be much more difficult for him to persuade her to run away with him if she'd accepted the match proposed by her cousin. “Do you know the man?”

She nodded.

“And he is acceptable to you?”

She fumbled with the lace at her wrist. “I do not know him that well,”

she hedged. “But my cousin would never force me to marry a man I could not abide.”

He took a step closer. The faint floral scent in her hair was stronger under the heat of the sun. It filled his nose and clouded his head. “Abide? Is that enough? What of love?”

She wouldn't look at him, and he could sense her nervousness, feel her response as her body flared with awareness. “I'm sure I will come to love my husband.”

He laughed. “It's not as easy as that. Attraction and love cannot be forced.”

Two angry spots of color appeared upon her cheeks. “I might not be as experienced as you are in such matters, but you do not need to laugh at me.”

He sobered, realizing that he'd struck a tender spot. The incident that day at Inveraray had left a deep mark. “It was not my intention to do so.”

“Was it not? Not all of us are blessed with a face such as yours.”

He took her chin and forced her gaze to his. “I can assure you, my lady, that your countenance pleases me very well. But what stirs between us is not as trifling as fairness of face.”

“There is nothing between us,”

she said, gazing into his eyes. “Nor can there be.”

Her crisp denial angered him, and not because of his plan. Right now he wasn't thinking about his damn plan. He wanted her to acknowledge what was between them. That she could easily dismiss him when it was taking everything in his power to fight the urge to ravish her senseless infuriated him. It also made him determined to prove her wrong.

She tried to turn away, but he caught her up against his chest. She was so tiny and soft, and with all those womanly curves pressed tightly against him, it was all he could do not to groan.

“Are you so sure of that?”

The huskiness in his voice did not need to be feigned. He slid the back of his finger down the curve of her cheek. Her eyes widened, but she didn't move. “If there is nothing between us, then why is your heart fluttering like the wings of a butterfly?”

His thumb found the velvety pillow of her bottom lip. “Why is your breath quickening?” He cupped her chin and lowered his head. “And why do your lips part for me?”

It was too soon, but he didn't give a damn. He kissed her, gently at first. A soft brush of the lips that made his chest tighten so sharply, it almost burned. God, she was sweet. An innocent lamb to his wolf.

He never thought someone like her could be his.

He might need her to reclaim his land, but there was no denying that he wanted her for himself.

The knowledge angered him. He knew better than to complicate retribution and vengeance with personal desire. It would only lead to trouble.

He lifted his head and looked deep into her eyes, seeing the surprise and passion shimmering in the crystalline depths. He gave her every opportunity to tell him to stop. To push him away. To refuse his kiss. To tell him he was wrong.

But instead she melted against him, twining her hands around his neck in silent surrender.

This time he did not hold back. The passion, the hunger, the lust, could no longer be held in check.

She was his—even if she didn't know it yet.

Lizzie's heart thumped hard in her chest. The brush of his lips over hers had ignited the ember smoldering inside her.

She could taste him on her lips, the hint of spiciness that made her mouth water with anticipation.

His eyes bored into hers, giving her no doubt as to what he intended. The sharp rays of sunlight cast his handsome features in hard angles. His black hair glistened like a raven's wing. He looked dark and dangerous and very, very hungry.

For me.

A thrill shivered through her, not in coldness, but in warmth … delicious warmth. A shimmery, tingly sea of sensation that threatened to drown her good intentions. She knew better. Knew better than to confuse lust with something more. But it felt like more. So much more. Strong and true and real.

His mouth lowered.

Her pulse jumped, and she froze like a deer caught in sight of the hunter—paralyzed not with fear, but with wanting. A wanting unlike anything that had come before. A wanting that made what had happened with John feel like child's play.

The force of it, the intensity with which desire came over her, took her by surprise.

It was like nothing she'd experienced before. This man was far more dangerous than John Montgomery, and look at what had happened with him.

She should stop him. She knew what he was going to do. Knew how dangerous playing with fire could be. But she was weak. Too weak to resist the strange pull that came over her, the heaviness, the bonelessness that made her body soften and flush with heat.

Desire was intoxicating. It simply felt too good.

She sank against him, her breasts crushed against the powerful wall of his chest. Safe, secure, and, for the moment, desired.

Was it so bad to want to feel like this? To crave the closeness? To know that she was a woman a man could want?

What if Patrick was the man she'd been waiting for?

She gasped, feeling the warmth of his breath sweep over her skin. His mouth was achingly close, but he was giving her time. Too much time. She didn't want to think, she wanted to feel. To take the moment of pleasure that he offered without thought of the consequences.

Desire warred with cold, hard reality. It was wrong. An impossible situation. A guardsman was not the right man for her. Her cousin and brothers would expect her to marry a chief, a laird, a man who would help foster the preeminence of clan Campbell—even an Englishman would be preferable. What good could possibly come of it? It would only make her yearn for something she could not have.

But her body wasn't listening. Her hands twined around his neck in silent invitation to take what he wanted. To give in to this fire that had been burning between them from the first.

Just for a moment, she vowed. Just one kiss. Ever since that day in her cousin's bedchamber, she could think of little else. The teasing brush of his lips had only made her hungrier to taste him fully. She would do her duty, but she had to know what it felt like to have his mouth on hers, to taste his passion—this man who made her knees weak simply from looking at him. From the first, this rough, dark warrior had intrigued her. She would simply appease her curiosity, that was all.

His mouth covered hers, and for an instant everything stilled. Every nerve ending that had been set on edge in anticipation exploded in a rush of pure pleasure. All that mattered was the exquisite feel of his velvety soft mouth on hers, of dissolving into warmth and heat. Of his firm lips possessing her. Of their breath melding together. Of the connection forged in passion and desire.

God, it was even better than she'd imagined.

Her body ached for him to touch her. Ached in ways it never had before. Lizzie felt the world spin under her feet, drowning in a sea of pleasure.

Her mouth opened against him, and he groaned. Sinking into her with an intensity that told her she was not the only one affected by this kiss. His fingers plunged through her hair to curl around the back of her neck, bringing her mouth more fully against his, as if he would devour her slowly and thoroughly. Very, very thoroughly.

His tongue slid into her mouth with long, slow strokes, fueling a hunger that she feared could consume her.

It came over her so fast, with such force, she couldn't have prevented it even if she wanted to.

She realized her mistake right away. The passion stirring in her blood was like nothing that had come before it. With John she'd felt a girl's curiosity, a girl's desire. But the intense emotion gripping her now went far deeper and was far more dangerous. Her desire for Patrick Murray was elemental. Like food and air, she needed him.

She couldn't get close enough. Wouldn't be close enough until her body melted into his. Until he was deep inside her, filling her and crying out her name. Loving her.

She sensed that he was holding back, having care for her innocence. How could she tell him that it wasn't necessary?

She kissed him back, sliding into the damp heat of his mouth. Meeting the thrust of his tongue instinctively with her own. Savoring the dark, delicious taste of him.

He growled and kissed her harder, bringing her body more fully against him, until it seemed that she'd melted into him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Soft curve to hard granite. He wedged her between his legs so that she could feel the heavy weight of his manhood straining against her.

God, he was big—and, like the rest of him, hard as a rock. The erotic knowledge settled somewhere low in her belly, clenching tight. And she was wicked, because she wanted to crawl over every inch of him. To feel him thrust up high inside her. To be connected to him in the most primitive, beautiful way.

Her body dampened with desire. She opened her mouth wider, taking him deeper, her tongue circling his in a frantic rhythm. His mouth moved over hers with less tenderness and more raw desperation, his hard jaw scratching the tender skin around her mouth until it tingled and burned.

No gentleman indeed. No gentleman kissed with such raw passion. Patrick Murray was a wickedly carnal man who wasn't afraid to let her see the depths of his desire.

He covered her breast with his big hand and she arched her back, pressing into the hard curve of his palm. He dragged his mouth down her throat, sliding wet, hot kisses over her fiery skin as his hand gently plied the soft flesh of her breast. The raggedness of his breath on her damp skin sent shivers sweeping over her.

His hair was soft and silky under her chin, warm from the sun. She had to touch it, to run her fingers through the dark, silky strands.

She could feel his control wane. Feel as the smooth, deliberate movements dissolved into a frenzy that matched her own. His hands were on her back, on her hips, on her bottom. Lifting her and circling her hips against him until the sweet friction made her quiver with need. She moaned, gripping his shoulders to hold herself steady as her body was racked with desperate shivers.

Her breath came quick. Her heart pounded.

He kissed her again, more insistently. His hands were in her hair. His tongue was deep in her mouth, her throat. He kissed her until her head spun. Until her knees weakened. Until all she could think about was collapsing on the ground and feeling the weight of his hard, muscular body on top of hers.

Her skin felt too tight for the sensations erupting inside her. She felt anxious and restless—poised on the precipice of something strange and wondrous—but not sure how to reach it. Something well beyond the short-lived pleasure she'd experienced with John Montgomery.

“Your skin is like velvet,”

he murmured against her ear.

She froze; the words uttered once before penetrated the sultry haze like a splash of ice water.

What was she doing? It was only supposed to be a kiss.

Dear God, hadn't she learned her lesson the first time? Lust was not love. Sex was not closeness. No matter how good it felt, it would not make him care for her. Was she so starved for affection that she would forget?

She'd made this mistake before and would not do it again. Not for a man who could never be hers. Not for a man still mourning the loss of his wife. She felt a twinge in her chest, realizing why he'd probably reached out to her— to forget. To take solace in oh-so-willing arms.

“No,”

she murmured against his mouth, twisting out of his arms and pushing him away with a ferocity that startled them both. “Let go of me,”

she choked, her chest heaving for air. “I told you this cannot be.”

His eyes were dark and penetrating, piercing her with intensity. Despite the raggedness of his breath, his words held an edge. “It felt very much like it could … be.”

“Have you forgotten your wife?”

A strange look crossed his face. “For a moment, I did.”

She gasped, not sure what to make of his confession. He took a step closer to her, the hunger in his gaze sending a shiver of trepidation whirling down her spine. Never had she been more aware that he was no courtier, but a warrior— and a Highland one at that. He could take her whether she wished it or not. But strangely enough, she trusted him.

“Don't lie to yourself, Elizabeth. You want this as much as I do.”

His hand slid around her waist. She could feel the subtle pressure on her hip bringing her toward him again.

Why couldn't he see that this could not be? Didn't he know what this was doing to her?

It felt as if she were swimming against a strong current, one determined to drag her under. But she was just as determined to learn from the past. She had to put an end to this once and for all.

Summoning what was left of her resistance, she wrenched free of his hold. “You forget yourself, sirrah.”

Lifting her chin, she gazed deep into his eyes so there would be no mistaking her meaning. He was a guardsman and not a suitable suitor. “It was a kiss, nothing more. A mistake, and one that will not be repeated. Do not touch me again.”

Words, Patrick thought, had not the power to strike a blow. He was wrong. She didn't want him. He could see it in her eyes: He wasn't good enough for her. And she didn't know the half of it.

By all that was holy, if there were any justice in this world, they would be equals in every way.

He buried his resentment behind a stiff bow, his jaw clenched tight. “I apologize. I didn't realize it was so distasteful to you.”

She reached out to grab his arm. “No, I …”

But her words fell away as her hand dropped back to her side.

He could see the turmoil on her face, in her eyes, but it did not lessen the sting of her rejection. “You need not worry that I shall make that mistake again. I'll not press my attentions where they are so obviously unwanted.”

It was clear that she didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry.”

He watched the sweet red mouth he'd just kissed tremble. But nothing could stir the cold, hard stone in his chest. He was a fool to let her get under his skin.

He made no move after her as she turned and ran down the hill toward the castle. He watched her, though, bitterness and longing twisting seamlessly inside him. The smoldering resentment born in a man who wanted something desperately but knew that it didn't rightly belong to him. She was innocent—

Nay, not so innocent.

The knowledge clawed at him with a viciousness that surprised him. Elizabeth Campbell had been kissed before. Thoroughly kissed. And from the way she had responded to his touch, he suspected that she'd done more than kiss.

How much more?

The question ate at him unrelentingly, a primitive voice in his head that wouldn't quiet. Every instinct clamored with possessiveness.

He told himself it was because of his plan. She might not be as easy a mark as he'd thought. Experience would make her less likely to fall into his seductive trap and perhaps even make her wary.

But the intensity of his reaction told him that it was more complicated than that.

Never had a kiss ignited into passion so quickly. He'd been a few minutes away from tossing her down on the grass and taking her right here—like some damn animal. Elizabeth Campbell was far more desirable than he'd ever anticipated.

Patrick's blood had cooled, but his body still teemed with restless energy, his lust far from sated. Lust that would make him lose focus if he didn't do something. Hell, he was already losing focus.

He needed to keep his mind on his goal, not on his rock-hard erection. This wasn't about bedding the lass, it was about getting his land back.

He needed to clear the haze, and there was only one way to do it.