Page 27 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin

Christ. She's been carryin' the weight of leadership for mere months, and already it's wearin' on her.

"That's young for such responsibility."

"Aye, well. Sometimes life doesnae give ye a choice about when ye grow up."

The bitter note in her voice told him there was a story there—probably one as dark as his own. But before he could ask, she shifted in his arms, trying to reach a higher section of the canvas.

The movement pressed her more firmly against him, and Lachlan's control nearly snapped. She was warm and soft, and she smelled like everything good in the world, and having her in his arms was pure torture.

Easy, lad. She's nae ready for what ye're thinkin'.

But his body wasn't listening to his mind. His hands tightened on her waist, and he had to force himself to loosen his grip before she noticed.

"Maybe we should add some mountains," she suggested, oblivious to his internal struggle.

"Aye," he said roughly. "Mountains."

But as he helped her mix gray and brown for the distant peaks, all he could think about was how perfectly she fit against him, and how much he wanted to turn her around and kiss her until they both forgot about everything except each other.

Soon. Once she's ready. Once she trusts ye completely.

The question was: how long could he wait?

CHAPTER NINE

Erica was growing restless. Or perhaps it wasn't restlessness at all, but the increasingly dangerous awareness of Lachlan's presence beside her. The way he'd guided her hands during the painting lesson had awakened something in her that she didn't know how to handle.

Too close. He's sitting too close.

Every time he leaned over to adjust her brush stroke, she caught his scent—leather and soap and his own male scent that made her stomach flutter in the most disconcerting way. When his chest pressed against her back, when his breath stirred her hair, she felt her body responding in ways that terrified her.

This is dangerous. I'm lettin' him get too close.

"I think... I think I'm gettin' rather tired," she said suddenly, pulling away from the easel and putting distance between them."And hungry. All this artistic endeavor has worked up quite an appetite."

She kept her voice light, casual, but inside her heart was racing. The way he'd touched her—so carefully, so gently—it had made her want things she'd never thought she could want. Made her forget, for dangerous moments, why she should be afraid.

Men cannae be trusted. Even the ones who seem kind.

"Of course," Lachlan said, though something flickered across his expression. "Ye've done well for yer first lesson."

"Would ye like to join me in the kitchens?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "Or perhaps I could bring ye somethin' back? Some bread and cheese, maybe?"

The offer was innocent enough, but the way he went rigid told her she'd said something wrong. His jaw tightened, and when he looked at her, there was something almost desperate in his eyes.

"Nay," he said abruptly, turning away from her to clean his brushes with sharp, aggressive motions. "I have work to do."

The rejection stung more than it should have. Just moments ago, he'd been patient and gentle, teaching her with infinite care. Now he was dismissing her like she was some bothersome servant.

Hot and cold. Just like...

"Oh," she managed, gathering what dignity she could. "Of course. I should have realized ye had important matters to attend to."

"Aye. Important matters."

The coldness in his voice made her chest tight. She stood there for a moment, waiting for some explanation, some softening of his tone. But he kept his back to her, scrubbing at brushes that were already clean.

"Well then," she said finally. "I'll leave ye to yer work."