Page 11 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Heat from the kitchen’s fire raked his legs. Sweat popped from his skin. He fancied himself stuckbetween Limbo and Lust, the First and Second Circles of Hell.

“It’s a lost cause,” she murmured and ripped his shirt in two.

He lurched, a silent howl bursting in his chest. Linen slipped off his shoulders. So quick, there and gone. A woman tearing off his clothes was savage. Primal. Made his blood pump, erratic and loud in his ears.

Anne’s dark-fringed eyes met his. “It was the best solution.”

Tell that to my reeling senses, lass.

The ruined shirt sailed into the fire. Molars gritting, he felt his nipples pinch to needy points, and he knew who he wanted to touch them. Or kiss them. He wasn’t particular. Instead, his efficient dark-haired temptress dusted threads off his shoulder and accidentally skimmed his ribs with fingertips wispy as dandelion tufts.

In short, a woman utterly unmoved at touching him.

He eyed the ceiling, sweet agony rippling to his toes. How much more could he take?

“Now the kilt,” she said.

It was the splash of cold water he needed.

“Oh no.” He grabbed his belt with both hands. “You’re no’ gettin’ my kilt.”

“You plan to bathe in it?”

“I’m no’ lettin’ you toss it to the fire. That’s blasphemy.”

“You cannot be serious. It is beyond repair.”

He glowered his best for a man sleep deprived and lust addled. “I agreed to your demands. Now honor mine.”

Anne’s slender nose nudged higher, and her eyes sparkled. Shelikedthat he wanted to keep it.

“Let me see what I can do to save it.” And bold as she did eight years ago, Anne hooked two fingers into the waist of his tartan and pulled him close,trust meflashing in her eyes.

He grunted, a wee bit soused on her lavender scent and those tugging fingers. Trusting the woman was the rub. With his senses scrambled, he couldn’t think straight. If Anne removing his shirt was intoxicating pleasure-pain, her undoing his kilt was ruthless torture.

Chin to chest, hehadto watch.

Pale, ringless fingers brushed grit off his belt. Dirt clods rained on his boots. Her hair grazed his forearm, black ropes tethering him. He could do with a night of tethering. A feminine body tucked into his. The friction, the softness. Filling his hands with silken hair. Breathy moans against his—

“The league would be willing to purchase your passage to the colonies and give you a handsome bag of gold to boot. If you help us.”

His lust landed with athudon the kitchen floor. Nothing killed a mood like talk of sedition.

“You know as well as I do, there’s no’ enough gold in England for us to be in the same room for long.”

Her green gaze pinned him. “It has been eight years, Will. I require certain talents you possess, not social parley.”

“I said I’d meet your league,” he grumbled.

There was a jingle. Leather slackened at his waist, and the belt fell to the floor. His kiltdrooped but otherwise stayed in place thanks to dried mud and ample sweat’s gluing effect.

Anne nudged his belt aside with her foot. “Have you heard of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s treasure?”

Muscles below his navel clenched when her hands invaded deeper territory between kilt and flesh. He concentrated on the far wall, heaviness in his ballocks reminding him his lust hadn’t vanished entirely.

“The lost Jacobite gold? A myth. About as true as dragons and fey folk.”

“What if I told you about seven casks filled with gold? Over a million French livres.”