Page 35 of The Scot Who Loved Me

“You are the worst flirt, Will MacDonald.” A reprimand delivered with a smile, while her hand rested on his shoulder.

“Flirting is good for the soul. Flirting with the right woman, even better.”

Her heart sang. He managed to say playful things yet be endearing. Complex emotions flooded her lust-addled body.The right woman?Dangerous words, indeed. And like a woman reaching for her own calamity, she petted his velvet-clad chest.

“Ours is a... particular arrangement.”

“Playing your betrothed,” he said agreeably.

Midnight enfolded them, the river’s hush their only companion. Will’s big hand slipped inside her cloak and found her hips. Five fingers and his palm, the warmth an imprint she’d remember for the rest of her days. Will sought her chest-petting hand, brought it slowly to his lips.

He touched a knee-watering kiss to her wrist, the same as he did the first time he kissed her years ago. She was crushed and elated, her body pliant, her soul stiff.

How could he do that? Give so reckless a kiss?

If she was lost, Will was equally taken. His eyesa torrid storm, his breathing that of a desperate man. Their mouths touching was inevitable, yet they stood in the unknown. Their past dust; their future without hope.

A connection lost forever.

Will’s grip on her wrist tightened painfully and a tempest broke fast and furious.

Their mouths met, hot and agitated. Longing and need fused them. Will was velvety smooth, salty and sweet. He was life and she kissed him deeper for it. His strong hand cradled her hip, wooing her, drawing her close, as if to sayYour body belongs right... here.

With me.

She gloried in being close to him. Will’s arms holding her. The moon and the stars blessing them. It was a kiss to melt a woman’s resolve and scatter her wits, a kiss that ended too quickly. Eyes closed, she held fast to the pleasure of her passionately kissed mouth. To simplyfeelagain.

But life demanded her presence.

Sand crunched under restless boots. Will.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze found his haunted glare.

He was once again the man she’d found in Marshalsea Prison.

Kissing her wrist was a bad idea. A carnal kiss to her mouth alone... that’s what he should’ve done. Lust easily sated. Now, he was stuck with the fragile glow on her face—the moment too hallowed for Anne to open her eyes. Women put such emphasis on first kisses and how they happened.

Maybe he did too.

He fidgeted, irked with his rash behavior. If there was a message in kissing her wrist, he refused to think about it.

“My feet are cold and wet,” he said.

Anne checked his legs, her tender glow fading. “We should get you inside before you catch a chill.”

A brief walk up the stairs and across the lane, and they found Anne’s iron key in the door. Cecelia must’ve left it. He’d forgotten about her and the others inhabiting this house. For a span of time, no one else existed save Anne and him. Even the beast within had been docile and drugged by that kiss.

But the key...

It looked the same as another woman’s key, the one he would press into a lump of wax tomorrow. Crossing Anne’s threshold, he was two parts restless and one part practical. If a man was on the eve of a crime, he ought to get a good night’s rest. For the time being, getting the gold was his job. With muck too thick for an iron scraper, he removed his boots and stockings in the entry hall. Anne locked and barred the door, her sand-encrusted hems in view. He was barefoot, rolling his stockings and ruing the moment Anne freed him from Marshalsea.

“Give them to me,” she said. “I’ll see them cleaned.”

“No need. I’ll hang them over a chair.”

“You won’t require me to do that for you. In your bedchamber?” Her question came with grave hesitation.

“I was teasing you about the tender mercies, Mrs. Neville. You’re no’ required to do anything for me.” He balled the stockings, irritation building.