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H amish woke the next morning to a sleepy body sprawled on top of him, warm morning light caressing his eyelids, and his cock pulsing insistently against his belly.

Sunlight and a tempting, sleep-tousled lady in his arms?

He opened his eyes, expecting to find his familiar, dark blue silk bed hangings surrounding him and the naked body of his latest paramour draped over him, her dark hair spread across his bare chest.

But there were no blue silk bed hangings.

There were no bed hangings at all, and his chest wasn’t bare.

Had he fallen asleep in his shirt? Why was he still wearing his breeches?

And why weren’t the heavy locks of hair spread over his chest the sleek, dark tresses he’d expected, but instead a glorious tangle of russet curls?

His eyes popped open so suddenly then, it was a wonder they didn’t roll out of his head.

He wasn’t in London at all. He was in Ballantrae, with the brightest sunlight he’d seen since he’d crossed the border into Scotland streaming through the window, and a warm, drowsy Catriona MacLeod nestled in his arms with one of her slender thighs resting between his legs.

And his cock—dear God, his cock was pressed against her lower belly, and damned if the greedy organ wasn’t pleased to be there, if the twitching and throbbing and general fuss it was making was any indication.

There was nothing unusual in that, of course. He was a man, after all, and cocks weren’t the most gentlemanly of organs. They did tend to make a nuisance of themselves in the mornings.

Which was all very well, until a man woke with an innocent lady in his arms. Not just any lady, either, but one he lov—

Er, respected. An innocent lady he admired and respected, who deserved far better than to find herself on the receiving end of his crass bodily functions.

God above, this was a disaster.

What was he to do? Perhaps he could slip out from underneath her before she woke, and became aware of the embarrassing reality of a man’s nether regions.

Yes, that made sense. It was the only proper action to take in such a situation.

That was what he’d do, then, and very soon, too. In just a moment, he’d release her and retreat to the farthest corner of the room until some of the blood returned to his brain, and he remembered he was meant to be a gentleman.

But first, he’d breathe her in one more time. Just one more breath of her, like sea salt and a dew-drenched forest on a summer morning. He’d inhale that scent so deeply into his lungs he’d taste it on the back of his tongue for hours to come.

And surely, it wouldn’t do any harm if he held her just a little longer, and let his cheek rest against her hair? And if he let his fingertips trail across her jaw . . . not enough to wake her, of course, but just enough that he could feel that silky skin gliding against his finger—

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so soundly in my life.”

He stiffened, his fingers going still against her cheek.

“What time is it? Goodness, the sun is so bright, it must be past nine.” She shifted against him and stretched her arms over her head, her cheeks still flushed with sleep and a drowsy smile on her lips. “I can’t recall the last time I slept so late.”

She was so close, close enough he could see the faint spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and all his good intentions threatened to explode in a surge of desire.

All at once, it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her, pull her closer, wind his fingers in her hair, and drop a dozen tiny kisses onto her eyelids and the tip of her nose.

But he wouldn’t. If he did—if he gave in to . . . well, whatever it was he felt for her, there was no telling where it would end.

Or if it would end at all.

And that . . . no, that was out of the question.

It might not have been, if he’d only felt passion for her, but the tangled chaos of feelings that had been uncoiling in his chest since he’d first caught a glimpse under the hood of her cloak was far more complicated than desire.

That is, there was desire. A burning, dizzying, consuming desire that made him careless, reckless, but there was respect there, too, and admiration, and an affection so profound it bordered on . . .

Tenderness? Was that what one called the unfamiliar feeling lodged under his breastbone? Was it tenderness, when the need to protect a lady overcame a passion so fierce that the briefest glance into her green eyes was enough to send him to his knees?

God, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore, except that desire was a simple, straightforward emotion, one he’d experienced dozens of times before. He knew what to do with desire, and how to act on it, but what he felt for Cat was anything but simple.

Especially now, when she looked so lovely, all warm and tousled, with her cheeks as pink as peonies.

“Hamish?” She sat up a little, and propped her head on her hand, her brow creasing as she gazed down at him. “You’re quiet. Are you concerned about our late start this morning? It’s a full day’s journey to Barrhead.”

“Our late . . . oh. No, it’s all right. We both needed the sleep.” He hadn’t given their journey today a single thought.

She was all he could think about, all he could see.

Looking at her now, with the sunlight caressing the pale skin of her throat and limning her auburn curls with a halo of gold, the emotion pressing down on his chest wasn’t worry, or weariness, or even lust.

Not only lust.

Was it love? How was he meant to know ? He’d enjoyed the favors of many women in his time—women he’d admired and for whom he’d had great affection. He’d wanted them, yes, but never— never —had he felt about any woman the way he felt about her.

As if he’d die if he couldn’t touch her. As if he couldn’t breathe without her there.

A swell of feelings rushed over him then, each struggling for supremacy. He couldn’t make sense of any of them, he couldn’t think or reason at all. He could only feel them, like a tidal wave crashing over him.

He cupped her cheek in his palm. “Catriona MacLeod, may I kiss you?”

Long, silent moments passed as she gazed at him. Did she want him as much as he wanted her, or was she an instant away from leaving him alone in this bed, haunted with dreams of her? He waited, breathless with desire and tenderness, and fear, waiting for the moment she’d pull away from him.

But that wasn’t what she did.

Instead, she gave him a shy nod. “Yes.”

The breathless word hardly had a chance to leave her lips before he was kissing her. “Kiss me back, Cat.” He slid his palm up the long, slender line of her back and into her hair, urging her head closer to his. “Kiss me as a woman kisses the man she’s taken to her bed.”

A teasing grin rose to her lips. “This isn’t my bed, my lord.”

“Very well, Donigan’s bed.” He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingertips one by one, her warm skin like silk beneath his lips. “But for right now, it’s our bed.”

“So it is.” Her long curls brushed his face as she leaned over him, and then . . . then she was kissing him back, just as he’d demanded, her lips needy and gentle at once, the tip of her tongue teasing the seam of his lips, a delicate dance of need and desire.

What could he do but open them? Open, and welcome her inside.

God, she was sweet, the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, so innocent and sensuous at once, but not at all afraid, either of him, or of her own desire.

He kissed her until they were both breathless. When she drew away, her lips were a deep red color and swollen like summer cherries bursting with juice.

He traced the sensuous curve of that plump lower lip before his hand slid lower, down her neck and between her breasts, his palm resting over her wildly beating heart for an instant before he brushed his thumb over the peak of her nipple. “So beautiful, Cat. So perfect.”

“Oh.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, that’s . . .”

“Yes? Does that feel good, love?” He did it again, the gentlest brush of his fingers, his breath catching as her nipple pebbled under his caresses.

“Yes.” She threw her head back, letting out a soft moan as he continued to toy with her, stroking the pads of his fingers over her nipples again and again in a lazy caress.

He could have watched her forever, spent a lifetime savoring the small gasps and sighs that tore from her lips, but she was no shy, retiring maiden, either in bed or out of it, nor was she afraid to take what she needed.

Not from him, and not from anybody. It was one of the things he most loved—

One of the things he most loved about her.

“You’re a tease, my lord.” Cat caught his wrist and brought his hand to her breast. “Touch me properly or don’t touch me at all.”

He let out a strained laugh. “How could I refuse such a gracious request?”

“You can’t. A gentleman never refuses a lady’s request in the bedchamber.”

“Oh?” He grinned back at her. “What do you know about what happens between a gentleman and a lady in the bedchamber, Miss MacLeod?”

“Very little, admittedly, but . . .” Another of those adorably shy smiles drifted across her lips. “But a lady does wonder about such things, on occasion.”

“Then no one has ever touched you like this before?” As soon as the words left his lips, he wished them back. Why had he asked her that? He hadn’t meant to. He had no right to question her about any previous lovers, no right to the dark possessiveness swelling in his heart.

And yet, and yet . . . he couldn’t take the words back.

He gazed at her, awaiting her answer.

“No.” For a moment her face clouded, and she looked away. “Half the people in Dunvegan think I’m a witch, Hamish. What would become of me and my sisters if they believed me a wanton, as well?”

In some ways, it was just the answer he’d hoped for, as he couldn’t bear the thought of another man touching her, but at the same time, it was the last answer in the world she should have been compelled to give him.