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What else had she and her sisters endured since Rory died? What small slights and indignities and veiled threats did they face every time they ventured into the village?

But now wasn’t the time to ask. He didn’t want the villagers, or Dunvegan, or Castle Cairncross and all its cares and worries here in this bedchamber with them.

He only wanted her.

They were here now, together, and they may never have this moment again, so he let it go, and caught her hips and shifted her atop him. “May I loosen the buttons of your dress?”

She nodded, and he reached behind her, tracing his fingers up and down the delicate line of her spine as he loosened the first six or seven buttons and eased the dress from her shoulders, so only her shift covered her.

All he wanted in the world right now was to touch her, to coax more sighs and soft moans from those lovely lips. He cupped her breast in his palm, a groan tearing loose from his throat at the heat of her, her warm silky skin, her generous curves overflowing his palm.

“You’re beautiful here.” He brushed his thumb over one of her nipples, his mouth going dry when it peaked under his touch. “So sensitive.”

“That’s . . .” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “More of that, please.”

“Yes.” But first, he reached up and began to pluck the hairpins from her hair. Half of it had come loose from its pins already, but he wanted to see all of it.

She helped him, removing the ones hidden amongst the thick tresses until at last it tumbled over her shoulders in a cascade of curls, like an auburn waterfall, a few errant locks teasing at her pale pink nipples, just visible under the thin white cotton of her shift.

Dear God, what a sight that was, like an erotic game of hide and seek.

He caught one of the curls between his fingers, watching her face closely as he dragged it over the stiff peak, and her lips parted on a soft moan.

“Yes. Just like that, Catriona.” He teased her with the lock of her hair and his fingers, caressing her until her nipples were flushed and swollen, and she was whimpering with need and squirming above him.

He urged her closer with a gentle tug. “Come here.”

She came to him willingly, eagerly, this woman who had no reason to trust anyone, least of all him.

“Very well, then, Lord Ballantyne. I’m here. What do you intend to do with me, now that you have me?”

Do? The better question was, what didn’t he intend to do?

He eased her closer, until she was hovering over him, her long curls tickling his chest and scattering in waves of red across his pillow. “Taste you.”

“Taste me? What do you . . . oh. Oh, my goodness.”

Her soft exclamation, the surprise in her voice, that soft, breathy gasp when his mouth closed around her nipple . . . dear God, had there ever been anything as erotic as that? As her , with her flushed cheeks, her nipple hard against his tongue?

He licked and circled and teased her through the thin cotton of her shift, darting his tongue at the turgid peak until she was trembling in his arms, breathy cries and gasps falling from her lips.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Her taste, her curves pressed tightly against him, and her hair falling over him in disheveled waves.

She threw her head back, a rush of words spilling from her lips, one overflowing the next until there was no making sense of them, other than that they were words of desire.

“Hamish. I—I need you. Please.”

Triumph swelled inside his chest, stealing his breath.

She wanted him. Needed him .

For now, yes—only for now—but at this moment, in this bed, with their bodies tangled together, she was his.

And she was driving him mad.

The breathless pleas on her lips, her fingers tangled in his hair, the way she trembled against him . . . he’d dreamed about her this way, hadn’t he? Dreamed it, yes, but the dream of her was nothing at all compared to how it felt to have her in his arms.

“Look at me, Cat.” He buried his hands in her hair, and tilted her head down to his, so he could see her face when he touched her. “Look at me.”

* * *

He was gazing up at her—no, gazing into her, as if he could see every thought turning in her head, his blue eyes hot and gleaming.

Those eyes . . . dear God, had she ever encountered a man with more expressive eyes than his? Such a perfect, bright blue, like a summer sky lit by the sun.

Her mother’s words came back to her in a rush then, about a lady reading everything she ever needed to know about a man, the worst and the best of him, with one look into his eyes.

What she saw in Hamish’s eyes . . . oh, she could hardly bear to look for fear that she was imagining it.

He didn’t tell her he wanted her. He didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t need to. The brush of his fingers under her chin, his parted lips, and those eyes . . . there could be no mistaking the desire burning in those midnight depths.

Were her eyes telling him the same thing?

When he looked into her eyes, could he see that she’d dreamed about him last night?

Strange, heated dreams of his mouth taking hers, his fingertips tracing her skin.

Dreams from which she woke damp and aching, a fire burning in her lower belly and her legs twisted in the coverlet.

She knew little about desire, but she knew she wanted him. Even when she hadn’t liked him, even when she hadn’t trusted him, she’d wanted him.

And now . . . now she knew him, she wanted him even more.

Perhaps it had been a mistake, that first kiss between them in her father’s study, with the moonlight pouring through the window and the rhythmic wash of the waters of Loch Dunvegan against the shore.

Would she have allowed it, if she’d known his kiss would stay with her and haunt her every dream?

“You should send me away, Catriona.” His voice was deeper than she’d ever heard it, a seductive murmur close to her ear, his warm breath stirring the wisps of hair there. “If you order me out of this bedchamber, I’ll go at once. You need only say the word.”

So simple. Just a single word.

She opened her mouth, gathered her breath, but she couldn’t utter the word that would send him away any more than she could pluck the stars from the sky or cup the moon in her hand.

She didn’t want him to leave her. He’d be gone soon enough, once they’d found the treasure. He’d return to London, and she’d go back to pacing her lonely castle at night, pausing at the arched window and gazing at the moonlit water surrounding her.

But it wouldn’t ever be the same again. His absence would haunt her, just as his kiss did. Every time she turned around, she’d see his ghost hovering in the shadows.

This madness between them—and it was madness, this sweet rush of dizzying blood through her veins—she’d been struggling against it since that first night when he’d lain unconscious in a bedchamber, and she’d watched him, her fingers itching to trace the sensuous curves of his lips.

Even then, she’d known. Even when she’d feared and resented him, she’d wanted him. Why it should be him who stole her breath, him who made her heart stutter in her chest, was a question without an answer.

It just was .

“Tell me to stop, Catriona.” There was a strange desperation in his voice as he traced her lower lip with his thumb. He trailed his fingers over the curve of her jaw and skimmed them down her throat, the warm brush of his skin against her like a promise, or a hint of madness. “Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” She let her eyes close as his fingers moved lower, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against the hollow of her throat. “I want you to touch me.”

A hoarse groan fell from his lips at her words. His hand was shaking when he reached for her, his palm warm as he rested it against the curve of her neck. Behind her, the sun rose higher in the sky, the clear light curling around them as he closed the space between them.

“Madness,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin under her ear. His lips were hot, open, and she had to hold her breath to keep from crying out when his warm breath rushed over her ear, his tongue darting out to lick her earlobe.

Madness, yes. It was mad and reckless to set loose the passion that burned between them, yet at the same time it was so right it was inevitable, in the way of the sun cresting the horizon, or the rolling gray waves of Loch Dunvegan crashing against the rocks underneath Castle Cairncross.

As old as time itself.

But she didn’t say so. She said nothing at all, only waited, the silence swelling around them, her body tensed for the moment his next touch would come.

Would it be his hands around her waist? His lips against hers?

Every inch of her quivered, but she didn’t move, only gazed down at him, into eyes no longer blue, but dark with desire.

In the end, it was his hands, sinking into her hair, his long, rough fingers cradling her head, holding her still for his touch. Her own hands fluttered for an instant, but then of their own accord they settled on his broad shoulders, and her eyelids fell closed once again.

His kiss, when it came, was as gentle as a spring breeze rustling the leaves in the woods just beyond the castle. It was the kind of kiss lovers shared between them, so sweet and tender tears sprang to her eyes.

This would end in misery for her. She knew it, even as she parted her lips for him and welcomed him inside. She’d been lonely before he came, but once he left . . .

There was no loneliness that cut more deeply than the loneliness of lost love.

But this was not the time to think of it. She’d made her decision, and she didn’t regret it. She couldn’t regret it, with his hands in her hair, and his lips on hers.

Soon enough, the sparks that seemed always on the verge of bursting into flames between them ignited in an explosion of heat, desire, and a frantic desperation she had no defenses against.

There was nothing for her to do then but kiss him, her fingers sinking into his shoulders as she met his passion with a burning desire of her own.

She parted her lips underneath his and he surged inside, the groan that tore from his chest in response exploding in her belly and setting all her nerve endings alight at once.

“So soft, Cat. So perfect.” Hamish gathered handfuls of her hair into his fists and eased her head back, exposing her neck to his mouth.

“How can your skin be this soft?” He teased her with the lightest brush of his lips against her neck, then pressed a trail of tiny kisses down to the hollow of her throat.

“Oh.” She twisted her hands in the dark strands of his hair, holding him against her, a long, shuddering sigh leaving her lips.

“Yes, that’s it.” He tore his mouth away, his eyes wild as he toyed with her lower lip, pinching the sensitive flesh gently between his fingers. “Open for me, Cat. I need to taste you.”

She did—dear God, she did—because she wanted to taste him as badly as he did her, and because in that moment, with his hands buried in her hair and his hot breath on her neck, she could refuse him nothing.

It was a mistake to give him a part of herself, because once she did, she’d never get it back again. No part of her would ever be the same after him. But the distant future, the threat of heartbreak was no match for the desire sweeping through her, stealing her sanity, her reason.

It was already too late for her.

He cradled her face in his hands and gazed down at her for an instant, his expression unreadable, but he left her no time to wonder what he was thinking, or what he saw when he looked at her. “Do you want me, Cat?”

“Yes.” She clutched his shirt with her fists. “I want you. I—I trust you, Hamish.”

After months of looking upon everyone with suspicion, they were difficult words for her to say, but no less true, for all that she stumbled over them.

She trusted him.

What happened next was . . . well, it was so quick she couldn’t make sense of it at first. One moment she was perched on top of him, her hands on his shoulders and his arms around her waist, and the next . . .

The next, she was on her back on the bed, and he was halfway across the room.

“Hamish?” She scrambled to her knees, her head spinning.

What had happened? Had she done something wrong, said something—

“This is . . . we can’t do this, Cat.” He was standing at the window with his back to her, his rib cage jerking with his panting breaths.

No. She must have misheard him.

But when he turned from the window his eyes were shuttered, and his lips, so soft and open only moments before when he’d kissed her, had gone so tight his mouth was white at the edges.

She hadn’t misunderstood him.

She groped for her bodice with shaking hands and held it up against her chest, suddenly ashamed of herself. “I don’t—” she began, but then she stopped.

What was there to say? She’d come as close to throwing herself into his arms as a lady could— twice , in fact—and this was the second time he’d rejected her.

Finished, before it even had a chance to begin . . .

“I have no right,” he murmured, without meeting her eyes. “Forgive me, Miss MacLeod.”

Miss MacLeod. Not Catriona, or Cat, but Miss MacLeod.

And then he was gone, the door of the tiny bedchamber where she’d spent the night in his arms closing behind him.