Free Seduced by the Highlander by Julianne MacLean Page B

caressing, no kissing. Nothing —until his botched seduction in the stone circle the day before, when the floodgates had opened to a raging tidal wave of desire.
    All at once, he realized he was breathing heavily while watching the rise and fall of Raonaid’s ample bosom beneath the covers. It was a beautiful but dangerous thing to behold, so he turned his gaze to her face instead.
    She was as lovely in sleep as at any other time, and there was something surprisingly peaceful about her, which contradicted everything he knew and remembered about her.
    Strangely, that made him hate her now more than ever for locking him up in these shackles, cursed to a life of isolation, forced to avoid the attentions of any woman who so much as smiled at him.
    Another part of him, however, wanted to climb into bed with her, roll on top, and settle himself snugly between her soft, luscious thighs. He would kiss her lips, caress her, and, when she was ready, slide into her womanly depths with a profound and satisfying groan of liberation.
    Lachlan shut his eyes and tried to think of something else— anything would do—but the effort was futile. He would have to get up.
    He was about to do so when Raonaid stirred and moaned softly. She inched a little closer to the edge of the bed and wiggled her hips across the mattress. He could smell her perfume, faint in his nostrils after the storm but still present, nonetheless, and it irritated him further, due to the frustration it caused.
    His mind reeled with confusion. For three long years he had dreamed of achieving vengeance against this woman. He had loathed her with every inch of his being, even imagined watching her die. He still loathed her now. But despite all that, he had been teasing and flirting, and he wanted overwhelmingly to touch her.
    Which told him one thing: the flirting had to stop. It was too dangerous and vexing. He had wanted to punish her, to make her afraid, but as it turned out, he was only punishing himself.
    Rising to his feet, he left the pillow and blanket on the floor. For a moment he stood over her broodingly, watching until she rolled onto her back. Then he turned his eyes away, donned his kilt in silence, and quietly left the room.
    *   *   *
     
    Catherine’s eyes fluttered open, and she sat up quickly. A bright, hazy beam of sunlight was shining in through the window. The blanket Lachlan had used was in a jumbled heap on the floor, and his tartan was no longer hanging before the fire. The room was quiet, and he was gone.
    Tossing the covers aside, she rose and crossed to the window, drew the drapes, and looked outside at the storm-ravaged stable yard below. Some of the shingles had blown off the roof, and the muddy ground was littered with leaves and broken branches that had blown down from the trees. A shimmering cloud of mist rolled close to the ground.
    Lachlan emerged from the stable just then, walking purposefully back to the inn, and she was relieved to see him. He had mentioned he would secure another horse. Perhaps that was his task just now.
    Catherine hurried to don her skirts and bodice. A moment later, he knocked lightly at the door, then entered without waiting for an invitation and barely looked at her as he spoke. “You’re up, I see.”
    His dark hair was tied back with a leather string, and he looked rugged and handsome in the morning light, with his tartan pinned neatly at his shoulder, his sword belt buckled loosely at his hip. His shirt was clean and dry, and at some point he had shaved.
    Catherine ran her fingers through her tousled hair, which fell in large bouncy curls to her waist, imagining that she must look a mess.
    “I sent for breakfast,” he told her, “but you’ll have to eat quickly and fill up. We’ll head east toward South Lanarkshire today, and won’t stop again until we’re close to Blackburn.”
    His tone was brisk and irritable. He would not look her in the eye.
    Another knock sounded at the door. He moved