Free Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots by Caro LaFever Page B

up.
    “Truer words were never spoken.” Not wanting her to get too near, he turned and stomped back into his den. The storm roared outside, but the thick stone walls muted the fury. But it couldn’t mute the memories he no longer could push aside with drunken relief.
    The memories of being with his men, training on the cliffs of England and Scotland as the winter sleet lashed their cold faces and hands. The memories of the violent, incredibly beautiful sandstorms racing across the desert, bearing down on their bunkers. The memories of the camaraderie, the laughter, the feeling of being part of a band, a clan.
    The firelight flickered on the rug he’d sent home for his da from the Middle East.
    More memories rushed at him. The way his mum had held him close as a child when the storms had clamored against their shores. The way Malcolm McPherson had relished the rising waves and stared out at his rocky shores with pride, knowing the islands would survive the squalls of sea and time. The way he’d felt at one with the water and the land, even when their power and potential had robbed him of words.
    A clutch of terrible grief, grief he’d pushed aside for months, tightened in his throat.
    “The storm’s still going,” she piped from right behind him.
    The grief notched his anger at her up another level. Before he thought it through, he yanked around, only to find she was far too close.
    Her hair looked so soft and fluffy, a twirl of golden strands slipping and flipping and fluttering around her face and ears. Her lithe body was covered by an old woolen jumper and baggy jeans. Still, the clothes couldn’t hide the womanly curves beneath. Curves he desperately wanted to explore.
    His hands fisted.
    She stood within his reach, her gaze direct, a lingering wisp of tease in the green irises. Her skin wasn’t white or creamy. It didn’t have the clean purity of the porcelain skin so many of his female ancestors would have boasted about. Instead, her skin glowed with a warm, glossy richness making him think she might have an exotic strain in her bloodlines.
    She wrinkled her nose, drawing his attention to the dusting of amber freckles that made his fingers itch to sweep over them. “What?”
    The one word made his focus drop to her damn lips. The curl was there at the edge, provoking him. The plump, peachy ripeness made him want to bite into her, taste the juicy sweetness.
    He swallowed.
    “No bellowing?” The curl went wide into a grin. The woman had the temerity, the bold carelessness, to step closer.
    For the first time, he noticed her scent.
    Lemon mixed with the fruity fullness of jasmine and spicy amber. The distinctive smell took him straight back to the time he and his buddies had taken leave and gone to Cairo. Walking through the city, they’d found Khan Al Khalili souk. A street awash in gold and silver, in tobacco water pipes and ancient chessboards, in the scream of the present and the echoes of the past. Above it all, swirling around the chanting merchants and haggling tourists, was the scent.
    The scent of culture and history and vibrant life.
    That’s what this woman smelled like.
    He sucked her essence in, and the spice of her went through him like a stroke of heat.
    His gut trembled.
    “I’ve struck you silent.” She leaned in, an irritating sparkle leaping in her gaze. “How strange.”
    He vibrated with life. Unwanted, terrifying life. It roared and raged inside him, silent but overwhelming. His body shook with shock, as if he’d been plugged in for the first time in months. All his senses flooded with details.
    Her scent.
    Her smile.
    Her skin.
    Her.
    She had the gall to place her hand on his chest, right over his pounding heart. The delicate line of her blonde brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”
    His blood pounded through his veins, sweeping away the lethargy he’d worked on for months. “Damn ye,” he whispered.
    Her gaze turned from teasing to compassionate, making him hate her even