Free Lord of the Highlands by Veronica Wolff Page A

las—” He crooked the corner of his mouth into a gentle half smile, and she felt suddenly warmed deep down. “A docken plant, Felicity. For your hand.”
    He stepped carefully toward her, crushing the coarse leaves between his fingers. He reached for her, took her hand, and it was as if an electric shock arced between them. He drew a sharp breath in between his lips, and she swore he’d felt it too.
    He rubbed her palm and fingers with the weed, and, mesmerized, she watched the play of bones and tendons under the skin of his hands. They were broad and masculine, just a little dirty, but not coarse, and she was desperate to feel them on her.
    As he rubbed, she tried to imagine whether his touch would be rough or gentle. Would he grab her and claim her, or stroke lightly, teasing her?
    She could just squeeze his hand, she thought. Right then and there, just squeeze it. Maybe give a quick, saucy little rub of her thumb on his palm. Would he glance up, look longingly into her eyes? Kiss her like he almost did in the dress shop?
    Or, what would he do if she just tackled him? Simply grabbed the man and kissed him. She could jump him and they could roll to the ground in a passionate embrace. Unless, of course, they landed in that evil mint stuff. All that stinging would put a damper on things.
    The stinging. She realized the sting on her palm had disappeared.
    “Wow . . .” Smiling, she looked up at him. But his eyes were shuttered once again. Feeling herself deflate, she pulled away and thanked him quietly.
    “Hush,” he said suddenly.
    She glowered. This time she knew she hadn’t said anything.
    A brisk shake of his head and a firm grip on her arm alerted her that something was wrong. He leaned down, taking his cane where he’d laid it on the ground at their feet. He held her gaze as he listened carefully.
    “What?” she mouthed, and then she heard it. The distant sound of men singing. A kick of fear hammered her heart against her chest.
    Though Rollo’s face was calm, Felicity sensed the shift in his posture. Tensed, poised, like a wary wolf measuring approaching intruders.
    He looked from her, to the thick tangle of birch and alder that had shadowed their path, and then back again. He gave her a quick nod and, holding her arm, led her with surprising stealth into the woods.
    Her breath was loud in her ears, but she felt unable to calm herself. His steady hand on her was the only thing keeping her focused.
    It’s okay , she told herself. She knew she was being as quiet as possible. I am the only one who can hear my heart pounding.
    “We must get back to the horses.” His whisper at her ear startled her.
    Trembling now, she mustered a nod, straining to hear where the men might be, how many there were. What would they do if they found them?
    The woods seemed suddenly loud around her. The rustle of leaves as birds flitted from branch to branch. The tinkling sound of a faraway stream.
    A trick of the trees sent another sound bursting to them, abrupt and close. It was the men, shouting, singing, laughing. Her legs froze.
    She felt Will’s hand graze the small of her back. It was warm, and she realized how fear had made her skin clammy.
    “Be easy, Felicity.” He gave her waist a squeeze. He gestured to a break in the trees, carefully guiding them to where he’d tied the horses for grazing. “Easy, lass.”
    There it was again: the “lass” thing. He caught it too and shot her a shrug and a half smile, a flash of humor to gird her. And she thought this man could call her whatever he wanted, as long as he kept doling out those rare glimpses of warmth.
    The men’s voices were closing in, and the sound echoed strangely underneath the canopy of trees.
    “Now.” Gripping her waist tight, he pulled her across the final yards. His right leg swung in a stiff jog.
    A thick carpet of bracken slowed their progress, much of the fern reddened into the color of late summer. The rustle was unbearably loud, and she sensed a