Free Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 by Her Scottish Captor Page B

thousand pou nds,” Yvette peevishly snapped. “A princely sum, to be sure. And one which you have ably proven you will risk life and limb to secure.”
    To Iain’s surprise, it belatedly occurred to him that the ransom had been the last thing on his min d when he set out find her. At the time, his only concern had been for her safety. Yet here the wench stood accusing him of blind avarice.
    The devil take her!
    Angered, Iain tramped over to the dead boar and went down on bent knee in front of it. Yanking his dirk out of his boot, he jabbed it into the animal’s gut.
    “Wh at in God’s name are you doing? Is it a not enough that you killed the beast the one time?” Yvette shrilly exclaimed as she rushed toward him.
    Iain stopped what he wa s doing and glanced up at her. His lost, forlorn waif had vanished. In her stead was an incredibly haughty English noblewoman.
    “I am butchering the hell-born beast so that yer ladyship can dine on roast boar instead of soggy oak cakes,” he growled before continuing to disembowel the animal.
    “To be sure, roast boar will be a vast improvement over last night’s fare.”
    “ On that we can agree,” he conceded, his stomach already growling in anticipation.
    “ The fact that we can agree on anything is certainly a rare happenstance,” Yvette said in a disdainful tone of voice. “Owing to the fact that we hail from two different worlds, we are of unlike mind.”
    Iain paused a moment, Yvette’s condescension l ike so much bile in his belly. Slowly, purposefully, he appraised her from head to foot before he said, “We were of like mind this morning.”
    Gasping softly , Yvette clenched and unclenched her fists, the gold-encrusted emerald that she wore on her ring finger glimmering in the patchy sunlight.
    “You are mistaken on that count,” she bristled, glaring at Iain as though he was a turd she’d just discovered on the bottom of her ridiculously ornate boot.
    “I didna hear any complaints,” he remarked, continuing the bloody work of butchering the dead boar. “Unless ye mean to tell me that the whimpers I heard were yer way of registering a complaint.”
    “I did not whimper!”
    “Aye, ye did,” Iain confirmed with a nod of the head. Then, winking slyly at her, he said, “’Twas music to my ears.” And an enticing melody, at that. One that highly aroused him.
    Although , had it not been for the dream he’d had just before he awakened, he might not have been so inflamed with lust. As usual, he’d been visited by the same dream that had nightly haunted him since Fiona’s death. At least, it began as the same familiar dream, he and Fiona on a windswept glen, making love beneath a gnarled oak tree . . . .
    . . . . when she went down on all fours, seductively wiggling her bottom at him. Palming the rounded curves, Iain wasted no time mounting her from behind. As always, she took great pleasure in that position as it enabled him to tease her with his fingers.
    Almost immediately, he began to lose himself in the moist, womanly feel of her. But she felt different this time, tighter, her muscles sweetly milking him with each stroke. That was when he noticed that it wasn’t Fiona’s blond mane that caressed his bare chest . . . ’twas a wavy swath of sable-colored curls.
    Stunned, he pulled out of her. Placing a hand on the woman’s creamy white shoulder, he turned her around to face him, taken aback to find Yvette Beauchamp wantonly staring at him, softly panting as she leaned toward him. As she swirled her tongue across his nipple. As she begged him to ride her as hard and fast as he could.
    But as Iain had shamefully discovered when he woke near to bursting, it had been naught but a dream.
    Och, but what a dream.
    It was as if the Heavenly Father had answered his prayers when he awoke to find Yvette lying beneath him, her soft curves intimately pressed against his bare body. Truly, he didn’t know if he’d ever beheld a more beautiful sight than