Beloved Highlander

He didn’t knock, just flung open the door. His strength was greater than he had thought, or he was more desperate. It slammed back against a chest of drawers, causing the window frames to rattle, a lamp to totter and several papers to flutter to the floor.

Meg was seated behind her solid, functional desk—nothing spindly and decorative for her. She held a pen in one hand, and the other was raised to her lips, while her blue eyes were big and anxious, and fixed on him.

“Gregor?” she demanded in a squeak. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He cursed himself for frightening her so. Of course, she would think he had come to give her bad news, that Abercauldy was at the door with a hundred of his men, or some such thing. In an attempt to make amends, he forced a smile that probably looked ghastly.

In contrast, she looked beautiful. Her remarkable coloring always struck him first, and then he noticed the other things. Her smile, her long lashes, her pert little nose, and that delightful gap between her teeth.

“Gregor? Can you answer me?”

“There’s nothing wrong, morvoren. I wanted to see you. I’m sorry if I have broken anything.”

Meg blinked, once, twice, clearly thinking him quite mad, and then she set down her pen. He noticed she had made a large blot on her nice clean page. She cleared her throat, and he could see by the color slowly climbing into her cheeks that she wasn’t as happy to see him as he was to see her.

“I asked not to be disturbed.”

“Och, but surely when you gave those orders you dinna mean me, Meg?” he said, with pretended surprise.

Her mouth opened, then closed again, in a thin, straight line. She gave him a sideways glance, trying to decide whether he was being serious. She might be cross, but she was also disturbed by him being here, where he had never been before. In her sanctuary. Perhaps this is a day, thought Gregor, for doing things they had never done before.

Gregor smiled and closed the door softly behind him.

Meg looked panicked. “Gregor, I don’t—”

“You have a smudge of ink on your face.”

She stared at him, frowned, and put her hand up to her cheek. “Have…have I?”

“Och, you have.” He prowled closer still, rounding the end of her desk. He heard her catch her breath. She wasn’t afraid of him, she was afraid of herself—he was almost sure of it. It was time he put a stop to this before she started running in the opposite direction whenever she saw him.

Gregor brushed his fingers through a curl of her hair, lying loose against her shoulder, and twirled it around. “I’ve missed you, Meg.”

“I have my work,” she said, but she did not move. She seemed frozen to the spot, her mouth unsmiling, her eyes fixed straight ahead. But Gregor could see the pulse in her throat, there under her fine skin, beating wildly. He stooped and set his lips against it.

She jumped as though he had threatened to cut her throat.

“Gregor!”

“Dinna ye like that?” he asked her softly, his mouth hovering over her collarbone, his tongue dipping in the hollow there. “What about this?”

“It’s not a matter of whether or not I like it—”

“But it is, Meg. It’s exactly that.”

He tilted her chin up, turning her to face him. There was fear in her eyes, and something else. A desperate need to keep control, to disguise her passion for him beneath her role as the practical Lady of Glen Dhui. Well, Gregor thought determinedly, he’d soon topple that house of cards. And he bent his head and claimed her mouth.

This was no soft, teasing kiss. His mouth was hot and moist, his tongue darting, his hands gripping her face, giving her no escape from his attentions. Not that she struggled. She gasped, yes, but more from surprise than a dislike of what he was doing. And then she gave a soft little moan, and slipped her arms about his neck and clung on.

He took advantage of the moment to unfasten a number of hooks at the back of her gown, so that he could slip it down and caress her breasts. He broke the kiss at last, bending to suck at her nipples.

More papers fluttered to the floor, the pen with them.

To his surprised delight, he felt her hand beneath his kilt, cautiously feeling its way up his thigh. He held his breath, as inch by inch her fingers drew closer. At first her touch was light, tentative, and then she took hold of him, gripped him firmly, and gently squeezed.

“Oh Meg, Meg,” he groaned. “Ye’ll kill me.”

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked, letting go. “I didn’t realize I was hurting.”