She lifted his hands to her lips. Holding his gaze as well as could be expected in the reflected moonlight, she brushed a kiss to his knuckles.
He barely managed to keep from shuddering, and under his kilt, his cock was rock-hard.
“We’re no’ at Oliphant Castle,” she whispered. “We’re no’ at the Highland Games. Here and now, we’re standing alone beside a loch. Nae past, nae future, Kester.”
God’s Blood, he didn’t want to hear this from her.
Well, aye, he did want to hear this—wanted it more than his next breath—but each word out of her mouth wore down his resistance.
Be strong.
“I understand yer commitment to yer clan, and to the King.” She flattened his hands against her chest and held him there. He could feel her heart pounding against his palms. “But ye have a commitment to yer heart as well.”
He swallowed. “Nay.”
And of course, she ignored his whisper. “Here and now, Kester MacBain. That’s all I’m asking from ye. I want nae commitment, I want nae vows. Just…here and now.”
Unbidden, he swayed toward her, his attention on her lips. On her words.
God’s Wounds, he wanted to say aye, to agree. But….
“I cannae hurt ye that way.”
“Ye’ll no’ hurt me, because I’m asking for it. And nae one else will find out.”
She had a point.
What? Nay! Whose side are ye on?
The side of whichever argument was going to allow him to kiss her.
Except….
He swayed closer, then shut his eyes. “Lass?” he croaked out.
“Aye, Kester?” Her voice was the barest whisper, her breath tickling his lips.
“Robena, I….”
She leaned toward him. “Aye!”
And his eyes flashed open. “I cannae take ye seriously with that caterpillar glued to yer upper lip.”
Her brows shot up, and he imagined he could see anger in her eyes as she stepped back. But to his surprise, he began to chuckle, and lifted her hand to her lips.
“Ye’re right, of course,” she declared. Then, “Ow! Shite, that hurts!”
He was already reaching for her to help when she—still laughing—twisted away from him.
With a flourish, she placed the hated mustache, glue and all, atop the boulder. Then, afore he could ask what she was doing, Robena bent to unlace her boots.
He folded his arms and watched her, deciding she’d likely explain herself afore she reached her underclothes.
He was wrong.
Instead, he stood there and watched her unbelt her kilt, watched her gather and fold it carefully, the hem of the linen man’s shirt she wore falling barely to her thighs, and offering tantalizing glimpses of her arse when she moved. He swallowed, remembering how her bare leg had felt under his palm.
And then she reached for that hem and yanked the whole thing over her head. She placed the shirt carefully on the boulder—moving the mustache atop the folded linen so as not to lose it, huzzah—before Kester could remember how to work his own damn voice.