The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

Fiona couldn’t force a word through her tight throat, but with her free hand, she slid the pretty shawl Marina had given her from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her nipples beaded against her silk nightdress, as Diarmid subjected her to another of those leisurely inspections.

“Now come nearer.” His voice sounded gruff, and his fingers tightened around hers.

Again, speech was beyond her. Feeling like her legs were sure to collapse, she took one faltering step, then another until she stood right above him. She fought the urge to cover her breasts.

This close, awareness of his vigorous male beauty shuddered through her like an earthquake. The lamplight turned his skin to gold, lapped across the broad shoulders and powerful chest with its light covering of black curls. When he turned his head, light cascaded over his shining hair, black as a crow’s wing.

She shifted on her bare feet, as the throbbing inside her approached the pitch of discomfort. Heaven help her, she could look at him forever.

There was more to come than just looking. Feeling bold, she perched on the edge of the bed, her feet still on the floor. It took all her courage to twist her body until she met that fathomless dark gaze.

He kept hold of her hand. Odd how the simple connection felt strong enough to defy the world.

Without shifting his gaze from hers, he raised her hand and kissed the back of it. The courtly gesture made her breath catch in an audible gasp. She felt tremulous and uncertain, eaten up with fascination.

“You’re taking your time.” Her voice was husky with nerves and what she couldn’t help recognizing as sensual interest.

His smile was sweet, with no hint of the usual irony. “Why would I no’?”

“Ian was always in a hurry. He’d have me under him by now.” By heaven, he’d have finished and rolled away to snore the night away.

“Och, lassie, ye shock me.” One sleek black brow rose in teasing inquiry. “Are ye telling me to get a move on?”

Color burned her cheeks. “I won’t back out.”

He placed her hand flat on his chest, where she felt the solid thud of his heart. His skin was warm, and when she instinctively rubbed the firm muscle, his hair created a pleasant friction under her palm. That restless feeling tightened her stomach and made her feel like she’d swallowed a hundred grasshoppers.

“You can if ye want to. You’ve been bullied enough.”

She stared at him, trying to make sense of what he offered. “But you want…me.”

His hand flexed over hers. “Aye, I do. From the first.” His lips quirked. “Well, perhaps no’ when I picked ye up from the beach. You were as waterlogged and sandy as a lump of seaweed then, but definitely after we’d dried you off and put you in Mags’s nightie.”

To her surprise, the memory made her smile. At the time, his desire had terrified her. “It was a tent.”

“It was.” His eyes flickered down to encompass the silk that barely covered her. “I like this one much better.”

She bit her lip again. “What should I do now?”

“Kiss me, Fiona,” he said softly.

“Very well.” She sucked in a nervous breath. “But it’s at your own risk.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll survive. Stop putting off the evil moment, lass.”

It took her a few seconds to gather the nerve to lean in and touch her lips to his. Immediately a barrage of familiar impressions engulfed her. Warmth. The firmness of his mouth. His tangy scent, edged with something she recognized with a terrified thrill as arousal.

He made a purring sound of pleasure, and she pressed harder. Her fingers clenched against where his heart accelerated.

Oh, Lord, she started to feel like she was drowning. She wrenched her head up. It took her a few seconds to clear her vision.

“Was that right?” she asked shakily. She could taste him on her lips.

The tenderness was back. “It’s a start.” He reached for her shoulder. “Lie back against the pillows, and we’ll try again.”

“Under the sheets?” More of that wanton curiosity had her wondering just what he hid beneath the bedclothes.

His lips twitched. “No’ yet.”