The Laird's Willful Lass (The Lairds Most Likely 1) - Page 51
“You’ll get one of those, too.” She flung out a trembling hand and clutched the front of his shirt, stained and torn after his efforts on the edge of the escarpment. “But if you don’t kiss me this second, I swear that when I do stand up, I’ll push you over that blasted cliff.”
Fergus’s heart slammed hard against his ribs and left him reeling with hope and disbelief. For pity’s sake, he’d tried to do the right thing, but honor only extended so far. He surged forward and grabbed her in unsteady hands. His mouth crashed down on hers.
Chapter Fourteen
When Marina had been trapped on the ledge, fear turned her very blood to ice. Even after Fergus saved her with that prodigious demonstration of strength and determination, she still felt cold.
With the first touch of his lips, heat blasted her. Heat and relief and gratitude and life.
Life, above all.
Because she’d come terrifyingly close to death when she fell down that mountain. And she didn’t want to die. She wanted to seize life by the scruff of the neck and shake it until it gave her everything she asked for. She wanted to laugh and dance and learn and feel, and test her mettle against whatever the world could throw at her.
More than anything else, she wanted this man.
She curled her arms around him and gave herself up to his kiss. He shifted closer, moving over her body. But when his weight pressed into her, she heard a distinct crackle from the region of her chest.
Puzzled, Fergus raised his head. “What the devil…”
Lost in the hot ferocity of his kiss, she stared up at him. “What’s the matter?”
He frowned and placed a hand over her torso. “Are ye wearing armor, lassie?”
After the storm of life and death she’d just passed through, the question made no sense. “Armor?”
With deft swiftness, he unbuttoned the jacket of her walking suit to reveal the sketchbook she’d tucked into the waistband of her skirt. He gave one of his short laughs. “I should have known.”
To her regret—she’d waited days for him to kiss her, and what he’d done so far hadn’t come near to answering her craving—he sat up and tugged the book free.
Abruptly Marina’s haze of pleasure faded, and she remembered why she didn’t want anyone snooping in her drawings. Her elation at surviving her ordeal evaporated, and all the old fears and complications came tumbling back in its place. “Put that down,” she snapped.
He ignored her. “I cannae believe that in the midst of balancing on a cliff edge, you took the trouble to keep this safe.”
She scowled at him and sat up, snatching after the book with an unsteady hand. “It’s precious.”
With little effort, he kept it out of reach. She cursed the long, powerful arms that had proven her lifeline on the cliff. “Obviously.”
“There’s nothing of significance to see.”
He shot her a narrow-eyed look and rose to his feet. “Really?”
“Really.” She stood, too, less smoothly. Now that the shock of her fall receded, her body became a mass of aches and pains. She was stiff and sore, and bruises began to blossom all over her.
“Give it back to me, Fergus.” Stretching out her hand, she strove to sound casual. “You can have no interest in my scribblings.”
He didn’t comply, blast him. “On the contrary, I want to see what you’ve been up to, while I’ve been pining after you.”
Lunging for him, she slipped and nearly lost her balance. Her boots, still muddy from crossing the burn, lost traction against the thick grass. The sodden hem of her skirt slapped against her shins as she caught his arm. “Give it back to me.”
“You’re mighty keen to hide whatever is inside. Let me see why.”
“No…” she cried, but he jerked the sketchbook out of reach. The folio flipped open on a sketch of him standing on top of a mountain with the Cuillins of Skye rising in the background.
Bemused, he stared at the picture. “That’s me.”
She still hoped to escape the worst of the coming humiliation. “Just something I did in a spare moment.”
His frown deepening, he stepped out of her hold and began to flick through the pages, quickly at first, then more slowly.
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