The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

"Of course I want you to stay with me," he said with fond impatience, tightening his grip on her hands as she started to pull away.

She raised her chin. "Then I will stay with you."

He released her and rose, a wry smile twisting his lips. "I’m devilish happy to hear that."

Her frown deepened. "You don’t sound happy."

His hand swept through the air. "You weren’t born to be someone’s mistress, Selina."

To his horror, hurt darkened her eyes and she pressed back against the chair’s floral chintz upholstery. "Have today’s events convinced you that I’m too much trouble?"

Brock shook his head. "Never. Anyway, the blame for this mess is all mine."

She didn’t look convinced. "No, it’s my fault. I’m the one who ignored the dictates of morality. I set out to deceive Cecil. Losing Gerald is a fair punishment for what I’ve done. I’m not a fit mother."

Brock stared at her aghast. "By God, tell me you don’t mean that."

"I don’t." She made a despairing gesture. "Although I ought to. After today, the world will call me every vile name under the sun."

He released a sigh of relief. "You sounded as if you hated yourself."

Her expression didn’t ease. "I might in the future." She spoke with renewed determination. "But first, for as long as you’ll have me, I intend to go well and truly to the bad in your company."

He should be overjoyed that she consented to stay with him, but his heart cramped with pity as he looked at her, so brave, so ardent, so fragile. "You ask so little of life. You humble me."

"If you give me more of what we shared at the hunting lodge, that’s more than a little."

"No," he said slowly. "No, it’s not enough."

"You’re frightening me, Brock." She stared up at him with an anxious expression. "Have I got it wrong? Don’t you want me anymore?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

He fought the urge to catch her up in his arms and carry her through to the next room, where a large bed waited in the shadows. The communication between their

bodies was always perfect.

He spread his hands. "I’ll die wanting you, Selina."

His declaration didn’t seem to reassure her. "Then why are you hesitating?"

He straightened and squared his shoulders. This week had been the most important part of his life. These next few minutes were the most important part of that week. "I don’t want you as my mistress, Selina, although I’ll always cherish knowing that you offered to come to me without any promises."

To his horror, he watched the blood drain from her face. The bruise stood out starker than ever. She bit back a whimper of distress. "I…I see."

He hissed with self-disgust and ran his hand through his hair. "Hell, I’m making a complete dog’s dinner of this. Forgive me."

Her chin rose with a bravado that became tattered with overuse. "It’s not easy to give a mistress her marching orders."

Despite the fraught atmosphere, a grunt of bleak laughter escaped him. "I’ve never found that the case." He stepped forward and caught her hands again, drawing her to her feet with gentle insistence. "I’m not giving you your marching orders, you muddleheaded lassie. Nor am I asking you to be my mistress."

She tried to withdraw, but he held firm. The gaze that always pierced to his soul examined his face. "I don’t understand."

He gathered all his courage. Odd how terrifying this was. At this moment, he was more afraid than he could ever remember feeling. Perhaps because nothing in his selfish, ramshackle, hedonistic life had ever meant so much. "Selina, can’t you see that I’m trying to work my way up to a proposal?"

"A proposal?" she repeated, as if the word made no sense.

"Will you marry me, sweetheart?"

He waited for some joyful reaction, because he was sure that after the week they’d just spent together, she must feel as he did. Instead moisture filled beautiful eyes that, in his opinion, had already shed enough tears for the day. "Oh, Brock, you’re too good."