Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Gwendolen fought to suppress her alarm. "You promised to leave me alone until our wedding night. Please go."
"Nay, I promised to let you stay a virgin. I didn't promise to leave you alone. I'm here now, and I am staying, whether you like it or not."
She frowned. "If I am to be your wife, you could at least
try to win my affections."
"I have no interest in your affections, lass. That's the last thing I want from you."
He truly was a heartless man, interested in only one thing power over others. And perhaps a little debauchery on the side.
"No, you just want me to satisfy your vulgar desires. But I am a woman with independent thoughts and feelings. I am not a dog you can command."
"You'll be my wife soon, lass, and you will obey me, for I am laird and master here."
"You are laird of Kinloch, not laird of my body. And I am not yet your wife, so I will say it again. Please leave my bedchamber."
He moved around the side of the massive bed and began to tug at the coverings. She squeezed them to her chest, refusing to let him tear them away.
"I think you are the one who's forgetting the promises we made to each other today," he said. "You gave your word that you'd be amiable toward me until our wedding night. Yet here you sit, insulting my character, calling me vulgar." He tugged harder at the bedclothes.
"Let go," she said through gritted teeth.
He used both hands, as if it were a frivolous game of tug-of-war and he was determined to win it. They pulled back and forth for a few seconds until Gwendolen knew it was pointless to continue. His hands were too big, his legs too strong, braced firmly on the floor. Sure enough, before she could voice a protest, the covers were whisked off the bed and tossed behind him.
Clad only in her shift, Gwendolen hugged her knees to her chest.
"That's better," he said, gazing down at her heatedly. "I don't like it when you hide from me."
"Well, You'd better get used to it, because I have no intention of simply offering myself to you on a silver platter."
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Why are you here?" she asked. "Why can you not just leave me be?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I, but that does not give me the right to go traipsing about in other people's bedchambers, forcing them to share in my wakefulness."
He was always so serious, so somber, angry and threatening. She had yet to see him smile or show any warmth. Even if she closed her eyes, she could not imagine it.
"Traipsing about," he said. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"Aye."
He casually looked about the room, which was lit only by the candles he'd brought with him and a small square of moonlight shining in through the window. "This was my bedchamber once, before I was sent away."
Taken aback by this news, she tucked her bare toes under the hem of her shift. "I was not aware. I assumed..."
"What?"
"I don't know. I just never thought about which chamber was yours."
Had he slept here as a lad? She could not imagine that either.
Her heart was beating very fast, and when he said nothing more, she felt compelled to ramble on. "We changed the linens," she told him. "Other than that, everything is the same. The furniture, the rug..."
He glanced at the braided rug and the bedclothes lying in a heap on top of it, and continued to sit in silence.
What in the world did he want?
"Of course, I could move to another room if you wish to have this one back," she suggested, wondering if that was why he had come. "There is a chamber just below this."
"Nay, that was my sister's chamber. I occupy my father's quarters now."
"You have a sister?" That was a surprise."
Had. She's dead now."
Struck by his gruff tone, Gwendolen softened hers. "I am sorry to hear that. How long ago?" she carefully asked.
"A few years." He looked the other way.
Still struggling with the flutter of nervous butterflies in her belly, Gwendolen sat very still, hoping that he might simply grow bored with her conversation and decide to leave on his own.
She was not so fortunate, however. Slowly, he swiveled on the bed and stretched out on his back beside her. He crossed his long, muscled legs at the ankles and tossed an arm up under his head, while resting the other at his side.
She took note of the fact that he was not armed. No swords, knives, or pistols hung from his belt. But that only made her more aware of his enormity, for her eyes were free to travel the full length of him from his large booted feet and thick thighs beneath the kilt, to his muscular torso and chest. The position of his arm, bent to cradle his head on the pillow, accentuated the incredible brawn of his biceps and the sheer breadth of his shoulders.
Every nerve in her body was humming with the same mixture of fear and fascination she had felt that morning. And the fact that he was lying here quietly, without touching her or threatening ravishment, was not lost on her. She was attuned to every breath he took, every movement he made, while she strove not to do anything to attract his interest or arouse his lust.
Perhaps he simply wanted to see his childhood room in order to prove to himself that he had indeed reclaimed his home. Despite everything, she was sympathetic to that. She hoped it was the reason for his presence in her bed, and that once he satisfied that curiosity, he would leave.
A full quarter of an hour must have passed while she sat upright on the bed. The stars outside the window proved a useful distraction, until the steady sound of Angus's breathing alerted her to the fact that he had fallen asleep.
She gazed down at him with surprise, for the sight of this battle-hardened warrior, sleeping peacefully beside her, was like staring into the shifting fog of a dream. It did not seem real. Angus the Lion could not possibly be this man in her bed, who had been a small boy once, sleeping in this very room, cradled perhaps in the arms of his mother.
She leaned closer to study his face. There was nothing vicious about him now. The steely eyes were closed; his expression was serene. Her eyes drifted to his neck, then across his broad shoulders to the silver brooch pinned to his plaid. She glanced down at his kilt and knew what was under there. One day he would use that part of himself to claim his husbandly rights over her body. He would lie naked on top of her, and she would be forced to relent.
Feeling a sudden rise of panic, she set a hand down on the bed to steady herself, and realized this was an unexpected opportunity. Her conqueror was asleep and vulnerable beside her. Was it not her duty to take some kind of action against him? He was reputed to be invincible, but she knew those stories were nothing but fireside tales and legends.
Nevertheless, could she actually succeed in killing him if she tried? Would she have the courage?
Gently and carefully, she rolled to the edge of the bed and reached down to feel for the knife she had placed beneath the mattress that morning. Her fingertips located the grip, and she wrapped her whole hand around it. Slowly, she rolled back toward Angus. He had not moved, nor had his breathing changed in the last few seconds. It was entirely possible that she could plunge this knife into his chest, or slit his throat, and succeed at freeing herself and her clan.
She looked down at him in the candlelight, at his bare, vulnerable neck. She could see the throbbing of his pulse. A crashing wave of nausea overcame her. She had never killed anyone, and was not sure she could do it now, despite the fact that he was her enemy and she had watched him slaughter dozens of her clansmen that morning.
Would she not go to hell for murdering a sleeping, unarmed man in cold blood? It was not a fair fight, but it was self-defense if one could stretch the definition to include generalities, such as the need to protect herself from an unwanted marriage...
Suddenly his eyes opened. In a lightning flash of movement, he seized the knife and flipped her over onto her back. The sharp blade was now pressing against her throat, and she was pinned to the bed, unable to breathe, her heart racing with white-hot terror.
"You should have done it when you had the chance," he said in a dangerous whisper. "You could have ended my life and spared yourself the horror of your deflowering."
She stared up at him in shock. "I've never killed anyone before. I couldn't even do it to you. I am no warrior."
She was a complete and utter coward.
His blue eyes focused on her lips, then he pressed the dull edge of the blade up under her chin. Terror pulsed through her veins as she faced his newly awakened wrath, felt the tight grip of his hand on her shoulder. His body was heavy, pressing her into the bed. After a long, agonizing moment, he leaned over her and set the knife on the bedside table.
"Don't turn yourself into a killer," he said, "unless it's absolutely necessary, and even then, think carefully about the damage to your soul, and whether or not it's worth an eternity in hell."
She tried to sit up, but he pinned her arms over her head. "Was it worth it for you? All the killing you did?"
"My soul was damaged early in life, lass, so I had little to lose. Now give me your mouth. I didn't come here to talk about killing."
He let go of her wrists and slid his hands under her behind, pressing his hips tightly to hers. The sweeping physical sensation made her body arch and burn. Her mind careened with fear. Her limbs went weak and tingly as his hands stroked the side of her hip, and his own hips thrust against her in a steady, potent rhythm.
Then he kissed her. Her mouth opened instinctively, and it was hot and wet and searing.
He had promised he would not rob her of her virginity, yet this was surely just as depraved. She could feel her innocence slipping away, sliding into a strange world of need. She had been more than capable of resisting such feelings earlier in the day, but now all she felt was relief over the fact that she had not killed him. Which made no sense. Because she hated him she hated him and she did not want this.
But what was it about the darkness that made touching him feel like a hallucination? She was slowly pulling away from her rage, and had to work hard to remember that he was her enemy. All she felt now was a heady desire for his touch, and it was somehow delicious. He was a virile man with greedy hands and cunning lips, and he possessed the ability to turn her body to liquid fire.
"I don't understand why you're here," she said in a breathless whisper, fighting to subdue the throbbing rush of heat that was traveling from her belly to her thighs. "You can't make love to me. You promised. Yet that seems to be what you are doing."
"I can make love to you without rupturing your maidenhead, lass, and you, in turn, can pleasure me tonight, and still be a virgin in the morning."
"How?"
He drew back slightly. "You are an innocent, aren't you?"
She tried to push him away, but her arms had turned to limp rags. His lips found hers again, and the damp thrust of his tongue plunging in and out of her mouth made her quiver inwardly and yearn for something more, when she did not want to feel any such thing. If only she was built of steel, like he was.
He spread his fingers down the side of her leg and tugged at her shift, lifting it up over her trembling thigh.
"Please don't," she said, grabbing hold of it and yanking it back down to remain as a barrier between them, even while she was tempted by the danger and fear of the unknown.
Surprisingly, he removed his hand from her leg and cupped the back of her head instead, kissing her more deeply, while thrusting his strong body into hers.
She had not known how restless a person could become in such a situation, and found herself responding to every touch, every kiss, each incredible, erotic sensation.
"Ah," he sighed."That's it, lass. Do you know how appealing you are?"
"You need not flatter me," she said harshly. "I am your prisoner. You have control over me. I must therefore pleasure you, regardless of my own objections."
His head drew back again, and he looked at her in the candlelight. "But you are warming to me. I can feel it in your kiss, hear it in your voice."
"You hear only what you want to hear, for I am
not warming to you, Angus. I assure you."
She was surprised by the hatred she managed to convey in those words, even while she was melting with desire and a strange bliss she had never known to exist.
But she was even more surprised by the severity of his reaction. He frowned at her with pointed anger and sat back on his haunches.
She wasn't sure if the anger was directed at her, or at himself.
"What's wrong?" she asked, more fearful now than she had been a moment ago when he was attempting to slide his hand up her leg.
He slid off the bed. "I've lost interest in this."
Shocked, and ridiculously humiliated by his sudden withdrawal, she sat forward. "You're leaving?"
"Aye. I have things to do."
"In the middle of the night?"
He offered no explanation as he strode to the door, walked out, and swung it shut behind him. The flames on the candelabra flickered wildly in the draughts from the corridor, then everything went still.
Gwendolen flopped down on the bed and exhaled with relief, for she was still in possession of her virtue and had not disgraced herself by surrendering in a delirious fever to the Lion's seductions, when there was so much more to this than mere physical desire.
She struggled to regain her sanity, knowing that she must keep her head and remember where her loyalties lay. She had to resist the wanton urge to give him free rein over her body, for her brother might soon return, and when he did, she must be ready to reclaim her freedom, and the independence of her clan.
She could not succumb to this temptation.
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