Unwilling (Highland Historical #2)

though offering a
benediction.  His lips paused above the line of the linen and kissed the
sensitive skin on the underside where the pulse furiously leapt beneath his
touch.  Then he trailed kisses higher, and higher still.  His full mouth worshiped
her flesh.  That predatory rumble vibrated through his great body and
reverberated through her. 
    He pinned her with his unsettling eyes. 
She’d thought them fathomless and unreadable the first time they’d met.  How
wrong she’d been.  Emotions and needs, primal instincts and a bottomless desire
swirled within the pools of volcanic ebony.  And her face reflected in their
depths.  Only her and never another. 
    The rumble intensified.
    Lindsay broke contact by squeezing
her eyes shut and shaking her head.  How could she know that?  What were these,
desires of her own?  Nay.  She was merely frightened and weary.  Finding
meaning where none existed.
    His lips touched hers.  Not claiming
or demanding, as they had before, but laced with a comforting, probing languor. 
She should have pushed him away, but didn’t.  Not because of the soft warmth
that spread through her at his kiss.  Not because his tender strength made her
feel protected and treasured, which she hadn’t experienced in a long time.  But
because he was a deadly hell-beast and she couldn’t risk his ire.  She was his
captive.  At his complete mercy.
    And he could do whatever he wanted
with her.  Aye.  Of course that was the reason.
    To her absolute shock, he didn’t
press her further, but pulled away and wrapped the cloak more tightly about her
body.  Repositioning her, he stretched out on his side and nudged her to do the
same.  He created a pillow out of his bent arm and folded the fur upon which
they lay over both of them.
    There was no way she’d sleep
tonight, Lindsay thought as her wrists began to throb.  Fears of the coming
dawn and what it would bring would surely keep her awake.  As would plots of
escape.  Yes, she must focus on her getaway.  At the very least it would
distract her from the feel of his hard, warm body behind her.  She tried to
form a brilliant plan whilst listening to the rolling, content sound he made. 
It reminded her of an approaching sea storm, the heavy and expectant stillness
in the air broken by a distant rumble.  She had never slept so well as in a
thunderstorm.
    ***
    Connor always thought that women
talked too much.  It seemed they were bred with the need to discuss their every
thought, desire, action and emotion.  In the past, he found it irritating and
would make a hasty escape when a gaggle of twittering ladies would cross his
path.  Now he’d give anything for a word from the lass who currently rode
secured between his thighs.  But, she’d clenched her pretty lips and refused to
speak to him all morning.
    He’d never been more disconcerted
then the moment he’d awoken in the cave, her sleeping form curled against him. 
His blood had pulsed with awareness, with need.  As had other parts of him. 
Though what astounded him most was the comforting familiarity of her proximity
to him.  He’d never be able to sleep again.  Not without her beside him.
    Dammit.
    “We’re close to Castle Lachlan.”  He
gestured to the top of the gentle emerald hill they climbed.  “It’s just over
that rise.”
    “What are you going to do with me
once we arrive?  Lock me in the tower until our wedding day?”  Aye, her voice
lashed with barbs, but at least she was speaking to him.
    “Nay,” he answered carefully,
unsure of whether he headed into a trap of feminine designs.  “Ye’ll be allowed
free range of the castle and the MacLauchlan grounds.  My clan will welcome ye
as one of their own.”
    “Really?  Do they extend that
courtesy to all the women whom you’ve captured and nearly raped, or do I get a
special honor because you’ve arbitrarily decided to make me your demon bride?”
    Her words should have angered him,
but Connor felt startled amusement.  A bark of laughter escaped him at the same
time his blood heated at the memory of her responsive body in the mist. 
    “How many times do I have to tell ye
that I’m not a demon?”
    “Until Lucifer, himself, verifies
the claim.” She gave a saucy flick of her hair.  “Or, until you tell me what
you really are.” 
    “I’m a Berserker.”
    “A Berserk—no, those are stories
told by ancient bards and fishwives.  There are no such things.  Besides,
Berserkers