her gown.
Z’wounds! The villain was aroused by her struggles.
Helen immediately went still. She couldn’t breathe or move; she couldn’t even think. Suddenly all she could do was feel.
He was very tall, his shoulders broad and strong with muscles. He easily held her with one arm above the ground and his hard chest moved with his breath. His heart pounded against her, beating as strongly as hers. He deliciously smelled of soap and leather and salt seawater, not at all like she would imagine a barbaric Highlander would smell.
The fear turned and sharpened, tinged with feelings that were new and strange to her. Her cheeks felt hot, and her skin tingled with acute awareness of every inch of him pressed against her.
She thought she felt the warmth of his mouth pressed to her neck, and her breath caught in her throat. Somehow when he touched her she didn’t feel alone any longer. She felt safe. But the fleeting caress slid away, and he tilted his head back from her.
And Helen felt another strange emotion flood through her—disappointment.
“I will not hurt you, minx,” he said, in a low, soothing tone, as if he spoke to a skittish mare. “I’m here for the banquet, and I only sought a quiet spot for a moment.”
So that explained it—he was here with the McKerrigans, come to witness her humiliation. Her cheeks burned hotter that she had already given him reason to laugh at her as she ran around like a wild hoyden.
She gave a jerky nod, and his hand slid slowly away from her mouth. Very slowly, his rough fingers trailed down her throat and over the bare skin above her beaded neckline before falling away to close around her waist again.
That dizziness came back over her, stronger than ever, and she felt so giddy she feared she might laugh. She braced her palms on his shoulders and felt their hard strength under her touch.
“I wanted a quiet moment, too,” she whispered.
“Then you won’t fly at me if I put you down?” he said.
Helen shook her head.
“And you won’t run away?”
Run away? This was surely the most interesting place she had ever been. She certainly had no desire to go back to the house and what waited for her there. She wanted to explore what this man made her feel. Wanted to feel not alone for just a little while longer.
“I will not run if you don’t,” she said.
A hoarse, surprised laugh broke from his lips, echoing against her from where their bodies were pressed together. Helen found herself smiling at the sound, her fear forgotten and the perils of the future far away for a moment.
He slid her down along his body, so slowly she could feel every tall, hard inch of him against her, until she stood on her feet again.
Then he stepped back from her. Without his warmth, she felt the bite of the wind through her sleeves and shivered as she rubbed at her arms. She suddenly felt strangely bereft.
“Och, woman, what are you doing out here with no cloak?” he said. “You’ll freeze in that fancy gown.”
Before Helen could answer, he swept off his short cape of thick black velvet lined with purple satin and covered her bare shoulders with it. Suddenly she was completely wrapped in his heat and that clean sea-smell of him.
And for the first time since her father told her she would marry, she felt warm and—and safe. This man made her feel safe. And bold.
Helen held the cape around her with one hand and used the other to push the tangled strands of hair back from her brow. She blinked up at her unexpected rescuer in the pale gray light. She had to look far up, as she was a small woman and he was quite large.
He wore fashionable doublet and breeches, all in black and darkest purple, and tall leather boots. A short sword was strapped at his waist along with a jewel-hilted dagger. He had close-cropped hair, so dark it was almost black, and a face that was all sharp angles and planes. A dark shadow swept over his hard jaw, and outlined lips too beautiful and sensual for a man.
But a slightly crooked nose, and a white scar on one cheek marred his perfection. She slowly raised her eyes to his, and their bright jade-green color pierced through her. It was as if he could see straight to her very heart, and the intensity of his stare made her fall back a step.
Those dark brows drew down, and Helen remembered her resolve not to be afraid any longer.
She pulled his cape closer around her shoulders and remembered his words when he gave it to her. She smiled up at him. “Why, sir? Do you not like my gown?”
His gaze darkened and slid down the length of her body, and something terrible came over Helen. No one had ever looked at her that way before, so intense. She was just Lord Frasier’s annoying little red-haired daughter to most people. But this man watched her as if he was a hungry wolf about to snatch her up and carry her away.
After all the fears and worries of the past few days, the dread of tonight’s banquet, it felt—good. Right. Even though she knew it was wrong to be here with him, it felt like exactly where she should be.
A warmth rushed over her skin, and she couldn’t feel the cold wind at all. She smiled at the man and took a step closer, brushing aside the edges of the cloak. She ran her fingers over the beaded edging of the bodice of her gown and his stare followed the movement.
His eyes narrowed.
“Aye, I like it—too much,” he said in that low, rough voice. Helen shivered at the sound. “That is the problem.”
“Problem?” She glanced down at the gleaming brocade and held up her skirt a bit, just enough to reveal her shoe and a bit of her white silk stockings. “’Tis the latest fashion from Paris.”
“I wager no French woman could wear it quite as you do.”
Helen almost laughed at the tone of grudging admiration in his voice. He certainly sounded as if he didn’t want to like her in the gown, but the dull red flush over his sharp cheekbones, and the way his hand fisted on the hilt of his sword, told her he did like it.
She did not want to like the look of him, either, didn’t want this tug of heat between them. Why would she at last find a man she was attracted to now, when her dreaded betrothal was only hours away? But she could not resist those feelings. They were her last chance at a moment of bright freedom before she was doomed to a cold, dark life at the mercy of a McKerrigan.
She pushed the cloak all the way off and slid the loose fall of her hair down her back. Slowly, she moved even closer to him, one step then another. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing in his cheek, but he didn’t leave.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried to remember how Margaret, her father’s bold, beautiful mistress, behaved. She reached out and trailed one fingertip down the jet buttons of his doublet. The fabric was rough-soft under her touch, the chest beneath hard and hot. She heard his breath hiss, and rested her palm flat at his waist. Was she doing this right? It certainly felt right.
“You are quite the picture of fashion yourself,” she whispered.
“Diabhal,” he groaned. Before she knew what was happening, his large, rough hands caught her bare shoulders and pulled her flush against his unyielding body. He dragged her up on tiptoe and that dizziness came back over her as she was surrounded by the heady scent and burning heat of him.
She reached for him to steady herself, looping her arms around his neck. Her fingers brushed the soft hair at his nape, and his skin felt delicious under her palms.
His head bent toward her, and his mouth swooped down to claim hers. His lips were firm but soft as they moved over hers, hungry and insistent. His arms closed around her, not letting her go as he masterfully took her mouth.
Helen had been kissed before, but never like this. Z’wounds, but he was good at that! The feeling of his lips on hers, his breath mingling