Master of the Highlands by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Master of the Highlands by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Author:Sue-Ellen Welfonder [Welfonder, Sue-Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780446547307
Publisher: Warner Books
Published: 2010-12-24T00:11:39.466000+00:00

He had indeed been about to look her full square in the eye and announce that only she amongst all women could banish the hunger inside him, heal the ache in his heart and make him whole.

A pronouncement that would have surely sent her bolting from the Shepherd’s Rest and into the storm-chased night, never to be seen again.

Truth to tell, were he the gallant she’d styled him, he’d warn her to run miles from Iain MacLean, hot-tempered scourge of the Isles and killer of innocent wives.

Disappointment to all who trusted him.

“Sir?” This time she reached across the table to lightly tap his arm.

He near jumped from his skin. The simple touch sent a jolting current of intense sensation shooting through him, unleashing a raging need for more. Clamping his jaw, Iain struggled against a scarce containable desire to seize her hand and drag her bonnie fingers o’er every inch of his flesh.

Frowning darkly, he shifted on the hard bench, every fiber of his being crackling with the urgent need to share intimate touches with her. He burned to press the flat of her hand firmly over his heart so she could feel its thunder and know she stirred more than his baser needs.

Much more.

But for now she was peering at him, round-eyed and dewy-lipped, and making him ache simply to hear her call him by his name.

And to learn hers.

Her full and true appellation.

“I told you my name is Iain,” he reminded her, lifting the ale jug to pour two cups of the thickish brew. “Not sir or lord, simply Iain . . . even if you have given me a very fine style.”

He slid one of the cups across the table toward her. “It would please me if you used my name.”

“Iain then,” she said, but not easily, for her fingers tensed visibly on the wooden cup. Watching him, she took a careful sip of the heather ale. “You haven’t told me what you meant a moment ago, sir . . . Iain.”

“Simply that while I am by no measure a frocked priest, neither am I as the stags roaring on the hillside in season,” Iain declared, and instantly wished he could cut out his tongue.

Her eyes flew wide, her shock like a dirk thrusting into his breast.

Swallowing a curse, he set to slicing the brown bread. “Forgive my crudeness, I pray you,” he got out, his gaze on his task. “I am not known for being glib-tongued.”

He looked up, offered her a thick slice of the crusty, still-warm bread. “That you needn’t fear sharing a chamber with me is what I am trying to say.” He waited for her to accept the bread, then added, “I am not a brute-beast. I will not fall upon you when you disrobe to bathe . . . if such a worry has distressed you.”

“You’re mistaken.” The denial came so swiftly it surprised and heartened him. “That isn’t my concern. I have seen and trusted your gallantry,” she said, her averted gaze on a far corner near the hearth.



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