Highland Jewel (Highland Brides)

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Authors: Lois Greiman
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, Romance, Historical, Scotland, scottish romance, highland romance, highland historical
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Then again, perhaps not. Colin had indeed seemed earnestly concerned about the girl's well-being. And somewhat distrustful of Leith's intentions. "I am his laird," he explained simply, not quite losing his smile. "He would eat Beinn's saddle if I so commanded."
    She let her mouth fall open, hoping to scathe him with some caustic remark, but nothing came.
    "And too, lass," he murmured, "Colin is na here. He takes first watch at the top of the drama behind us."
    "Droma?" she questioned weakly, struggling to straighten the facts in her mind.
    His fingers brushed downward, caressing her cheek, then sliding lower, across the small promontory of her chin to the delicate pulse in her throat. "Ridge." Leith nodded, seeming no less distracted than she. "He is on the ridge with the widow."
    Rose swallowed hard. "Oh," she whispered foolishly, then realized belatedly that his fingertips were touching the bare flesh of her neck. "Where..." She reached up shakily, pressing her own fingers beside his. "Where is my wimple?"
    "Wimple?" He raised his brows, wondering at the term, then smiled. "Ye mean that awful bit of woolen that hid yer bonny neck?" His fingers trailed softly downward and she shivered. "We Scots also use the word," he said, his gaze following his hand. "But we have a different meaning."
    Rose was mesmerized by his touch, breathless at the sight of him—so close. So achingly close. Silence shivered between them until she could bear the quiet no longer. "Oh?" she said, forgetting their conversation, her watchwords, and every single important fact she'd ever learned in her life.
    "Aye." Leith lifted his gaze from her slim throat to her violet eyes for just a moment. She was as light and delicate as thistledown in his arms—as soft and firm as a wildcat cub. "It means.. .a crafty twist." The exploration of his fingertips was arrested at the top of her robes, causing his fingers to lie, warm and tingling against her collarbone. "Yer swooning now..." His hand moved slowly outward, brushing against her hair, which she realized abruptly had been freed and spread across his knees in shameful abandon. "Might it na be called a 'wimple'?"
    She had turned her gaze to watch his hand caress her hair. It was a strangely sensuous movement that caused her breath to come in short, hard gasps.
    "Dunna ye agree, lass?"
    "What?" Her question was barely audible.
    "Dunna ye think yer swooning might be considered a crafty turn, seeing as how I was just kissing the widow?"
    Rose swallowed hard and raised her eyes to his. "Were you?" she asked breathlessly. "I—I didn't notice."
    Leith chuckled. "Aye, lass," he disagreed gently. "Ye did."
    "I did not." She lied—but poorly.
    "Ye are the most contrary woman I know, wee nun."
    "And you are the most..." Magnetic, she thought hopelessly. "... brazen man."
    He chuckled again. "Ye sorely disappoint me, lass." He sighed. "For I waited with baited breath for a compliment."
    His fingers slipped into her hair, massaging gently, and her eyes fell closed of their own accord. "You shall get none from me," she promised.
    Sweet Jesu, he could not resist her. "That I believe, wee lass," he said, and kissed her.
    His lips felt like fire against hers. Like the first rapid touch of flame, before it is possible to discern whether it is hot or cold. She did not open her eyes but felt the caress of his mouth sear through her tingling being, felt his tongue gently touch her lips, felt her body jerk with the shock and excitement. Her own lips opened without her command, allowing his entrance, and his tongue slipped inside— caressing, arousing, until she found to her stunned disbelief that her arms had crept about him so that she hugged him to her.
    Dear Lord, what was she doing? She must remember her watchwords!
    Her eyes opened abruptly. Her arms drew away just as quickly. One hand pressed against his chest. "Please." The single word was breathless and wavering.
    "Anything, me wee one," he responded, his voice no more

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