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exterminating it. His reserved behavior in England was a sham, and now that he was home, his true nature emerged. He was debauched to his soul.
    “What . . . would you ask?”
    Her question sucked the air from his lungs. If he were free from his promises to himself and to the Duke of Irvington, what would he ask of this woman? A kiss? A one-time tumble? Or would he ask her to be his lover? His mistress?
    His throat closed, and he couldn’t answer her. She seemed to understand, for she turned her palm up beneath his hand and curled her fingers around his.
    He’d ask for a kiss, surely. A kiss would be the first in line of many other things he’d ask of her.
    She leaned closer. Their lips brushed . . . so softly that he barely felt it. But the connection hummed through his veins, all the way to his toes, softening the sharp pain in his shoulder.
    “Ceana.”
    He said her name against her lips, and he felt a violent shudder roll through her.
    Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and yanked her closer. Her hand dove into his hair, sifting through the strands. Her fingertips rubbed his scalp. He deepened the kiss, tracing the softness of her lips with his tongue until she groaned, opening to him.
    She fisted her hand in his hair, and he tightened his grip on her neck. They resonated together as if they’d been struck by the same bolt of lightning and its electricity vibrated through them.
    A knock sounded at the door, and it creaked as someone swung it open.
    “Cam?” Sorcha’s voice.
    Ceana stumbled backward so fast, her chair toppled. Her chest heaved. Her curls framed her head like a halo, her cheeks turned fire red, and her eyes widened to blue pools. God, she was beautiful.
    Finally, Cam tore his gaze from her. Alan and Sorcha MacDonald, the latter heavy with child, stood frozen in shock in the doorway, their mouths agape.

CHAPTER FOUR
     

     
    C eana’s cheeks burned with mortification, the effect heightened by her knowledge of the tumultuous past between the three people now crowding her cottage. Did Alan think the Earl of Camdonn had seduced her like he had Sorcha? The truth was the opposite, she feared—she’d been the one to do the seducing. How could she have prevented the kiss, though, when every inch of her body craved the caress of this man’s lips?
    I am a MacNab. Men don’t affect me.
    Her mantra succeeded to an extent, and she diligently kept her eyes off the earl, for the sight of his pale, handsome face would crumble her resolve.
    She gazed at Alan’s rugged countenance instead, trying to ignore the surprise written all over it—the raised brows, widened blue eyes, parted lips.
    “Good morning.” She glanced at Sorcha, then away, for the shocked expression on the other woman’s face made her own burn even hotter.
    Sorcha seemed too dumbstruck to speak, so Alan took the reins. “Good morning, Ceana. Cam.”
    The earl made a noncommittal noise, and Alan glanced at her. “How is he? Ah”—he cleared his throat—“his wound, I mean.”
    “He’s better.” Ceana spoke curtly, brushing her hands as if they’d just been immersed in sand. “Ready to return to his grand castle, I daresay.” She turned to her worktable and began to sift through her medicines. “There are a few things you must take to give to his physician. They will aid in the healing process.” She raised a small jar of salve so they all could see it. “This is to be rubbed on the wound twice daily.”
    The rustle of skirts heralded Sorcha’s appearance at the bedside. Sorcha seemed to have come to her senses, for now she appeared more like herself. She smiled down at Cam. “From the way Alan described your injury, I was certain you were at death’s door. I wanted to come to you last night, but Alan forbade me to—”
    “Your condition, Sorcha,” Alan cut in from the doorway. “You seem determined to forget about it.”
    “—and so I came as soon as I could, only to find you debauching