The Highlander's Touch
Page 17

He made the mistake of gazing into them. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Cut, he ordered himself, but his fingers didn’t so much as tense around the handle of the short knife. Cut! he raged at himself. Perversely, his body hardened against her, and he felt a sudden wave of desire to drop the knife and kiss her again.
Kill her now! he commanded himself.
Not a finger flinched. The knife lay useless against her skin.
“I can’t die now,” she whispered. “I haven’t even lived yet.”
The muscles in his arm recognized defeat before his mind did. There were no other words she could have said that would have dismayed him more. I haven’t even lived yet An eloquent plea to taste what life had to offer, and, whether she realized it or not, quite revealing. It told him much about her.
His arm relaxed, and he removed the knife from her throat with far greater ease than he’d placed it there. He muttered a curse as he flung it across the room and it sank into the door with a satisfying sound.
“Nay, lass, I will not kill you.” Not tonight, he appended silently. He would question her, study her, determine her involvement. Judge her: guilty or innocent. If he found evidence of subterfuge or a shallow and avaricious personality, his blade would easily find the mark, he assured himself. “I need to ask you some questions. If I let you up, will you sit quietly on the bed and answer me?”
“Yes. I can’t breathe,” she added. “Hurry.”
Circenn shifted so his weight was not resting fully on her. He allowed her to regain her freedom in regulated stages so she understood that he was giving it to her. It was neither a freedom she had earned nor one she could ever hope to take. He granted her passage, permitted her range of motion. It was imperative she understand that his control over her was absolute.
Despite his uncomfortable state of arousal, he forced her to keep close contact as she slipped her body from beneath his. It was a purely male show of dominance. He scarcely gave her room enough to find her knees beneath her. He leaned back minutely so she was forced to falter to her feet by clutching his shoulders, which put her lips a mere breath away from his. He would be all over her, until she acquiesced to his dictates.
She kept her gaze defiantly averted, refusing to look at him while she used his body to pull herself up. Had you met my gaze, lass, I would have pushed you farther, he thought, for had she still possessed enough defiance to meet his eyes he would have provoked submission some other way. He rose in tandem with her so their bodies touched at many contact points, and didn’t miss her swift intake of breath when he deliberately shifted so her breasts brushed against his abdomen. He backed her to the bed and, with one gentle push, seated her upon it.
Then he turned his back on her as if she were nothing, no threat, insignificant. Another lesson she must learn—he had nothing to fear from her. He could turn his back on her with impunity. His movement had the secondary boon of giving him time to quell his desire. He took several deep breaths, bolted the door from the inside, and whipped his dirk from the wood and slapped it into his boot. He lit tapers before turning back to face her. By then he was breathing evenly and his plaid was carefully bunched at the front. She didn’t need to know what toll their enforced closeness had taken on him.
She had buried her face in her hands and her coppery hair slipped in a glossy fall across her knees. He reminded himself not to look at her long legs in those revealing trousers. Scarcely concealed by the pale blue fabric, a man could follow the slim line of her ankles over muscled calves and up shapely thighs to the vee of her woman’s privacy. Those trousers could seduce a Templar Grand Master.
“Who are you?” he began quietly. He would continue in a gentle voice until she demonstrated resistance. Then he might roar at her. With a small measure of amusement, he conceded the probability that this lass would roar back.
“My name is Lisa,” she murmured into her palms.
A good start, obedient and swift. “Lisa, I am Circenn Brodie. Would that we had met under different circumstances, but we did not, and we must make the best of it. Where did you find my flask?”
“In the museum where I work,” she said in a monotone.
“What is a museum?”
“A place that displays treasures and artifacts.”
“My flask was on display? For people to see?” he asked indignantly. Hadn’t the curse worked?
“No. It had just been found and was still in the chest. It hadn’t been placed on display yet.” She didn’t raise her head from her hands.
“Ah, so the chest had not been opened. You were the first one to touch it.”