Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(26)

But he resisted the urge, just as he resisted the temptation to place a kiss on the pale, wet nipple within his lips’ reach. Instead, he shifted her weight to set her head against his shoulder. Already his troubles were rushing back to him—his father dead, his duty awaiting him. If he took her the way he ached to, he would only add another helping of guilt.

At least his conscience—and her virginity—were still intact. No sooner had the thought passed his mind when she slid her hand toward his cock.

She whispered, “I want to touch you.”

“Don’t.” He seized her hand as his cock strained. “Don’t do something that you’ll regret when I’m gone.”

“I know you’re leaving, Lachlan.”

He leaned back to see those half-lidded eyes, those swollen lips, now curving in a sad little smile.

“My father,” she said, flattening her palm upon his chest, “is even now negotiating passage for you on that galley.”

He frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now.”

Now, he realized, after she’d already offered her body up to him. That meant she knew he’d have denied her kiss if she had told him the truth earlier.

Then a more alarming thought intruded. “Your father shouldn’t be doing this. He can’t be sure of the loyalties of those men.”

“It’s not a matter of loyalty,” she said. “The sailors and the captain of that galley, they talk about the MacEgans’ troubles like they’re gossiping. It’s like an overturned wagon on the side of the road: People like to gawp at it before moving on. It’s not personal, so they don’t care.”

“But if they hear my name—”

“They won’t hear your name. When you board the galley, you’ll be Brochan of the Western Isles. Da made up a story: You’re a sailor who was knifed in an alehouse brawl in Galway, left behind with the doctor to heal and wait for passage.”

He took a deep, swift breath. Soon he’d be on a ship back home. Soon he would find the man who’d plunged a knife in his back. Soon he would find the man who’d killed his father.

My father, dead.

The thought, like a knock of an iron mallet. Whenever it surged, a darkness crept over him and dimmed his sight and senses. How his palms itched to feel the murderer’s neck between them.

“When?” He tightened his grip on her wrist when she hesitated. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Shock sent his thoughts skipping toward the future. Tomorrow, he would head back to Derry, and from there to Loch Fyfe. But what to do then? Which allies could he trust? Perhaps none, perhaps not even his Irish cousin Angus O’Donnell in Derry. Best to sneak back to Loch Fyfe himself and see who’d seized the chieftaincy. Yet he couldn’t just walk through the gates and present himself as the one true heir. His enemy was smarter and slyer than either he or his father had imagined.

My father, dead.

No, he thought with a flinch. He had to hold himself back, seek information, and flush out the enemy before the enemy even knew he was alive—

“Lachlan.”

Her call seemed to come from very far away. Her hand had slipped from his grip. She placed it on his cheek and that’s when he met her soft, green eyes.

She whispered, “Take me with you.”

The sight of her swollen lips and the scent of her skin should have sent more blood to his loins, but her words worked on him like an ice bath. Suddenly he was back in the room with this soft and willing woman, hoping to un-hear what she’d just asked of him.

He never should have kissed her. He never should have rubbed his cheek against her breast. He never should have stroked her into pleasure and made her believe that he could offer her more.

He was a stupid, mindless ass.

“Cairenn.” He pressed her away, half off his lap. “You’d best find your own bed.”

Her face contorted with confusion.

“I’ll be gone from this place in the morning.” His heart clenched. “And I won’t be coming back.”

She pushed off his lap. He let her go. Her skirts tumbled down her long, bare legs. She took a few uncertain steps backwards and then ventured a hand toward the mantel to steady herself.

He could not look at her for the wrong he was doing.

She whispered, “You’re walking into your own death.”

“That I already know.”

He focused on the flames flickering in the hearth. In the burning coals he searched for absolution for taking liberties he wasn’t worthy of from a woman who deserved so much better.

“But,” she whispered, “you don’t have to. I can help you.”

“Your heart is kind.” His heart twisted. “But where I am going I’ll be in constant danger.”

“You don’t understand—”

“There’s much you don’t know.” He tried to fill his mind with the duty that called him, not his yearning for the woman standing before him. “Your father thinks he solved my problem by giving me a false name. But I can’t be Brochan forever. The ruse will be over the minute I step foot in Derry, or Scotland. Too many men on both sides of the water know me, and I don’t know whom to trust.”

“There’s much I can do—”