Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(64)

No matter how tempting it might be to simply leave, he knew he could not do that to her. Lizzie deserved some kind of explanation—if only he could find the words to make her understand that what he was doing was for the best.

Leaving a note wasn't an option. An education was just one more thing he'd lost when his parents had been killed and his clan broken.

He was still weighing what to do when the door opened and the decision was wrested from him.

Lizzie stood silhouetted in the doorway, the torch in her hand illuminating her stricken face as she stared at the bags and belongings strewn across his pallet.

Every muscle in his body went taut. He froze, as though he'd been knocked senseless, utterly transfixed by the ethereal beauty of the fey creature before him. She looked like a figment of a dream, her flaxen hair and silvery gown shimmering like quicksilver in the flickering flame. An angel.

His face darkened. Except that her gown was anything but angelic.

What the devil was she trying to do, drive him mad with longing?

His eyes slid over her and came back to rest where they had started: on the sweet round br**sts displayed to mouthwatering perfection in a gown that revealed far more than it concealed. She might as well have been wearing a damn night rail. It was no more than a wisp of cloth; he could see the curve of her hips, the round of her bottom, the long, slim lines of her legs. Heat pounded through his body, surging hard through his veins. Lust. Hot, demanding lust throbbed in his suddenly too-tight breeches.

A wave of possessiveness came over him, almost frightening in its intensity. Mine. The thought of another man looking at her was almost enough to make him change his mind about leaving.

He turned his back on her as he fought to temper the instinct to toss her down on the rough pallet, rip that flimsy dress off her until she was naked beneath him, and ravish her senseless. And then hold her warm, soft body against his and drink in her sweetness.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice, hearing the disbelief tinged with panic. He wanted to go to her. To hold her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right.

But it wasn't.

He clenched his jaw, realizing that this was going to be harder than he'd ever imagined. He bent over the bed to continue his packing, his movements harsh. “What it looks like I'm doing, packing.”

He heard the door close and then the tap of slippered footsteps approaching tentatively. His pulse raced as her soft feminine scent hit him, coiled around him, and wouldn't let him go.

“How long will you be gone? A few days?”

He took a deep breath and stood up, meeting her wide-eyed gaze, his muscles vibrating for want of her. “Nay, Lizzie, I'm leaving for good.”

Her heart felt yanked out from under her.

“Leaving?” Lizzie echoed dumbly, her thoughts scattering like petals in the wind. For good. When he hadn't showed up for the evening meal, she'd been apprehensive, but never could she have anticipated this. “No! You can't go.”

He arched a dark brow, an unspoken challenge.

“I mean … I … we need you here.”

His face shuttered, and she knew she'd said something wrong.

“You have your brother”—he gave her a hard, penetrating stare—“and Campbell. It should be easy enough to hire more guardsmen. There are plenty of broken men to be found eager for work.”

As if he were so easily replaceable.

This couldn't be happening.

“But what about us?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I thought …”

His eyes were hard and flat. They belonged to a stranger. “Campbell can take care of that as well.”

Lizzie made a small choking sound, stunned by his coldness. How could he talk to her like this? After what they'd shared, he was just going to walk away and never look back. Was she so insignificant to him?

I thought he cared for me.

She put her hand over her mouth and tried to swallow. Dear God, had she made some horrible mistake … again?

His jaw was set in a hard, determined line. He looked so remote. So alone. As if he didn't need anyone in the world. Certainly not her.

Never had she imagined that the ruthlessness she'd witnessed on the battlefield would be directed toward her.

She turned away, unable to look at him any longer. She fought to breathe. One. Two. She forced air in and out and tried to prevent the hot ball of hurt from swallowing her up.

She had to get out of here before she disgraced herself by bursting into tears. And she would have done just that if she hadn't chanced to glance up at him one more time.

His eyes gave him away. Tormented. Pained. Filled with such naked longing, it took her breath away.

He did want her. With an intensity that matched her own.

In that one unguarded moment, she recognized the truth of her own heart. From the first moment he'd burst through the trees, she'd sensed something special. Not just physical awareness, but a sense of connection so strong and deep, it seemed as if it had always been there.

I love him.

This big, strong warrior whose implacable exterior masked a tortured soul.

She'd been attracted to his handsome face, to his strength, courage, and natural authority, but it was the wounded man inside who had captured her heart.

He needed her.

She yearned to soothe his sadness. To heal him with the balm of her love. Just as he had given her the courage to risk her heart again. John Montgomery was in the past. This was different. She needed to trust herself—and him.