Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(87)

“But I wouldn't let you,” she said, her voice teeming with self-disgust. “Your conscience can be absolved, then—if you even have one. But thank God my mistake isn't irreparable. Thank God I didn't marry you. I'll be happy when I never have to set eyes on you again.”

Her words stung more than he wanted to admit. How much of it was hurt speaking and how much was his being a MacGregor? “You will get your wish soon enough,” he said harshly. He wished that it didn't need to be this way. Wished that he were begging her to understand instead of trying to make it easier for them to part. Wished that they didn't need to part.

Hell, he knew better than to wish.

His eyes met hers. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparked with fire. “I hate you.”

Her words unleashed something primitive inside him, the flare of emotion hot and quick. Anger. Frustration. And fear that it might be true. He didn't think, just reacted, pulling her into his arms. His heart pounded wildly, dangerously, with the primal need to prove her wrong.

She doesn't hate me. I won't let her.

He hardened against her, his body responding to the familiar feel of her pressed against him. Never had he felt so out of control. He wanted to ravage her senseless.

Kiss her.

Take her.

She gasped and tried to wrench out of his arms, but he held her firm.

He could feel the frantic beat of her heart, see her mouth tremble, her eyes wide and damp with tears. They stared at each other for a long moment, her soft mouth parted just below his. He could almost taste her sweetness on his tongue, calling to him.

His body hammered, the urge uncontrollable … almost violent.

The realization stopped him cold, and he released her as suddenly as he'd taken hold of her. What the hell was he doing?

What was between them could not be denied. But proving it would do nothing but salve his own male pride.

He dragged a hand through his hair, turning away from her and allowing his blood to cool. She eyed him warily.

Finally, he spoke. “You can hate me later. But right now, I'm all that stands between you and survival.” He could just imagine her out here alone. A pampered girl brought up at court in the Highland wilderness. She wouldn't last a day. What the hell had he been thinking? “I don't think you have any idea of the precariousness of our situation, but if we are to have any chance, I need to get this ball out of my leg.”

His body still teeming with violent emotion, he sat before the fire, pulled his blade from the scabbard at his waist, and went to work.

Lizzie watched Patrick wipe the flat of the blade of his dirk back and forth over his breeches—cleaning it, though the leather was caked with dirt and dust—her heart still pounding from the ferocity of his attack. No matter that for a moment she'd wanted his lips on hers.

I hate him. Never had she felt this kind of anger— irrational in its intensity. If he weren't already shot, she would have done it herself. She would rather be anywhere than here with him.

He was a MacGregor. Brother to the man who'd attacked her. He'd wanted her not for herself, but for her dowry. He'd used her like a pawn on a chessboard, deceiving her, making her fall in love with him, all for the sake of a few merks of land.

It was all a lie.

I'm such a fool. Actually believing that he cared for her. Of course she did, that's what he'd wanted. It was all part of his cruel plan. She crossed her arms around her waist as if warding off the attack, struggling to keep herself from falling apart. She'd thought she'd found happiness, but all she'd found was betrayal. How could she have been so mistaken? Again.

God, it hurt. The burning in her chest. The feeling that her heart had just been ripped out and stomped on.

I should be used to this. But it wasn't just disappointment. Her feelings for Patrick had gone so much deeper than anything she'd ever felt for John Montgomery.

Tears burned behind her eyes, anger and heartbreak converging in a powerful storm. Her mouth started to tremble. Her breath hitched.

Be strong.

She wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry, but she would never let him see how much he'd hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced back the emotions, knowing this was not the time.

He was right. When this was all over she would never have to see him again, but right now she needed him. She hated it, but it was the truth.

She tried not to look at him. She shouldn't care about what he was doing.

She heard a tearing sound and knew that he was making the opening in his breeches bigger.

Dear God, he was actually going to do it. She felt a cold chill settle in her stomach.

Telling herself that it was only because she needed him to survive, she asked, “Do you need any help?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I've tended enough battlefield wounds to know what to do. It's not too deep—I can see the ball. If he'd waited a few more feet before firing we would not be having this conversation.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You might not want to watch.”

She pursed her lips. She wasn't some squeamish girl. But she found herself clenching the wool of the plaid between her fingers nonetheless.

After taking a long drink from one of the skins—which she suspected held something stronger than water—Patrick put the hilt of his eating knife in his mouth and used his dirk to dig into the soupy, bloody mess. The reason for the knife in his mouth became clear a moment later. His entire body tensed at the invasion—his teeth clamped down hard against the hilt, the muscles in his neck and arms went taut, and a guttural sound emitted from deep inside him. The pain must have been unbearable, but his hand showed no hesitation. In one smooth, determined stroke, he plunged the tip of the dirk deep into the hole.