Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(57)
Her barb struck. His hand wrapped around her wrist and he swung her to him, the tips of her br**sts skimming his chest. She gasped at the force of the connection. At the shock as her body exploded in sensation. Her pulse raced, her breath quickened, her blood rushed, and every nerve ending flared. Desire, hot and heavy, possessed her from head to toe.
“You knew me well enough,” he said, the husky burr in his voice seeping under her skin. “Well enough to give me your body.” His finger traced a path down the curve of her cheek to her chin. She was too stunned to move. Too overcome by sensation to turn away. Her heart tugged when his gaze met hers.
She wanted to kiss him, could almost feel the warmth of his lips on hers. The impulse came on with the force of a lightning bolt, but she fought it. She was no longer a girl to allow lust to cloud her judgment. But she couldn't completely erase the desire from her eyes.
“What's wrong, Jeannie? Remembering?” His hand slid down her throat. “Was some of it real after all?”
She heard the edge of mockery in his voice and tried to pull away. “Let go of me.” But his hand gripped her wrist like a steel manacle. Their eyes met and for the first time she saw an ember flickering in his gaze. He was not completely unaffected.
Jeannie fought to catch her breath. From somewhere buried deep inside her, she felt an old spark of recklessness, an impulsive urge to provoke him right back. Heedless of the danger, she shifted her body closer, nestling her hips to his and pressing her br**sts to his chest. Their bodies slid together, locking together from memory. She felt the hard column of his erection against her stomach. Heat drenched her with the force of a tidal wave. She looked up at him, letting her eyes settle on his mouth. “I think ‘tis you who are remembering. Is what you came back for? Is that it, Duncan? Do you still want me?”
Every muscle in his body tensed and Jeannie wondered if she'd made a mistake. She'd wanted to prove that he was not as indifferent as he pretended, but Duncan was not a man to toy with—he was the most feared warrior on the continent for heaven's sake. The flare of heat in his eyes frightened her. He frightened her. She wasn't a naïve girl anymore; she knew how dangerous it was to play with fire.
He released her as if she'd suddenly scalded him. He didn't answer her question, but they both knew the answer. Instead, he returned to the original subject. “I would never harm a child, Jeannie,” he said quietly. “Then or now.”
A horrible thought crept into the back of her mind. She knew nothing about him. Nothing about what his life had been like the past ten years. What if she was not the only woman to fall prey to his undeniable masculine allure? “And you have plenty of experience with children?”
He gave her a hard look. “I've never married.”
The twinge of relief disappeared when she recalled her own circumstances. “You better than anyone should know that is not a prerequisite.”
His eyes darkened dangerously. “Just exactly what are you accusing me of?”
She shrugged. “I wonder how many black-haired, blue-eyed bairns are strewn across the continent?”
She'd pushed too far. He grabbed her by the arm and brought her toward him. She gasped, the barely restrained fury in his eyes made her heart race.
“Do you really think I'd consign a child to my burden?”
He had. She bit the words back and said instead, “Unmarried parents don't make you a bastard. Your actions do.”
She saw the muscle in his neck tic and knew her barb had struck.
His mouth tightened. “I would never allow a child of mine to go unclaimed.”
Her blood chilled, his words giving voice to her fears. He could never find out about Dougal. Duncan's birth had always been his Achilles tendon and he would not be rational about it. He would see her lie for what it was and his blasted nobility would never allow him to stand aside.
All she wanted was an explanation and then his swift departure. Gathering up the tattered remnants of her emotions, she pulled herself together. How did he manage to get to her like this? Couldn't they simply have a rational conversation? Must there always be this strong undercurrent crackling between them, this fierce awareness that made her feel like that foolish, impetuous girl again ready to believe in white knights and faerie tales. She was an adult now, a mother. She should know better.
She returned to the original subject. “Ella has been a trifle headstrong of late, I will make sure she doesn't bother you again.”
He seemed about to object, but then appeared to reach the same conclusion as she had—better not to encourage an acquaintance.
But he wasn't quite done yet. “You have a son as well?”
She tensed, but quickly masked the visceral reaction to the danger posed by his question. She spoke carefully, feeling as if each word somehow held the potential to explode. “Yes, he is being fostered.” She didn't want to tell him anything, but knew it would be better to be as honest as possible. He would sense any caginess on her part.
His reaction moments ago only solidified what she already knew. He would insist on claiming his son, even if it meant labeling him a bastard and destroying everything she'd done to protect her son from the scandal Duncan had left in his wake. She couldn't risk it—not when it was her son who would suffer. Duncan had lost any claim on Dougall when he'd left her.
She felt his eyes on her, watching intently.