Her Highland Protector

She was surprised to see a glimmer of light spilling out into the hallway from the slightly open door. She frowned. Surely the butler would not have left candles alight before retiring for the night. It would be the height of folly indeed. But it must be so, because she was the only one who ever used the library in the evenings. Her cousin never had time for reading and Mrs Preston preferred the drawing room, where the light was better for her needlework.

Still, she could not help feeling that someone was there. Cautiously, she pushed the door wide.

At one of the tables, a man sat in his shirtsleeves. The light from the candle fell on the book he was reading and cast half his face in shadow. She had no trouble recognising his broad shoulders, the large hand that turned the page, or the studious and handsome profile cast into planes and shadows. Mr Gilvry. An inner gladness bubbled in her veins. A glow of joy at the sight of him. A feeling like nothing she had ever experienced.

As if she actually liked the man.

How was this? Her breath stilled. Her heart sounded loud in her ears. It was as if she’d made some monumental discovery, but did not yet understand its import. But in her heart she knew what it was. Recognised the danger. A growing attachment. Something she could not afford. She owed it to her position to think with her head and not let her heart get in the way. To think logically, as a man would. She must stand on logic or fail those for whom she was responsible.

It left an empty space in her chest. A dark, cold fissure.

Resentment flowed in to fill it. At him, because he was here in a place she’d thought of as her own, surely, for no other reason. Was there nowhere she could go and not stumble over him? He might have saved her life—twice—but it did not give him the right to invade every corner of it. She turned to leave.

He must have heard the movement, because he looked up, then shot to his feet. ‘My lady.’

Blast. Now she had no way to escape without acknowledging his presence. ‘Mr Gilvry.’ If she sounded stiff and haughty, it was because it was either that or sound breathless.

‘Can I help you?’ He sounded at a loss and his eyes widened as he took in her state of undress.

She clutched a hand to the silky fabric of the robe, drawing it tighter about her throat. ‘What are you doing here, Mr Gilvry?’

‘Lord Carrick bade me make free with his library before he left.’ His glance travelled from her face down her body. It was a lingering glance that almost felt like a physical caress. Her nipples hardened. She glanced down and saw them jutting against the gown’s light fabric. Heat rushed to her face.

It is the cold, she wanted to shout. She clung to what little of her dignity remained. ‘I doubt that he expected you to come here in the middle of the night.’

Nor should she have come, wearing next to nothing. Yet she had come here so often when she couldn’t sleep it had felt like a refuge. Not any longer, clearly.

‘He suggested I come in the evening. After my duties.’ He picked up his candle and the light of it threw his face into sharp relief. The smooth lean plane of his cheek, the hard uncompromising line of his jaw. The jut of a blade of a nose. He had a strong face. There was nothing soft about it at all, but it appealed to her sense of what a man ought to be. Strong. Unyielding.

A child’s view of the world, her father would have said. Looks meant nothing. Liking meant nothing. It was power and wealth that counted if she wanted to do her duty.

‘It did not occur to me that anyone else would have the same idea,’ he continued, looking uncomfortable. ‘It is the first opportunity I have had to take advantage of his offer.’

‘Then I should not disturb you.’ With a brief smile, she turned away.

He reached the door before her, blocking her exit. As solid a barrier as the mahogany door itself. He stood staring down at her with such intensity, she could not hold his gaze.

‘Do not let my presence stand in the way of you finding a book.’

His virile body exuded heat and power. And the scent of bay and lemon. Physical. Overwhelming. She could hardly breathe as she noticed the dark crisp curly hair at the base of his throat where he had removed his cravat. He wore another of those bold-patterned waistcoats he favoured. Strawberries, this time, amid dark-green leaves on a cream background. She dragged her gaze from that impressively broad chest and the beat of his pulse at the base of his bared throat and let her eyes wander upwards. Up past the uncompromising chin to gaze in awe at his firmly carved mouth.

The burst of memory of those lips on hers caused a slow burn low in her abdomen. And when finally their eyes met, his eyelids drooped as if he knew exactly the direction of her thoughts. The air in the room became heavy, thick, unbreatheable.

She moistened her dry lips. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Her voice was husky from the dryness in her throat and the rushed beating of her heart.

‘I imagine not, after what almost happened today,’ he murmured.

Not only that, but how could she admit that she couldn’t sleep because of the way he intruded on her thoughts? The way she kept remembering the taste of him, the scent of the wild outdoors that clung to him. She couldn’t, so she merely nodded.

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I felt sure the man in the market was going to carry you away. It makes me go cold every time I think of it.’

‘Your arrival was timely,’ she whispered, gazing up into his eyes, mesmerised by the heat she saw in their depths.

Slowly, his hand lifted to her shoulder, a light touch, but searing, and she welcomed the contact, the feeling of not being quite so alone as she had been since her father died. Though why his touch should have that effect, she didn’t know. Perhaps because he’d stood alongside her in her hour of need.

His other hand cradled her cheek. Warm. Callused. Yet infinitely gentle. She held her breath, fearful and wanting. Revelling in his touch, when she knew she should push him away. And knowing she did not want to.

And then his head dipped and his mouth, velvet, warm, brushed her lips. A sweet gentle pressure, softly demanding.

Nothing like the awkward affair she’d initiated on the road, his lips melded with hers, moving, wooing, a finely honed assault. Little chills darted down her back. Her breathing became uneven, her heart an out-of-control thud against her ribs.

The even deep rise and fall of his chest brushed against her breasts in a tantalising caress. His tongue darted against the seam of her mouth, tiny thrilling little flicks telling her what he wanted, yet not demanding. Encouraging.

Inside, she shook with the rise of desire, pressing closer to the wonderful lean length of him, parting her lips and gasping in pleasurable shock as his tongue languorously swept her mouth, sliding against her tongue, tasting her as if she was some sort of honeyed treat.

Heat curled through her veins like smoke filling every corner of her being. Delicious heat. Bone-melting heat.

Her arms went up around his neck. Naturally they would, there being no other way to prevent a slow slide to the floor. His hands encircled her back, pulled her close between his strong thighs, then roamed down her hips and her bottom.

Now she could feel his heartbeat against her chest, a strong steady rhythm, if a little fast. His breathing rasped in the silence, and felt warm on her ear. She could not suppress a small moan of pleasure at the delicious sensations rippling through her body.

He made a soft sound like a choked-off groan, and his tongue withdrew, his kisses dancing like butterflies over her mouth. Slowly he drew back, his eyes dark, his expression dazed.

And as he looked at her, she saw the moment he came to his senses. Saw the shock and the regret.

He stood there staring at her, looking so stiff and awkward as if he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, which a moment before had been roaming her body in a most intimate way. A strange urge to giggle pressed at her throat. She covered her lips with her fingers to hold it inside. To not let him see how foolish he made her feel inside. How foolishly, femininely weak. A fatal flaw.

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