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“Right—king of the castle and al that.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Yer speech is verra strange, lass.”
“So is yours,” she grumbled, a stubborn set to her chin.
“Are you finished with me now?”
“You said you were a Graham?”
“I did. What of it?”
“There’s no need to get prickly, lass.”
“I’m not prickly,” she snapped. “I’m just tired of being treated as though I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t.”
“Which Graham?” He fought back a smile, finding her temper amusing.
“I’m from the borders,” she said through clenched teeth, stabbing her finger into his chest. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Now—” he began, frowning when he saw the raised welt on the palm of her hand. “What’s this?”
She tried to pul her hand from his. “Nothing.”
Rory tightened his hold on her. “’Tis from the dirk, isna’ it?”
“Yes. Now wil you please let me go?”
Holding her gaze with his, he pressed her palm to his lips, trailing light kisses along the reddened mark. “I’m sorry you were hurt while you cared fer me.”
She swal owed, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “It was nothing compared to what I did to you.” Her voice had gone soft and breathy.
“Ah, but you meant to save me, Aileanna, no’ hurt me,”
he said into her palm.
“Umhmm.” Her eyes fluttered closed.
He tugged her closer, pressing himself against her lush curves. “Aileanna, what were you doin’ in my bed that night?”
he whispered in her ear before lowering his lips to her neck.
“Sleeping,” she murmured. A soft moan of pleasure 50
escaped from her parted lips. She tilted her head back, granting him access to a creamy expanse of skin. With a low chuckle, he accepted her invitation. Bending his head, he kissed his way across the top of her ful breasts, delving beneath the gown’s fabric with his tongue. He tugged her neckline lower, ignoring the sound of the cloth tearing. He freed her breasts to his hungry gaze. Lust pounded in his veins.
“Nay, you weren’t sleeping, lass.” He tweaked her nipple between his fingers before taking it into his mouth.
“Dreaming . . . I thought I was dreaming.” She moaned. Rory cupped her breasts, kneading, squeezing, watch ing the play of emotions on her angelic face. “’Twas no dream, lass. ’Tis no dream now,” he said against her lips. He’d slowly maneuvered them toward the bed and care
ful y lowered Aileanna onto the mattress. Her eyes sprang open and she gasped, tugging at the bodice of her gown. He eased himself onto the bed. Lying down beside her, he stopped the frantic movements of her hands, pul ing her against him when she struggled to sit up.
“Calm yerself, Aileanna.” He stroked the hair from her face.
“We . . . we can’t do this,” she stammered.
“Why? We’ve done it before,” he reminded her, trailing his finger along the soft swel of her breasts. He didn’t want to talk. Al he wanted to do was feel her, warm and wil ing, beneath him.
She shivered, stil ing his hand with hers.
“I told you, I thought I was dreaming that night. And you . . . you thought I was your wife.”
Rory didn’t stop her when she struggled to rise from the bed. She was right. He had thought she was Brianna, but not now. He knew who she was, and he wanted her more than he thought he’d ever want a woman again. He scrubbed his
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hands over his face. Bloody hel , what was wrong with him?
What had Aileanna Graham done to him?
“Did I . . . did I hurt you?” She stood at the end of the bed, clutching the front of her gown, her hair spil ing over her shoulders in wild abandon.
“Nay.” He winced as he sat up.
“Good.” She gave a brisk nod of her head, then turned to walk away.
“Where are you goin’, Aileanna?”
