He believed her. Despite all his doubt and the fact that she had no real reason to defend him, he did.
“Yet,” he said regretfully, “ye canna protect me.”
“I canna. And that is why, should the opportunity present itself, ye maun return to MacLeod.”
And they would see one another no more.
She went on, “I can do my best to argue for that, as will Moira, so I believe. But it may do no good. Such decisions are no longer up to Moira alone.”
“I understand.”
“Ye balance on a knife’s edge. But I want ye to ken, I am no’ the one to push ye off.”
“I do know that, aye.”
She moved a step closer, and another, her gaze still fastened on him. “Ye should no’ be on your feet,” she whispered again.
And then she was in his arms. Just like that, as if it happened by magic, she pressed right up against him and laid her hand in that claiming manner on his chest.
Her hand on his heart. Her compelling eyes gazing into his. Her lips just beneath his own.
Once again, he never knew which of them closed that distance, whether he bent his head to claim her lips or she reached for him. Maybe both.
When their lips met this time, a momentous thing happened. All doubt flew. All remnants of suspicion. Certainty took their place, lodging just like the ache that lay beneath Leith’s heart.
This could not be. Only it was. He should not trust her. Only he did, with his very life.
“Rhian.” He breathed her beautiful name into her, and she parted her lips to accept it, and let him in. Tasting of her was like nothing he’d ever experienced or dreamed of experiencing. Arousing, aye, and exciting. She had the blood pounding in his ears. But more than that, it felt almost sacred and holy, as if he’d found an answer for which he’d searched all his life.
A controlled woman, Rhian MacBeith, and a careful one. He felt that control shatter as she leaned to him. As she ran her hand up from his chest across his cheek and into his hair. As she tangled her tongue with his and invited him deeper in.
He wanted to weep. He wanted to holler. He did neither, but caught her close with his one good arm. He kissed and kissed her.
Naught in his world, after this, would ever be the same. That thought burst across his mind, along with the glorious warmth she seemed to shed upon him. No going back from this moment. Everything had changed.
Not till he began to sway on his feet did she withdraw her mouth from his, look into his face, and smile. If her kiss stole his breath, her smile had the power to fell him.
Beautiful woman, merciful angel. The darling of my heart.
Softly, softly, she said, “I did no’ mean to knock ye off your feet.”
“Ye steal my strength, Rhian MacBeith. And ye give it back to me again. A curious thing.”
“All o’ this is curious. Beyond reason. Out o’ time.”
He touched her cheek. He did so tenderly, as if he’d never before touched the flesh of a woman.
“Come.” She caught his hand and steered him to the bed.
“Rhian—”
“I want to kiss ye again, and I’ll be cursed if I’ll undo all the good work I ha’ done by sending ye to the floor.”
He lay already at her feet. He, a great lump of a man who could make two of her.
He fell backward onto the bed and scarcely noticed the ensuing pain. Like a man in a dream, he made room for her beside him, and she cuddled into his side as she had last night, and raised her lips to his.
Time passed. He had no way of telling how much. Nor did he care, for Rhian lay with him, warm and fragrant with the scent of herbs, and the knot that had held tight within him so long—the wound where was embedded the cord that connected him to her—became at last acquiescent.
