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“Oh, nothing much.” Her fair skin blushed, the pretty pink moving up her throat and to her cheeks. She looked quite lovely, but she was lying.
He strolled toward her, examining her. “You didn’t go out?”
Her eyes dropped.
And he knew, suddenly and without any doubt. “You saw Lister.”
She jerked her head up, her gaze meeting his defiantly. “Yes. I had to at least try to make him see reason.”
Scalding hot rage bubbled in his veins, but he held it in check—barely.
“And did he?” he asked gently.
“No,” she said. “He’s determined to keep the children.”
He cocked his head, angling his good eye at her. “And he just let you go, tripping down his front steps and away without so much as an attempt to stay you? Perhaps he even waved his handkerchief in farewell as you left?”
Her blush deepened. “He didn’t try to keep me—”
“No, of course not. Why would he when he’s gone to all the trouble of kidnapping your children to get you back?”
Her head jerked as if he’d slapped her. “How did you know he wants me back?”
He laughed, the sound harsh and quick. “Don’t take me for a fool. A man doesn’t kidnap his bastard children when he already has three sons and heirs. I know him. I know his game. He’s using them as hostages to get you to return, isn’t he?”
“He said I’d never see them again unless I returned as his mistress.”
Something inside of him erupted. He felt the release, overflowing the edge of reason into insanity.
“Did you agree?” Somehow he’d crossed the room and seized her arms. “Tell me, Helen. Did you agree to return to him? To let him into your bed? To be his whore? Did you?”
She stared up at him with those damned drowning harebell eyes. “He says I’ll never see Abigail and Jamie again unless I return to him. They’re all I have, Alistair. My children. My babies.”
He shook her once. “Did you agree?”
“I can’t never see them again.”
“Goddamn you, Helen.” His chest was tight with horror. “Did you agree?”
“No.” She closed her eyes. “No. I told him no.”
“Thank God.” He pulled her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers, crushing her soft lips. The thought of her with Lister was driving him beyond control. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she gasped. “He… he gripped my hand, but—”
He grabbed both her hands and saw red welts on the right. Abruptly, he stilled, cradling her delicate fingers in his larger hand. “He hurt you.”
“It’s nothing.” She pulled her hand gently away.
“Did he hurt you—touch you—anywhere else?”
“No, Alistair, no.”
“He wanted to touch you, I know,” he said as he rubbed his hands over her shoulders and to her arms. “He wanted to touch and taste and feel you.”
“But he didn’t.” She placed her palms, cool and soft, on either side of his face. “He didn’t touch me.”
“Thank God.” He took her mouth savagely, thrusting his tongue into her, wanting to blot the image of Lister from both their minds.
