"Is that all right?" she asked.
He darted another fleeting but potent glance at her. "Of course. I appreciate it."
She forced herself to breathe deeply to calm her hurtling heart rate and moved a few steps closer to him. "What are you working on?"
"'Tis only... translations of an ancient Celtic text."
Heavens. That sounded difficult. "What sort?"
"Folklore."
Seemed a strange subject for him. "Why are you translating it?"
He waited a long moment before answering. "It interests me." He shot her a sharp, thrilling glance that stunned her for several seconds. His expression was half warning, half anguish before he averted his gaze.
Why would he not talk to her and reveal his thoughts?
He seemed exceptionally reserved this day, which troubled her. What was he hiding? Was he angered by her presence here?
"Do you wish me to leave and go home?"
"Nay." Meeting her gaze, he frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"You were out all night. I assume 'tis because I'm here disrupting your life."
He shook his head. "'Tis nay that."
When he didn't elaborate, her worst fears rose to the surface. She must meet them head-on. "Oh, umm... you have a mistress, aye?"
"Nay." He practically growled the word, his scowl turning even more fearsome.
Although a fit of nerves seized her because she had vexed him, exhilaration spiraled through her if 'twas true he was not having a tryst with another woman. Something deep within her soul possessively proclaimed he should be hers. And that one day, he would be.
Breaking the penetrating gaze, he turned away to stare down at the book.
She knew she was smitten with him, but this had been en route for ages. Anytime she'd been in his magnetic presence during the last few years, her heart rate and breathing quickened. Sometimes, she grew lightheaded and feared she might faint. Even now, her whole body felt feverish—hot and cold at once.
She moved toward him, this man she'd loved even before she knew what love was. Tentatively, she touched his thick, tawny hair. 'Twas a smooth and rich gilded brown.
He stiffened but said naught. Her hands shook with reverence and the thirst to explore him. She brushed her fingertips over his ear and the upper part of his stubble-roughened cheek. The muscle in his square, masculine jaw flexed.
His breath caught. "Cat? Nay," he whispered but remained still. He would not meet her gaze.
Look at me.She trailed her fingers down to his strong chin, the short whiskers scraping the pads of her fingers. Barely touching his lips with her thumb stole her strength. His breath rushed out, warming her fingertips.
Torr, I have loved you... nay, she could not say it.
He groaned. "You're playing with fire, lass." He tugged her to him and kissed her hard, fusing his mouth to hers, delving deep.
Now she understood what playing with fire meant. Her body was ablaze with an aching, burning need—so overwhelming she knew not what to do next except hold onto him. They would become lovers; he would marry her. It had to be.
He surged upward, taking her with him to his tall height, and pinned her to the wall by the window. Her heart raced. He wrapped her legs about his waist and consumed her mouth with eager and sinful kisses. Oh, heavens, she had never imagined such delicious intensity. What would he do next?
