Page 43 of In the Highlander's Bed

“I wanted you to.”

He acknowledged her words with a small nod. “’Tis wrong. You have no choice in the matter, Constance. We both know that. You are our hostage.”

She drew her brows together. “You weren’t forcing me. I kissed you back.”

He rolled on his side to face her. His gazetraveled over her face as if memorizing the details. She wanted to touch him, to place her palm against the side of his jaw and promise him that everything would be all right.

But she knew better.

“I understand,” she whispered.

“I know.” In the same serious vein, he added, “I have nothing to offer a woman, Constance. My life will probably end with a hangman’s noose. But every once in a while, I yearn for a taste of what I can’t have.”

A coldness crept through her at his prophetic words. “Your rebellion might succeed. Freedom is a good thing. My country rebelled.”

“Aye,” he agreed.

But he knew differently, and so did she.

Constance folded her arm under her head. “Why?” she asked. “If you know you will fail, why do you continue?”

“Justice,” he said, as if that one word explained all.

“Is it worth your life?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand the way people think here. Why stay if you are mistreated?”

“It’s our home.”

“This?” She cast a glance around the tent.

“Scotland is,” he corrected. “And there have been many good men who have died for it.”

“Yes,” she conceded. “But how long does a fight continue? I come from a place where if a man doesn’t like where he is, he moves on. He doesn’t attempt to overthrow a government.”

“A man can’t move on forever.”

“In America he can,” Constance said boldly. “There is so much land there, he can keep moving forever.”

Gordon shook his head. “You don’t understand, lass. A manhasto take a stand. If he doesn’t, if he keeps running, then he isn’t much of a man. Now, go to sleep. You have had a long day. We can argue tomorrow.”

He closed his eyes.

Constance didn’t. She lay awake, watching him. The lamp’s soft light turned his skin the same golden color as his hair.

With the exception of Alex Haddon, her half-breed brother-in-law, she generally had not admired men. They held all the power and didn’t hesitate to use it against others, especially women. She’d scoffed when Miss Casey had taught the “knightly ideal” in classes on history at Madame Lavaliere’s. Menalwaysthought of themselves.

But Gordon Lachlanwasdifferent.

She knew because moments earlier, when they were kissing, he could have done anything he wished…and yet, he’d put the needs of his people before his own desire. He’d known he could not return her as damaged goods.

Constance pulled his tartan up around her shoulders, snuggling into the wool-stuffed pallet, her gaze never leaving Gordon’s sleeping face. She was safer with him than anyone else in this camp.

Hewaslike Sir Galahad, the knight Miss Casey used to illustrate her position. He believed in ideals larger than himself.

She didn’t want him to die.