Page 13 of Fierce Highland Magic

Because it did not make the heat beneath my skin go away.

Rowan released me at once.

His jaw tightened.

Then he turned away from the approaching hush and raised his voice.

"Listen well."

The words were not loud.

They did not need to be.

The market heard.

Every candle flame bent toward him.

The fiddles stopped.

Even the rain seemed to pause at the edge of the square.

Rowan looked straight ahead, not at me.

"She is my guest."

The thistle pin flared silver.

My breath caught.

"Her debts are mine until dawn."

The words struck the air like a lock turning.

Something invisible passed over my skin. It wasn't magic exactly, though I had run out of more useful categories.

A weight settled at the base of my throat.

Then moved through me.

For one instant, the market touched every possible version of me—the woman who had taken the cup, the woman who had thanked the vendor, the woman who had begged at the gate, the woman who might someday say aloud that she wanted something.

The touch moved past me.

It found Rowan.

He inhaled sharply.

The sound was small.

Almost nothing.

But I saw it.

The slight whitening around his mouth. The tension that pulled across his shoulders. The way one hand closed briefly at his side, fingers curling as though he had caught hold of something sharp.

The pale line at his throat brightened.

Then it faded beneath his collar.