Page 85 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Oh, aye? What if I told ye that I hate it when another man touches ye?”

“Ye have nay right to say that.”

He stopped abruptly, leaning in until they were almost nose to nose. “Oh, but I do,” he whispered. “Follow me.”

He pulled away abruptly, turned on his heel, and strode away across the floor. More dancers stopped and stared after him. They’d whisper about this later, he knew.

Was Daphne following him?

He didn’t dare look. But he could feel her presence.

He reached a small doorway, one that led into a narrow corridor that wrapped around the Great Hall. Stepping out into the corridor, he heard the muffled clack-clack of shoes behind him. He turned and watched silently as Daphne stepped over the threshold.

It was quieter in the corridor. Not silent, not with all the noise and laughter drifting from the grand room beyond. The drumming of dancing feet made the whole castle shiver.

“We cannae talk here,” Daphne murmured, her voice hushed. Her gaze flitted up to his, just briefly, then away. “Anybody could step through the door.”

He gave a short nod and gestured to a narrow doorway at the end of the corridor.

Daphne watched Hunter’s muscular back ripple in front of her as he led the way through the door. He had to duck his head and turn his shoulders ever so slightly to slip through.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Pulsing energy and excitement shot through her veins, aftershocks of the dancing.

She followed him into the room. At first glance, it looked like a little reading alcove, big enough only for a desk, a stool, and a few shelves nailed to the walls.

There wasn’t really room for the two of them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. Only the slightest stretch of her arm would bring him within touching distance.

He stared at her, unblinking, his eyes darkening slowly.

“Daenae let that man touch ye again,” he breathed.

She arched her eyebrows. “What has poor Laird Gordon done to upset ye?”

He moved forward, bringing them almost nose to nose. “He touched ye,” he responded simply.

She breathed out, her lips parting. “Oh,” she whispered.

He leaned in, his lips pressing against hers. A gentle kiss, barely a touch.

Nae enough.

She seized his shoulders, the fabric crumpling in her hands, and he wound his arms around her waist, pulling her firmly against him. She gasped aloud, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

Hunter chuckled low in his throat, and his warm palm slid up the side of her ribcage. His fingertips brushed the underside of her breasts, and an aching desire coiled at the base of her spine.

She hadn’t realized they were moving until the back of her thighs hit the edge of the desk. She squeaked, her eyes flying open, and Hunter pulled back. A flush had crept across his face, which was surprising, as he didn’t seem to be the sort of man who blushed often.

“Ye drive me bloody mad, ye ken that?” he growled.

She couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come.

He leaned in, kissing her once again, roughly, desperately. Then his strong arms circled her, and she found herself lifted and lowered onto the desk, her tiptoes barely brushing the floor.

Hunter moved back, and she reached for his shoulders, desperately trying to pull him closer. He chuckled low in his throat.

To her surprise, he sank down onto his knees, tilting his head to look up at her. “I cannae take it anymore, lass.”

She swallowed dryly.