Page 3

She leaned back and stretched her leg out to him. He sat closer, his groin already starting to warm, his cock waking as he imagined her smooth skin against his fingers. He took her foot in his hands and pushed the edge of her skirt up, revealing a white, delicate ankle. There was a scratch there, although not a deep one, and he covered it with his hand. He massaged the foot gently. Her soft skin against his rough palms set fire burning in his blood.

He swallowed and looked up at her face. Her lips were parted, and from under her lashes, her eyes were dark with desire.

“There’s nothing ye can do against my will, because I’m willing for anything.”

Owen cursed under his breath. Even if there’d been an army of angry, barrel-chested men here now, he couldn’t stop.

He put her leg back on the ground and crawled up to her. He kissed her, and she answered back, their tongues lashing in a sweet battle. He was hard. He’d never been so hard in his life. His cock as solid as a rock.

His mind filled with fog that smelled like berry wine, sweet, female skin, and grass.

He woke with a jolt and sat up. The woods were dark around him in, his fire already out. His head hurt, every pulsation of blood in his temples brought pain. He looked around. Where had Aileene gone? His breeches were still down, and his cock was still hard and ready to go. What sort of witchcraft was that?

“Aileene?” Owen called, rubbing his face. Mayhap she’d gone to take care of business.

Owen closed his breeches over the uncomfortable erection and stood up. Everything swayed and swam.

“Aileene?” he repeated.

Her basket was gone. Should he feel hurt she left without saying goodbye? How had he fallen asleep like that? How had it gotten so dark so quickly?

He looked at his horse, and his back chilled.

The purse with the gold was gone. She’d taken it. And she’d left. How would he find her in this darkness, with his head swaying like a banner on the wind?

This was bad. This was worse than anything he’d ever done. Worse than stealing his brother’s clothes when they were bathing. Worse than drinking half a cask of uisge and accidentally hitting the estate’s best-producing ram while shooting arrows at the targets in the darkness. Worse than taking the virginity of the Mackintosh’s daughter. He might still need to marry the lass if the truth ever came out.

What a fool he was. What a fool! And why the hell had his cock not calmed down yet? That had never happened before. He didn’t feel excited at the slightest.

He should never trust himself to make good decisions. He should have known she’d steal from him. Mayhap, the entire attack had been a plot?

He’d never find her now. Too much time must have passed.

He’d best make his way back home and accept the shame he knew awaited him…and his family.

Chapter 1

Mallyne Farm near Inverlochy village, 2020

Amber heard steps outside the front door and raised her head to listen.

“Amber Ryan, stop worrying.” Her aunt shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. “It’s only Rob. He went to feed the cows.”

Amber sighed and poked her porridge with a spoon. She’d been here for a week. She should’ve gotten used to Rob, Aunt Christel’s son, feeding the cows and sheep first thing in the morning. And she should start liking porridge. Where was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she needed it?

At least Scotland had good coffee. Her mug stood on the checkered tablecloth steaming with a comforting aroma. The rustic kitchen was bathed in sunlight, but it was still cool, even in summer. Old Scottish farmhouses were probably never warm.

Or maybe Amber was just too used to the summer heat in Afghanistan. The thought sent a shiver through her, and she glanced at the door. She was safe for now. No one was coming for her.

Yet.

“I should leave you guys soon,” Amber said. “I need to keep moving. Sooner or later, the police or someone will come here with questions.”

“Aye. Well”—Aunt Christel shook her curly red hair—“you know that neither Rob nor I will say a word.”

Amber reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, it means so much that you believe me.”

Aunt Christel squeezed her hand back. “I knew your father, lass. He was my cousin, and I spent every summer with him for eighteen years. And I know he didn’t raise a murderer. People easily use a gentle soul like you. So, aye, I believe you were set up.”