*Chapter 8*

It was a soft, searching kiss.

Felicia had always wondered how a kiss would taste, would feel. Now she knew.

It was pure wonder.

Her body trembled, even as she felt his body tense. Though his lips were gentle as they explored and tested, she sensed he was fighting against the attraction that bounced like lightning strikes between them.

His mouth opened. His tongue darted along her lips, inviting them to part. She yielded, caught in the moment, in a special enchantment that made her forget all her misgivings, all her warnings to herself.

She hadn't expected the fire that erupted deep inside, the blaze that enveloped both of them. Or the odd yearning that seized her as she moved closer to him.

She touched his face, the stark angles, just as he had touched hers. A shudder ran through his body, making her aware that he was as affected as she. His right arm pulled her closer against his body as he released her lips and gave her an almost bewildered look.

His eyes closed, and then with a heavy sigh, he leaned back down and touched her lips again, this time with a sweet, lost wistfulness that held her in its spell. There was both surrender and poignancy in his touch. The longing inside her deepened, became a fiery craving throughout her body.

His kiss became harder, more demanding, almost ruthless. His tongue invaded her mouth, just as his body blatantly sought hers, and she responded shamelessly, fitting her body into his, feeling the change of his.

She reacted instinctively. Surprised, even shocked, by a knowledge she never knew she had, she wound her hands around his neck and played with the thick hair along his nape. A moan ripped from his throat, and she leaned back. His eyes were dark with passion. And pain.

Her heart ached for him, even as her body burned. He must have seen those feelings in her eyes, because he suddenly tore himself away with such violence that she stumbled back and nearly fell.

His hand caught her, holding her steady with an easy strength. The muscles in his shoulders bunched, and his breathing was labored as he obviously battled himself for control.

She did not want that.

"I apologize, my lady," he said in a harsh voice. "I had no right."

He had every right. She had invited it.

"You are promised to someone else," he continued. "You are here against your will. You are vulnerable. I acted dishonorably."

She stiffened her back. "I wanted you to kiss me," she said in the direct manner that usually got her in trouble.

His eyes were agonized. "You do not know what you want," he said, "and I took advantage of that."

She had always been told the Macleans were dishonorable. She'd had no reason to disbelieve it. But now she knew that description did not include at least one Maclean.

For a moment, she wished he lived up to that abominable reputation. Her body ached, her heart pounded, and her blood sizzled. If she could not reach Jamie and safety, could she truly accept life as a consort to Lord Morneith? Or spend her life in a convent if so decreed by her uncle, because her reputation would be destroyed? She had welcomed the thought days ago. It was unbearable now. How could she never know the reality of the promise she'd just tasted?

The desire? The anticipation? The tingling in every part of her body? She'd never felt so alive.

She wanted to tell him she was not Janet Cameron, that she was not promised to Jamie Campbell. But she 'was' promised to a monster whose kisses, she knew, would be nothing like the one she'd just experienced.

Would the admission make a difference?

She could not risk it. However attracted he might be to her--and that itself was a miracle--she was but a woman to be bartered or sold. Most likely he agreed. Most men did.

She could have today, though. These few days. And perhaps if her reputation was sullied, Morneith would not want her.

She could seduce the Maclean! Once that fact became known, surely she would be tarnished goods. Not even Morneith would want her if all of Scotland knew she preferred the Campbell's most hated enemy to him.

How did one go about seducing someone determined to be honorable? She had never been seductive in her life. And yet there was certainly something between them, a connection that caused sparks whenever they were together. She did not understand it, or even trust it.

But mayhap she could use it.

'Unless it used her', she warned herself.

She gazed up at him.

A muscle throbbed in his throat. She sensed he was having as much difficulty as she in turning away.

He stepped back, obviously more successful than she in making that first move apart. She could not let him go now. If she did, he would send her to the Camerons in the morning, and all her efforts would have been for naught.

She decided to swoon. She had never swooned before in her life. Still, she tried. She swayed and started to fall.

He instinctively put his arms around her again. Her body pressed against his, and she felt its hardness.

He cursed in a low voice.

But he did not move away this time.

She looked up and fluttered her eyelashes as she had seen Janet do with Jamie.

It was surprisingly easy since the air was suddenly still with a thrumming tension.

His face changed, his eyes becoming dark, and brooding, and wanting. Her body instinctively moved into his, and she was swept into a whirlpool of feelings that were uncontrollable. Her face turned upward, inches from his.

Then his lips were on hers again, and the kiss became more demanding, even desperate.

His tongue searched, teased, seduced until she felt her legs might collapse under her. She'd never felt anything like this, not this wild, mindless elation. Tremors of pleasure ran through her, as his tongue and hands created a flood of heady sensations.

She did not care about seducing him to avoid marriage now. She was too filled with new needs. She knew desire now for what it was. She knew its depth and intensity. It smothered every caution and thought.

He took his mouth from hers, and his lips burned a trail down the side of her face with unrestrained passion.

A knock. Another. For a fleeting second it was muted by the intensity between them. Then it came again, louder and insistent.

The Maclean stepped back, shaking his head as if to bring himself back to reality, then looked at her with an expression of chagrin and disbelief. As if he could not believe he had kissed her.

Neither could she. She knew her face must be flushed with color.

Another knock.

The Maclean mumbled what sounded like an oath to her, then opened the door.

She heard the steward's voice.

"Rory, a runner just came in. The Campbells have attacked the village near their border. Took cattle. Burned crofts. Trampled fields. Two crofters were killed. Many wounded."

Felicia's blood cooled as Rory Maclean stiffened. "Have a horse saddled for me. Pick fifteen men. We will leave within the hour."

The door closed. Douglas had not seen her, and she was glad. But Rory would see her stricken expression.

Her clan had attacked his. Douglas's words kept echoing over and over in her head.

Because they were searching for her?

She leaned against a wall. Had she been responsible--in some way--for the deaths of innocents? Had her disappearance sparked unreasoning retribution?

Rory turned to her. Hot anger had replaced the desire that had been there just seconds earlier. Anger and resolve.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It is not your doing, lass," he said. He touched her cheek for a moment with a wistful finality. "I should not have been here when my clansmen are in danger. I can only ask that you forgive me."

She heard the guilt in his voice, but she had no chance to say more.

"Lachlan will accompany you home. Again, my apologies for your misadventure." The wistfulness had left his voice. It was impersonal now, all his vital intensity--everything that so attracted her--turned to protecting his people.

What if he knew she might be the cause?

Guilt and a terrible sense of loss filled her as he gave her one last look, then disappeared out the door.

'Damn these cold, damp Highlands.'

Rory and his men wended their way to the outlying village. The night was as cold as it had been several nights earlier when they'd stolen Campbell cattle. Had the destruction of a Maclean village been in kind?

When would it ever stop?

At least the bitter wind brought him back to reality.

Rory needed that cold. It reminded him of duty. It took his mind away from the Cameron lass.

Why did she so bedevil his thoughts? She was no beauty.

Yet deep inside he knew. She had a passion for life that had been missing in his all too long. It glowed in her eyes even as she tried to hide her emotions. It was in the kiss, in her response, even in the way she'd engaged him rather than cower in fear or strike out in anger.

'The devil take it'. He could not afford the distraction. He looked around. Archibald rode on one side, Douglas on the other.

He was grateful for their silence. He nursed his thoughts, tried to quench the fires that still raged inside him.

By all the saints, what had he almost done?

He had nearly broken a vow. He had allowed himself to become distracted when he should be attending to the business of the clan.

God's eyes. She was nothing like Maggie. Or Anne. Both had been physically lovely and sweet and caring in disposition.

Janet's eyes flamed like an out-of-control fire. He suspected that she had as many thorns as petals. But a man wanted to smile when Janet did. Her eyes lit, and a small dimple appeared in her cheek. And in the sun or candlelight, her hair took on the shine of copper.

She was both calm and peace, and fire and storm.

The combination was irresistible to him.

And a challenge.

A challenge he had to refuse. He was a trader, and a trader spent months, even years at sea.

Worse, he was a Jonah.

Even had that not been true, she was pledged to another. He'd reacted as he had because it had been years since he'd been with a woman.

But he was not a man to lie, even to himself, and he knew that was not entirely true. Aye, he'd wanted to touch that flaming hair, rub his hand down her flushed cheeks, lock his arms around her body. He wanted to feel her and taste her. The devil take it, he wanted to bury himself in her.

Even now, his loins tightened at the thought of her standing there, looking up at him with something like wonder in her eyes.

He'd felt the desire in her. He also recognized the awakening. There was an innocence mixed with passion that had been intoxicating. More than intoxicating. For a moment, the aching loneliness had left him.

And that was dangerous. He had come home to solve problems. Not to create them. A liaison with a woman pledged to the son of the enemy he hoped to lead into a truce was pure madness.

She would be gone when he returned. He had made Lachlan pledge to take her back to the Camerons on the morn. They would probably never meet again.

He spurred his horse on. The others increased their pace to match his. He wanted to be at their destination by dawn. Perhaps by riding hard, he could ignore the hole opening in his heart.

He smelled the destruction even before they arrived.

Then he heard the keening. The sound of death.

Archibald blew on his horn to tell the village that friends were approaching.

Silently, clansmen crowded around them as they approached the smoldering ashes of the crofts.

Some knew him from years earlier when he rode and raided the Campbell properties. Others looked at him with curiosity, still others with anger.

"We ha' wounded," said one man. "Our healer was killed when she tried to stop them."

"How many dead?" he asked. "How many wounded?"

"Three dead now," another man stepped forward. His tone was belligerent. "Eight wounded, including a mere lass who was trampled. We ha' no protection. Now we ha' no homes, no cattle. Our fields were destroyed."

"What is your name?" he asked.