Highlander Untamed by Monica Mccarty Page A

“I’m glad you are pleased,” he said. Before she could respond, he turned back to Alex.
    Somehow, she made it through the evening meal. For once, she was grateful that he ignored her. Her mind was racing in every direction, and she feared a repeat of her earlier blunder.
    With Bessie’s help, Isabel donned a beautiful night rail of ivory silk, chosen by her uncle for this very occasion. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t much to it. The thin swath of cloth clung to all her womanly parts in a manner that left little to the imagination. Isabel felt a bit like a trussed-up goose, but she set aside her qualms and allowed Bessie to fuss over her.
    After some uncomfortable last-minute explanations from Bessie that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, Isabel was alone. She slid under the covers and waited.
    And waited.
    For hours, Isabel lay in bed clutching the coverlet to her chin, her nerves as sharp as the edge of a blade. Her heart pounded frantically. Her ears strained to hear the sound of booted footsteps from the corridor. But it was a sound that never came.
    Eventually, it became painfully obvious that he did not intend to join her.
    More disappointed than she wanted to acknowledge, Isabel blew out the single taper next to the big bed and slept. Restlessly.
     
    Seven long nights later, Rory stared at the woman sleeping not five feet away and told himself he was being ridiculous. One wee lass should not keep him from his bed.
    He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since he’d ordered her to his room. Isabel had invaded his room, his bed, and his thoughts. The room even smelled of her, enticing him with the sweet, seductive scent of lavender. Night after night, he found himself sitting by the fire, drinking whisky by the bottle to dull the edge of desire, gazing at the comfortable bed, and devising reasons why he should not sleep there.
    Last night had nearly proved too much. She’d kicked off the covers in her sleep and lay on her side with her arm stretched above her head, her full breasts high and beckoning. Rory could see every curve of her lush figure, clad only in a wispy night rail. He ached to test the soft roundness of her breast in his palm, to run his hands along the curve of her hips and bottom, and to wrap those long slim legs around his waist as he plunged inside her. The images haunted him all night—it had proved to be a very long night.
    But not tonight. Tonight he was sleeping in his own bed.
    Rory removed his shirt and plaid, placed them over the chair, and, careful not to disturb her, slid under the coverlet. He held perfectly still. When nothing happened, he relaxed. Grinning, he called himself a fool. What had he thought? That lying beside her would be a temptation too impossible to resist? Ridiculous. He closed his eyes and slept.
    The soft rays of morning teased his eyelids. But Rory didn’t want to wake up; he was too damn comfortable. He snuggled closer to the smooth silk coverlet. He buried his nose deeper into the soft spray of lavender that filled his pillow and inhaled deeply.
    His eyes popped open. He didn’t have lavender in his pillows. Nor did he have a silk coverlet. The soft bundle in his arms was not a coverlet, but a scantily clad Isabel. And the lavender wafted from her hair and not from his pillow. It took him a moment to realize that his arm was tucked under her plump breasts, that she had her bottom pressed firmly against his groin, and that he had an erection the size of Mt. Olympus.
    The weight of her breasts on his arm was too much. One hand slid up to cup her. He muffled a groan as all that soft, deliciously heavy flesh filled his hand. It felt too damn good. Her nipple hardened in his palm, and Rory ached to rub it between his fingers, to stroke her until she arched against him. She was so warm and soft, so sweetly feminine. And he’d been waiting too long. His hips moved closer, increasing the pressure of her tight bottom pressed against his now throbbing