Legend Of The Highland Dragon by Isabel Cooper Page A

Mina had understood how girls could get carried away. In comparison to the longing she felt now, even through her rage, those earlier sensations were pale and cold and abstract.
    Perhaps it was that she was older, or that Stephen was older—well, much older—than those lads from her past. Perhaps it was that she was better rested now and better fed. But Mina didn’t think either of those reasons explained all the difference. Even remembering MacAlasdair’s mouth over hers, or the strength in his arms as he held her against him, had her body longing to repeat the experience. And not remembering was hard work.
    She didn’t even like MacAlasdair, not really. She certainly hadn’t wanted to kiss him—not really—not then, at least. It had been horrible and arrogant and forceful.
    And Mina kept wondering what it would be like to do it again.
    Eventually, the remnants of lust subsided, the pacing wore her body out, and she could make herself sleep, though her dreams were restless and she was glad not to remember them in the morning. When she woke, for the first time since she’d come to MacAlasdair’s house, she looked at the door as a safeguard. If she stayed in her room, she wouldn’t have to face him yet.
    But, if she stayed in her room, he’d know she didn’t want to face him. She wouldn’t see Professor Carter, either, and she wouldn’t get out of the house. MacAlasdair would have won—and Mina would still be trapped and probably start climbing the walls any day.
    She dressed and thought of girding her loins, then tried not to think about loins again.
    When Mina strode into the dining room, it was with every particle of self-possession, every ounce of formality and propriety that she’d learned since she’d decided to become secretary to a scholar. Every muscle in her back felt rigid. She blessed her foundation garments.
    MacAlasdair was at the head of the table as usual, with her place set nearby. As usual, he lowered the paper as Mina entered the room.
    When he met her eyes, there suddenly seemed to be much less space around them. He filled the room as he filled the chair: big, powerful, commanding.
    Mina quickly took her seat. Only then did she notice a difference in the table. At her right hand, a little ways away from her breakfast dishes, was a silver tray. Someone had laid out several sheets of stationery on its surface, as well as two envelopes, three black fountain pens, and a sheet of stamps.
    Mina blinked.
    Right, then.
    Slowly, with careful, controlled movements, she poured tea. Added sugar and cream. Buttered a scone. Pretended that she wasn’t watching MacAlasdair out of the corner of her eye.
    Then, when she could trust herself, she spoke. “That’s quite…comprehensive. Everything a correspondent could ask for.”
    “I’m glad to hear it,” said MacAlasdair. “I’ll be meeting with Carter this noontime, if you’ll be ready by then.” He sounded very casual, but his gaze never left Mina’s face.
    She smiled. There was certainly no harm in that. He’d keep his distance now, and so would she. It was a virtue to be gracious in victory, Mina had heard. “I’ll write after breakfast,” she said. “If you’d like to read the letter before I seal it, I’ll be in the study.”
    ***
    The door opened as Mina was on the last page of her letter, finishing a paragraph about the view from her bedroom window. It could have been a servant coming in to clean or to tell her something, but she knew it was MacAlasdair even before she lifted her head.
    “The first two pages are on the table,” she said. “Have a look if you’d like. I’ll be done in a moment.”
    “Thank you,” he said and smiled—diffidently, for the first time since Mina had met him. He ran a hand through his dark hair and seemed about to say something, but ended up crossing the room in silence.
    Mina bent to her letter, trying to ignore the way her skin prickled at MacAlasdair’s approach. She saw his hand, large and