The Highlander's Sin by Eliza Knight Page A

temples, soaking the tresses that framed her face.
    But what she actually woke to was even scarier than a heathen rat. She was cocooned in warmth and hard, male flesh. She was lying on her side, her legs entangled with Duncan’s muscled thighs—crisp hairs tickling her calf and the bottom of her foot. And her arm was draped so casually over his bare chest, as though it belonged there, palm flat over his steadily beating heart.
    Pushing up on her elbow, she saw that Duncan was wide awake, gazing at her with an odd expression she couldn’t decipher. Watching her. How long had he known they lay like this, and why hadn’t he attempted to remove her?
    “Ye’re finally awake,” he muttered, his voice tight.
    “Aye,” Heather breathed, carefully removing herself from his amazing form. She gazed at him, nude from the waist up and only the plaid blanket covering his lower half. “Ye were dressed before.” Her heart kicked up a notch.
    “I’m still dressed.” He tugged down the blanket, showing he wore his own tartan wrapped around his waist.
    Thank goodness for at least being partially clothed. She cleared her throat. “Where is your shirt?”
    He raised a brow and picked it up from beside him. “Right here. I was hot. Have ye never seen a man’s chest?”
    None that had ever made her stare, nor feel such tingly heat… Broad shoulders. Thick, corded muscles. Dark, swirling chest hair.
    “Of course I have,” she retorted. “I do have three brothers.”
    Duncan rolled up, displaying a wicked crunch of abdominal muscles. If she’d had a fan, the accoutrement would have been put to full use. Heather found her mouth suddenly dry, her heart pounding as though she’d faced the rat again. But this was no rat by far, but something infinitely more sinister—she was starting to like her captor.
    To anticipate… What? A kiss?
    Heather leapt up from her makeshift bed and planted her hands on her hips. “Why were ye touching me?” She didn’t bother to curb the accusation.
    Duncan shook his head and grinned at her like she was a silly child. “Och, lass, did ye not see that ye were the one touching me? I but lay there enjoying your attention.”
    “And allowed it.” She narrowed her eyes until they were little slits and she could barely see, hoping he would finally take heed of the seriousness of the situation.
    Duncan laughed. “Ye look like a fool when ye try to glare too hard.”
    Heather gasped and removed her hands from her hips, crossing them instead over her chest, as though to protect herself from his assault on her pride. The man was full of rubbish and an imbecile to boot. She sniffed. “I am not a fool.”
    “Then admit it.” His lopsided grin was starting to irritate her immensely.
    “Admit what? I just told ye I’m no fool.”
    Duncan stood up, his muscles unfolding in such a display of raw male power, Heather was stunned speechless. Arms fell from their crossed position. It seemed like every breath she took hinged on watching the display of masculinity. Her eyes roved over the breadth of his chest, the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms. She dared not look lower, because there was a tempting line of hair and muscle that seemed to arrow just beneath his plaid. Instinctively, she knew if she looked there , it would only lead to something more. The details of what something was, she wasn’t sure, but it most likely involved kissing, and that, they’d both decided, was not a good idea to repeat.
    “Admit ye were touching me.”
    Heather looked up toward the rafters, in part because she was praying for patience, but also because she had to take her eyes off of his chest. “Put a shirt on,” she snapped.
    “Admit it first.”
    She flung her arms out in exasperation. “Fine! I was the one touching ye. But I will not admit that I did it on purpose. I must have rolled over in my sleep and touched ye by accident.”
    “If ye say so. I say ye cuddled next to me and purred all the night