The Virgin of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney Page A

least less clothed. She almost unbuttoned the first button of her dress, but his lips were on her throat now, making her forget everything.
    Oh, she hadn’t known about that spot. How delicious that was. And there, just behind her ear. She’d never imagined such a thing.
    Her lips were lonely.
    She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to press herself closer to him. Even if threatened with all the fires of damnation, she wouldn’t have released her hold. She should have stepped away, remembering who she was, their argument, and that the man who was kissing her so divinely was autocratic and annoying.
    He lowered his head slowly as if to further torture her, and again softly lay his lips on hers. Just that and nothing more. No pressure or cajoling, just the soft acquaintance of the shape of his mouth, the texture of his lips, the taste of his breath. Gently, as if she might have otherwise been frightened, he threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape.
    “Pamela,” he murmured against her lips. “I think you are Pamela. A sorceress.”
    She would be anyone he wanted.
    He tilted his head, slowly deepening the kiss, giving her a chance to refuse. One hand rested against her nape; the other was at her waist.
    She didn’t remember the room they were in, the time of day, or that Drumvagen was filled with people. Darkness shimmered beneath her eyelids, befuddlement clouded her mind. All she truly knew was him, the heat of his body, the furious beating of his heart, the soft, stroking excitement of his tongue.
    Her fingers slid up to the back of his neck, danced in his hair, cupped the back of his head and pulled him even closer. They shared their breaths, excited each other, daring in a way that was ancient and ordained by their bodies, independent of their minds.
    She wanted him. She had wanted him from the first moment she heard him talking to Macrath, the first time she’d seen him, the living, breathing embodiment of her hero. She’d imagined him, created him, and God had taken pity and delivered him to her.
    From somewhere far away she heard the crack of thunder. The windows shivered in their panes, breaking the spell, almost as if God called her back to herself.
    Stepping back, she realized her hair had fallen from its bun. She pushed it out of the way, over her shoulders, and took one more step away from him.
    He was the most dangerous creature in the world.
    If she had the wit of Lady Pamela, she wouldn’t have been embarrassed. Her heroine would have simply sailed from the room, her lips red from his kisses, uncaring when he stared after her longingly.
    “Should I offer my apologies?” he asked.
    Was she that much a hypocrite? She should have flounced from the room. Or screamed that he was accosting her. Instead, she wanted to throw herself into his arms.
    “Oh, miss!” She turned to find Annie, one of the housemaids, standing in the doorway. Her face was florid, her eyes wide.
    “What is it, Annie?”
    Had the girl witnessed their kiss?
    “Is it true, miss? Is the village flooded? One of the grooms said so and we’ve no one else to ask.”
    Her concerns faded beneath the girl’s obvious fear.
    “I don’t know, Annie,” she said, conscious that it was the first time anyone had come to her for help since she’d moved to Drumvagen. “But I’ll find out.”
    With a last glance toward the earl, she left the Great Hall.

Chapter 8
    W ithout stopping to grab a shawl, Ellice pulled open one of Drumvagen’s massive doors, racing out into the slashing rain and down the right staircase. Twice she slipped on the slick stone steps and managed to right herself.
    Once at the bottom, she picked up her sodden skirts and began to run across the glen, past the cairn stones where she often sat and read. She crossed a path that lead to the cottage in a roundabout way, heading for a growth of pines perched on the hill overlooking Kinloch Village.
    The slope had become almost