He put his palm on the back of her head, drawing her in. She thought he would kiss her, but he hesitated, as if to let her body grow accustomed to his, as if savoring that he was about to kiss her as he had savored the whisky.

The second he placed his lips on hers and slanted his mouth, heat shot through her body. When he kissed down the side of her neck, she sucked in a breath, staggered by the feelings. His hands found her backside and he yanked her into him—hard—until she could feel his erection, huge against her belly. This is wrong— His lips were warm and firm and quelled the thought.

He molded her backside with insistent fingers, squeezing her into him, then grasping her around the waist to—oh, Mare de Déu—move her pelvis against him. Wrong! her mind cried.

Just as she would pull away, he gathered her closer to kiss her earlobe, and she wondered, mystified, why she'd deemed this so terrible. They weren't doing more than pressing bodies together. Of course, he wouldn't make love to her.

Before she had any comprehension of what he was doing, he'd unfastened the top few buttons of her shirt and would've done more if she hadn't seized the next button in her fist. He made some noise as if her action amused him, but he didn't continue. He spread what he'd opened, uncovering her upper chest to her chemise, then placed his hands on her back to arch her to him. To her bewilderment, he groaned deeply and rubbed the side of his face against the tops of her breasts. She felt the low guttural sound, and it frightened her, but not more than it exhilarated her.

Her brows drew together as she watched him—he kissed her skin as if he'd lost himself. That's what had happened to her—she'd lost herself. Her mind was separate, as if looking on, noting her body's response as he set her atop the desk to stand between her legs. Her breasts were growing heavy and sensitive, and her own panting breaths sounded loud.

She was embarrassed that he heard her like this, and that he was the cause. Embarrassed that he saw her with her skirts hiked up her legs nearly to her garters and her blouse partially unbuttoned.

"Let me see your hair." He rasped the words against her damp skin, and she trembled. "I know the treasures you hide. I've seen them."

Hazily, she wondered when, but then he kissed at the line of her chemise, and she couldn't bite back a soft moan, the pleasure was so intense. He raised his face to brush his lips over her ear, and she could feel his warm breath there. He'd begun loosening her hair, and she wanted him to.

With each kiss, Annalía wanted to show this brutal Highlander more of her, to bare her breasts and let her hair down so he could run his fingers through it. But when it fell about her, he didn't touch her so gently. He wrapped the ends around his fist as his lips returned insistent against her neck. His tongue flicked her skin, and her eyes flashed open, then slowly slid closed.

But he tensed and drew back, releasing her.

"Què li passa?" she murmured. As if coming out of a daze, she opened her eyes and repeated in English, "What is it?"

She heard it then—the coming of riders into the manor's courtyard.

"Stay here," he ordered, his face more menacing than she had ever seen it. "Lock the door behind me and doona come out for any reason. Do you ken?"

In the space of a heartbeat, the fierce look of intent had vanished, replaced by one of barely controlled fury.

When she didn't answer, he grabbed her shoulders. "Anna, do you understand?"

"Yes," she began, but the voices of several men sounded, just before a pounding on the front door.

They were Scottish.

"We're looking for Courtland MacCarrick," a man shouted.

MacCarrick relaxed and put his forehead against hers. His hand rested on her face and his thumb stroked her bottom lip. "They're no' known for their timing."

More of them? The thought of additional Highlanders traipsing across her property made her insides roil. She prayed Vitale wouldn't wake.

Now that the fire in her blood had cooled, shame set in. With fumbling hands she pulled her blouse together and turned her face away. He drew back from her and seemed angered by her reaction.

"More Highlanders?"

"Aye. We'll stay until I can ride."

"Stay?" She choked out the word. "They don't have permission to be on this mountain. You will tell them to leave."

"Always imperious. One day you'll learn that I doona take orders. You might also ken that men like me doona appreciate it when lasses like you try to play with them."

She'd been buttoning her blouse and slowed at his last comment. She knew she'd made a mistake, but still cried, "But they're not welcome here!"

"You said I was no' welcome as well," he grated in an impatient tone. "Yet you were moments away from gladly taking me into more than your home."

She gasped. "I was not! A kiss is a far cry from lying with a man."

"No' just with 'a man,'" he bit out. "With me." He pushed forward once more, forcefully wedging himself between her closed knees. His body was hot against her even through her clothes.

"Then I certainly was not going to!"

His lips curved into a cruel smile. He put his hand against her backside again, trapping her closer, and growled the words, "I was about to enjoy you on this desk. Rip aside your skirts and take you here like the animal you called me."

"A-Against my will?" she responded unevenly, almost rendered speechless by his words. She tried to inch back on the desk. "Because that's the only way it would happen."

He leaned in to say at her ear, "No' against your will. You'd be begging for me inside you." He lingered there, as if to make sure she heard him, then lightly touched his face down her neck.

She gasped again, her shame deepening because even his words stirred her, made her want his lips against her breasts again, his breath hot against them.

When he drew back from her, his expression was cold. "If you ever try to use your wiles on me again, expect that I'll use you back a thousand times—"

"Court? Are you in there?" one of them called from outside. "Is anybody home?"

He exhaled a long breath, then eased her legs closed to brush down her skirt with great familiarity, as if he knew her, as if they'd done this a hundred times. Strangely, that gesture was more confusing to her than anything he'd done before.

"Listen to me. We will no' be long here. Just a couple of days." He turned to walk away.

"And I should take your word for it?" she whispered, but he heard her and strode back once more, his hand shooting out to palm the back of her neck and force her to look up to him.

"Know this, Annalía. You should never take my word. When you trust me, you will regret it."

"I don't want them here," she said in a low voice. "Any more than I want you."

His expression darkened ominously. "The only thing we respond to is force." He raked his gaze over her. "And you doona have any."

Six

A s Court made his way through the house, he tried to get a grasp of what had just happened. Staring at her eyes, at her plump lips, he'd had a hard time concentrating, but he'd known that she didn't want him—at least not at first. Her actions had been calculated. She'd had an agenda, and it had been a blow.

He'd finally gotten to kiss her, and he'd been left…empty. That she'd seemed to catch on fire like a wick soothed his pride somewhat. Christ, he'd spoken the truth—he'd had a real chance of taking her on the table. And he wouldn't have hesitated.

But now the emptiness turned to ire. He'd truly wanted her while she only wanted something from him—to what end he was sure he'd find out soon enough.

At the front entrance he paused, putting a hand against the wall beside the door, shaking off her effect on him. He curled his fingers against the plaster, willing his body under control, then finally opened the door wide to five of his crew.

"Court!" exclaimed Gavin MacKriel, the oldest of their band. "By God, it's good to see you."

When the man took his shoulders, Court frowned and slapped him on the back with his better hand, then again until Gavin released him and moved on.

MacTiernay, the one-eyed giant, looked him up and down, then punched him in the upper chest in greeting before walking past.

Court stared after him. That was more emotion than MacTiernay had ever demonstrated. Then Niall, his cousin, slapped him on the back, and Liam, the youngest, was about to as well until Court gave him a look of warning. The last inside, Fergus, who'd earned the nickname The Sleeping Scot, actually looked awake and glad to see him.

He showed them in and then on into the parlor. As if he owned the place. "Where are the rest?"

Liam had already nabbed a pear from a fruit-laden bowl in the foyer. At nineteen he was still growing and could eat double his weight in food every day. He took a bite and said between chews, "They have been searching for a body for your kin to bury."

"I appreciate the sentiment." Court took a seat at the main table, feeling weak from their greetings. Nothing like Highlanders striking you to get your mind off a woman. "You were that sure I was dead?"

"We followed your pair of Rechazados," Fergus answered as he eased himself into a seat, "then persuaded them to partake in one last conversation. They told us they'd killed you."

"That was the plan. You took out two? We're at forty-seven, then?"

"Forty-seven and counting," Gavin said. "I hope you told them we were coming to kill them."

"Aye, I did. It dinna have the effect I was hoping for, but satisfies now."