Taking her by the waist, he drew her into his chamber and kicked the door shut. A fire burned low on the stone hearth, casting a glow over the stately four-poster with us tall canopy and tattered silk hangings. Rather than lead her to-the bed, he brought her to a pallet of blankets he'd laid out before the fire. He released her, went to the woodpile, and tossed several logs onto the hearth. The flames leapt, biting and hissing in a shower of sparks.

Despite the radiant heat and her enveloping cloak, Helen trembled. She felt awkward and uncertain without the reassurance of his arms. It was not that she regretted her decision. It was that she did not know what to do. Should she undress? Should she lie down?

MacBrut unwound his plaid and cast it onto the blankets. His coarse linen shirt outlined the solidity of his shoulders and chest. As he kicked off his boots, her gaze was riveted to the long, bare legs leading up to his kilt and she wondered what-if anything-he wore beneath. "Having second thoughts, m'lady?"

That mocking note was back in his voice. She lifted her chin and decided to be honest. "No. I… just don't know how to seduce a man."

His lips quirked to the verge of a smile-but not quite. Yet it was enough to soften the fierce angles of his face. "Aye, lass, that you do."

Striding to her, he undid the fastening of her cloak and let the garment fall to the floor. His hand lingered a moment on the curve of her neck, beneath the curtain of her hair. Then his moody blue gaze moved lower, and she felt the brush of his fingertips as he let down the sleeves of her shift. The loose fabric clung protectively until he peeled it to her waist and bared her breasts.

Flushed with embarrassment and desire, she lifted her hand to her bosom,, but he caught her arm before she could cover herself. His thumb caressed the tender inner skin of her wrist while he gazed at her. How strange to let a man look at her so. It made her feel wicked and wonderful. The frank admiration on his face was gratifying, especially when he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him, using his other hand to stroke her.

Sighing, she leaned her head onto his wide shoulder and closed her eyes. Her self-consciousness faded as she focused on the tactile sensations aroused by his callused fingertips. Then something wet and warm closed over her nipple. His mouth.

"Oh … I never dreamed…"

" 'Tis no dream. Remember that." And he blew on her dampened flesh.

While she whimpered from the rush of delight, he untied the tapes of her petticoats, pushed his hands inside, and found the curve of her bottom. He squeezed gently, setting off a reactionary tightening deep within her, and he caught her up in another long, openmouthed kiss.

Sweet heaven, she had been right. So right about him. Despite all his gruffness, MacBrut could be tender and loving and oh so exciting.

Somehow her undergarments fell away and she stood naked and unashamed in his arms. The world tilted as he pressed her down onto the pallet, and she felt the softness of his plaid beneath and the roughness of his clothes against her front. His kilt had ridden up, and a rodlike shape pressed into her thigh. Helen felt breathless and wanton just thinking about it, wondering why she ached to touch it, wondering what exactly he would do next. Then she could think no more when he brought his hand to her leg, smoothing up and up until his palm rested lightly at the top of her thighs, where he had handled her so crudely out in the corridor.

She stiffened, but he showed no anger now, only finesse. The tip of one finger moved… and touched a place so private and sensitive that she cried out, clutching at his arm.

"Sshh, lass. Let me stroke you. Let me prepare you."

"Prepare me?" she asked, mystified.

"Aye… I'll show you now."

He caressed her again, and the tension inside her dissolved, generating a moist heat coaxed forth by his skilled hand. She meant to lie quietly on the blankets, but her hips moved in rhythm to the rising beat of pleasure, and MacBrut crooned encouragement, his breath hot against her ear. Never had she imagined allowing a man such intimacy… or enjoying it so greatly. She shuddered with pleasure when he settled himself between her legs, his body comfortably heavy. Something hot and hard probed her tenderness, and before she could wonder at his intention, he entered her.

It hurt. Especially when he plunged deeper, driving himself to the hilt. He lay still then, his arms braced on either side of her. His chest heaved, the muscles in his neck straining as if he fought for control. In the firelight, strands of black hair gleamed around the harsh beauty of his face and the midnight eyes that gazed intently at her. Helen only realized she was biting down on her lip when he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers in a soothing gesture.

"Steady, lass. Give yourself a moment, and you'll like it more."

She did already. His size stretched her to a pleasant fullness, and a sense of awe enveloped her. So this was how it was done, this mysterious act of mating. Never had she dreamed of such an intimate joining, or the warm, insistent yearning that made her reach out and draw him down onto her.

"I do like it," she whispered. "Very much."

He nestled his face in her hair, his voice husky in her ear. "And now I'll make you love it."

He moved slowly. In and out, commencing a rhythm that called to a primal craving buried within her. She lifted her hips to take him in deeper, but it wasn't enough. She wanted… something more. Something beyond her reach… something that wrested small moans of frustration from her as she surged with him, clinging to his shoulders, feeling the urgency build and build in her. She closed her eyes, focusing on the place where they were linked, the place that clenched to a tightness beyond belief.

"Let go," he said, panting. "Fall into it, lass."

"Into… what?"

Even as she asked, she knew. Rapture flooded her body, and she cried out with the swift plunge into paradise. She lost herself in the pulsations of pure white light, barely conscious of his final drive, his savage shout. 9

Limp and replete, she drifted by degrees back to herself. The fire crackled into the silence, enhancing the sense of cozy well-being. She knew a contentment deeper and richer than anything she had experienced in her life. And it was all due to the massive man who lay sprawled atop her, his body still joined to hers in that wondrous way.

MacBrut. Who would have thought she could find such incredible joy with a man she'd met only hours earlier? A man who hid his true sensitivity behind the bristly skin of a beast.

A great tenderness washed through her, a feeling of closeness to this man who had initiated her into the secret society of womanhood. Snuggling against him, she breathed in his scent along with that ineffable sweetness…

"Roses," she murmured in surprise. "These blankets smell of roses."

He said nothing, his face turned from her, his cheek resting on her hair.

Helen glanced past him, at the chamber with its fine mahogany furniture in contrast to the rough stone walls. "These blankets must have belonged to the lady of the castle. What happened to her?"

The muscles of his back tensed beneath her hand. Still, he did not raise his head, though he grunted his displeasure.

His refusal to speak only endeared him to her. He was a pussycat beneath that lion's growl. Then a horrid thought struck her: what if this room had once belonged to his wife? What if he had suffered the terrible loss of her?

Sympathy brought tears to Helen's eyes. If he didn't wish to be questioned on the matter, then she owed him the courtesy of turning her curiosity elsewhere. And she did have so many questions. She ached to learn everything about him.

She stroked the rough silk of his hair. Softly, she said, "I don't even know your first name."

He mumbled something indistinct.

"I beg your pardon?"

He lifted his head slightly and shot her a wary glance. "Alexander."

"Alexander." She smiled, studying his fierce features and deciding the name fit, for it reflected the blend of civilized man and wild beast. "Alexander MacBrut."

"Nay. Alexander, the MacBrut. 'Tis the way the laird of the clan is known."

Startled, she blinked. Of course. He was no ordinary Highlander.

And that explained why he lived in this castle. Why he carried himself with an aura of command. "If you're the laird, then where are your people?" "They live in the village."

"But they must have lived here once. That pitiful dining table-"

"Enough of your bletherin'." His expression hardening, he levered himself to his feet. "Women like to natter on about matters that dinna concern them. 'Twould seem you're the worst of the lot."

In half-naked magnificence he towered over her, and Helen could scarcely think. "I merely wondered-"

"Then take your wondering back to your own bed." He snatched up her shift and tossed it at her. "Now."

As she sat up, the chill of the air seeped into her, chasing away the warmth and lassitude of their lovemaking. "How can you speak so harshly after what we just shared?"

"I had my pleasure, and you had yours. But 'tis over, and I've no stomach for useless chatter." Pivoting away, he turned his attention to adjusting the folds of his kilt.

Despite her determination to see the good in him, his rejection hurt. How could she explain her longing for romance, for soft words and parting kisses? She hadn't anticipated this brutal ending to her night of discovery. It left her feeling vaguely used and unclean.

With trembling fingers she donned her clothing, covering herself with the cloak. She paused a moment, looking at Alexander the MacBrut, who had shown her such ecstasy.