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Megan pressed her mouth to Hamish’s more firmly, and he swung her about, so his sheer bulk would block from view the identity of the woman who had dared kiss the Terror of Toulouse.
Megan Windham was a terror in her own right, sending Hamish’s common sense to the teetering brink of oblivion. She went at him with everything—wrapped her arms about him, leaned into the kiss, and into a man contemplating the complete surrender of his wits.
“Meggie, no. You needn’t kiss—”
Her breasts pressed against Hamish’s chest. Her hand slid around his waist to anchor him more closely. A damp, sweet warmth swiped against the next protest Hamish would have made. Strawberries and tart lemons, daring and desire.
Arousal leapt into the affray, and that—that delightful, damnable, male reaction—fortified Hamish’s honor. He lifted his head, but cradled Megan’s jaw, so her cheek was pressed against the lace and linen of his cravat.
“Ye daft woman, you needn’t kiss me. It’s no’ like that.”
“You daft man, I’m not kissing you because I have to. I’m kissing you because I want to. Let me go.”
She spoke through clenched teeth.
Hamish held Megan a moment longer, because he wanted to, because he had to, because a brief demonstration of self-possession on his part was a good idea all around. When he was sure she wouldn’t resume kissing him—and sure he wouldn’t resume kissing her—he let her go but did not step back, lest somebody catch sight of her.
“Your hair,” he said, passing Megan the long evening gloves folded on the table. “You’ll want to see to it.” He wanted to see to it—see to destroying what remained of her coiffure.
She ran her fingers through his locks, brisk, presuming gestures such as Hamish’s sisters might have made but never had.
“You’re presentable enough,” she said, tugging on the right glove. The undertaking was… Ach, God help him, erotic. Megan didn’t hurry, she was careful, smoothing the wrinkles out by caressing her own arm, until only a few inches of flesh between her shoulder and her elbow remained exposed.
Skin that Hamish abruptly wanted to get his mouth on. “I’m thanking the Highlander who started the fashion of wearing his sporran front and center on a stout belt, Meggie Windham. You plunder a man’s reason.”
The second glove went on even more slowly, and Megan was smiling. A woman who’d eavesdropped and picked locks knew exactly why Hamish was so thankful to that randy Highlander.
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