He maneuvered himself through the opening, then took her hands and helped her scramble through, enjoying the feel of her small hands in his. Transferring his grip to her waist, he lifted her out. He didn’t lower her to her feet right away but gazed challengingly into her eyes as he slid her down his body, enjoying the firm thrust of her nipples against his chest. The friction was delicious, and he felt her knees wobble for a moment before she found her feet.

If retreat was the measure of her desire, she desired him fiercely. She scrambled away from him with an alarmed expression the moment her toes touched the ground. He stared at her nipples, now puckered peaks beneath her chemise. She glanced down and defiantly crossed her arms across her lovely breasts, baring her teeth in a ferocious little scowl. He laughed, because she succeeded only in pushing the generous mounds together and up, increasing his desire to bury his face in her plump cleavage tenfold.

“I said doona run from me,” he reminded. “You could not hope to outdistance me.” He looked her up and down. Her skin—and he was seeing a splendid amount of it—was smooth and unscarred, bearing no sign of disease. Her waist was slim, her belly had the slight swell he adored on a wench, and although her hips were lush, he suspected she’d not yet born bairn. The harsh light of day—oft unflattering to a wench—paid this one naught but tribute, and he bit back a groan. He’d not felt so intensely desirous of a woman ever before in his life.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped.

His gaze collided with hers; she had eyes the color of a wild Scottish sea, and there was clear evidence of a storm brewing in the icy blue depths. “Why are you so prickly, English? Is it because I am a Scot?”

“It’s because you are overbearing, domineering, and pushy.”

“I am a man,” he replied easily.

“If men are allowed to behave in such an atrocious fashion, how are women supposed to act?”

“Appreciative. And among my clan we like them demanding in bed,” he added with a smile. When her gaze grew even cooler, he said, “You do not respond well to a jest. Be easy, Gwen Cassidy. I seek but to lighten your fears. You need fear naught, lass. I will care for you, despite your bad blood. Even the English can learn. On occasion,” he added, just to provoke her.

She growled—actually growled low in her throat, as if he’d so irritated her that she’d like nothing more than to kick him. He found himself hoping she would. He was aching for an excuse to tussle with her and take her soft body down beneath his. Then he’d make her growl low in her throat for an entirely different reason: a moan of desire as he buried himself between her thighs.

But feeble-minded though she might be, she knew better than to provoke contact—he could see it in her storm-filled eyes. Her lack of intelligence didn’t seem to have precluded common sense. He drew a deep breath of fresh air and smiled. He was free of the cave, alive, and would soon be home. He would uncover the traitors and reward himself with the feisty Briton. Life was rich, thought the laird of the MacKeltar.

4

Not a woman prone to violence, Gwen was taken aback by her desire to kick Drustan MacKeltar. Not to slice and dissect him verbally, which would have been the mature thing to do, but to punch him, maybe even bite him the next time he touched her. Her mind went on instant, extended sabbatical, just looking at him. She’d never met a man so hopelessly chauvinistic. He provoked the worst in her, dragging her down to a level as base and primitive as his own. She wanted to launch herself at him and pummel him. He was behaving as if, because he’d found her atop him, he owned her. Scottish lords obviously hadn’t changed much over the centuries.

She hadn’t missed his proclamation that he was an authentic “laird” rather, she’d chosen to ignore it. He’d seemed to expect a curtsy or maidenly swoon, and she would not pander to his conceit. It appeared that centuries of submission to the English hadn’t taught the Scots one damn thing about submission. He was likely one of those stuffy aristocrats who was fighting to restore Scotland’s independence so he could swagger about in his kilt and regalia like a little king. He even preferred the archaic manner of speech affected centuries past.

And he was definitely a womanizer. Smooth-talking, sexy, and entirely too touchy-feely. Probably dumb as a box of rocks, however, because all that brawn couldn’t possibly couch too much brain.

“I have to return to the inn now,” she informed him.

“There’s no need for you to seek shelter in a common tavern. You will be generously housed in my demesne. I will see to your needs.” Possessively, he cupped his hand at the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I like the way you keep your hair. ’Tis unusual, but I find it most…sensual.”