She heard his ragged intake of breath. How strange that it disturbed him so to be called a liar when he had admitted it himself. “I—” He paused for so long that she decided he had changed his mind about finishing his sentence, so she started to walk away.
Suddenly, she found her arm in his grip. He whirled her around to face him before she could protest, and then he pulled her so close that they were merely a hairsbreadth apart. His warm breath fanned her face, and the heat his body radiated enveloped her. “I wish I could I have forgotten ye. Ye have haunted me as a ghost would.”
“A ghost?” she asked, a strange, warm, delicious heat spreading from where his hands now gripped both her arms to her entire body.
“Aye,” he replied, the word a rumble from his chest.
“That is a strange compliment to give. I have nae ever been compared to a ghost. I believe to call me an enchantress would be a much finer compliment.” Her heart beat viciously at his nearness.
“Ye are certainly that,” he bit out, “for I find I still desire ye even now.”
“Desire all ye wish, but ye will nae ever have me.”
“Nay,” he agreed, sounding almost desolate, but that could not be. “I will nae have ye, but, God’s bones…” With that, he pulled her to him and his mouth captured hers in a ravenous kiss that stole her breath.
She could not think beyond her leaping senses. It was as if a part of her that died had just been resurrected against her will. Her heart hammered, and a pulsing knot formed in her stomach as his tongue gently slid into her mouth and his heat invaded her. Her limbs ached to touch him, and she found her fingers suddenly tangled in his thick, wavy hair. His tongue swirled around hers, inviting her to let down her guard, encouraging her to forget. She felt like clay to be molded by only his hands. He left her lips to kiss her neck, her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. His hands cupped her face, uneven breaths flowing over her.
“Mo chridhe,”he whispered.
It was as if she had been dropped into an icy loch where she was pricked with painful reality. With a cry, she shoved away from him, angry at herself for her weakness and angrier still at him.
“Yer heart,” she ground out, pleased her words vibrated with rage. “Dunnae tell me I am yer heart!” She was about to say he did not have one, but she bit down on her treacherous tongue until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She itched to slap him, but she refused to reveal how he had once hurt and humiliated her. Instead, she shoved past him with a growl and marched blindly into the woods, not caring at the moment whether she reached his castle or not.
