Although she’d not heard of an Ian among the MacKinnishes, they were friendly enough with the clan. Perhaps it was foolish of her, but she was no longer afraid, just curious.
Her hand flew to her cheek before she had time to stop it.
Màiri had tried to train herself over the years not to cover the mark she’d been born with, the one that elicited snickers and strange looks. But sometimes it happened when she wasn’t thinking.
She dropped her hand, gasping as he took a step toward her.
“I saw you bending down.”
If a bear could talk, he would sound that way. His voice entered her ears but settled in her chest. She wanted to hear it again.
“My ankle,” she said feebly. “It doesn’t hurt any longer.”
Which was true. Neither did she feel the cold kissing her cheeks. It was as if this man, this Ian MacKinnish, had brought the summer sun with him. She would be content to stand with him here all day.
Nay, longer than that.
“Glad to hear it.”
Still, he didn’t move. But his eyes did. They landed exactly where she’d thought they would: on her mark.
Màiri’s shoulders sank. “I was born with it.”
He did move then, taking off his glove. Standing much too close to be proper, he lifted his hand. And even though Màiri knew what he intended, even though it was so very wrong, she did not wish to stop him.
“May I?”
Nay. Of course you may not. We do not know each other. And even if we did, touching me would be highly inappropriate.
All of that would be true, and yet she found herself nodding.
His hand covered her cheek, the shock of his touch startling her at first. But when his thumb ran across her mark—the mark of the devil, according to the cruelest among them—Màiri did not once consider stopping him.
Nor did she stop him when his thumb moved from her cheek to her bottom lip.
She stood frozen, entranced, as he tugged on it ever so gently.
And then he ran it across her lip, continuing to pull on it until she could actually taste him. This was complete and utter madness. He could rape her as easily as he could seduce her.
“I would never hurt you. Or force you in any way.”
How did he know her thoughts?
The stranger closed the remaining distance between them. Màiri had to look up, and gladly did so to keep eye contact with him.
Madness, aye. And yet she did not want to pull away. No part of her wished to do so.
“You are beautiful,” he said. “This”—his thumb moved back to her mark—“makes you even more so.”
She laughed bitterly.
In response, he lowered his head. He was going to kiss her!
Nay, nay. She could not allow it. This was very, very wrong.
His lips touched hers, hesitant. She opened her mouth just slightly, as Ambrose had instructed, and MacKinnish swept inside. His tongue demanded, and she gave, unsure of precisely how to proceed.
Ambrose had not gone so far.
