Paralyzed with riveting sensation, she could not breathe; he had stolen her ability. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and plucked at her nipple with his fingers.

Grasping a handful of his clothing, his wool plaid, she groaned, shocked at the wanton noise she made and the need that filled her. Her back arched, and she pushed her derriere against his hard shaft. Near out of her mind with arousal, she turned her head toward him, ready to beg, and he immediately captured her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

She couldn’t bear another moment of these exquisite sensations. She might well splinter like a falling star.

Something thumped, jerking her from this sensual dream and away from Alasdair—a log in the fireplace had shifted and sparks showered the hearth.

What am I doing? Her body aching, she glanced up at him from inches away.

The renewed fire illuminated Alasdair’s passion-filled expression and lowered brows. He looked like he wanted to bite her, ravish her. She yearned to do the same to him but—heavens.

“Mo chreach. I swore to myself I wouldn’t do that. But you’re so—” He blew out a harsh breath.

I must go while I still can. While I can still make a rational decision. Stumbling toward the door, she tried to calm her ragged breathing and will some strength into her wobbly legs.

I must leave the Highlands before I become a slave to mine own desires and the drugging effects of this man.

***

When Gwyneth fled the library, closing the door behind her, Alasdair sucked in a deep breath, trying to drive away some of the lust engulfing him. He could not recall being so aroused in his life.

“Damnation! I’m daft,” he muttered, approaching the mantel and leaning an arm upon it. He should not have accosted her with such force. Likely she would never speak to him again, and who could blame her? He was no gentleman. Nay, he was a rogue, in truth. But her sweet delicious mouth. Her soft breast…in his hand…it had fit so perfectly. Her nipple peaked, aroused. He would give near anything to taste it, draw it into his mouth. Her silky skin and her scent seduced him. Thought deserted him when he touched her. The wanting near consumed him. He turned into naught more than an animal that craved to have her beneath him. The drive to taste, to claim, to possess clutched at his gut.

Though he was loath to admit it, she was amazing to him…lovely beyond words. He could never tire of looking into her blue eyes, like the summer sky, and he could not yet comprehend all he saw there—intelligence, sensuality, caring. More. His carnal side said he could never allow her to leave. But deep in his vitals he knew if she stayed, he might well lose his heart. Again. And what if she left after that? He could not bear to give up another woman he loved. The last one had near killed him.

Nay, he must control his carnal urges. Though when he was in her presence, controlling himself was the most difficult thing on earth.

The clan…that’s what he must focus on. They would be occupied for the next several days rebuilding the village, replacing the roofs. He would spend all his time working with the men, and he would have no time or energy to think about the lady who had bewitched him.

***

Four days later, Gwyneth paused on her way into the village alehouse where the midday meal for the workers would be served. Bright sunlight gleamed down, heating her skin and brightening her mood. She had hardly seen or spoken to Alasdair during the past few days. He had kept himself occupied, and she had as well. Still, it was impossible to forget the shocking but delectable incident in the library.

Padraig, one of the soldiers who’d been injured in the attack, stood by the door, his attention focused on the men thatching roofs across the way.

“How are you feeling, Padraig?” she asked.

He jerked as if she’d burned him. “M’lady, pray pardon. I didn’t see you there.” He bowed, cradling his wounded arm. “I’m much better. Thanks to God for blessing you with healing skills.”

“I’m glad you’re recovering.” She strode inside the alehouse where several female servants worked, removing food from baskets and readying it for all the workers. The stone floor and walls of the building still smelled of smoke, but the new timbers and fresh thatch overhead gave her a feeling of hope. Gwyneth put down her loaves of bread on a new table near the back which she’d covered with a cloth earlier.

“I would much rather be on one of the roofs,” Padraig said behind her.

She jumped and turned. Was he following her?

“Nonsense, sir. You are not yet well enough to help with the thatching.”

“But I will be soon, thanks to you,” he said eagerly. His craggy face looked ruddy in the dimness. “’Tis glad I am that you came to our clan.”

Good Lord! Surely he was not thinking to court her.

“Would you like a piece of bread? It’s still warm from the oven.” After slicing a thick chunk from the loaf, she handed it to him, hoping to halt his talkativeness.

“Many thanks. You are most kind, m’lady. Most kind, indeed.”

While she sliced bread, he launched into a tale about a cow and three lads. She laughed and realized Rory would love the story. Where was he? She glanced about and saw him playing nearby with another boy.

Before she turned her attention to the bread again, she caught sight of Alasdair standing just inside the door, watching her. Her pulse skittered like a startled rabbit and she pretended to ignore his progress in their direction.

Her hands were a bit unsteady on the knife handle as she continued her chore. She had not talked privately to him since the library incident. Well, truly, it wasn’t an incident. It was an indulgence. One she must not fall into again.

“Padraig, how’s the arm?” Alasdair asked in a boisterous tone.

“’Tis improving, m’laird. I was just telling Mistress Carswell about the time the demon cow run my two brothers and me to ground.”

“Indeed? I wish I could’ve seen that.” Alasdair’s gaze upon Padraig was not as friendly as it should’ve been. The silence between the two men extended and the tension thickened. Pretending not to notice, Gwyneth continued with her task. Slice, slice.

Padraig cleared his throat. “Well, then. I must find Sweeney. Pray pardon.” He bowed and ambled away.

Gwyneth glanced up at Alasdair and lifted a brow. Men. Could they do naught but compete in everything they did?

She tried to pretend their kiss of a few nights ago hadn’t happened. A kiss and a bit more. Do not think of it. He had seemed to be avoiding her the past few days.

“Glad I am to see you here.” The tightness had not left his face.

She tried to think of something intelligent, yet not flirtatious, to say. “I never thought I’d be serving food in an alehouse, but in this case it seems innocent enough.”

Alasdair’s expression lightened. “Aye. No carousing today.”

Gazing into his dark eyes was like food for her soul, but she must not overindulge even in that small pleasure.

A thick post blocked them from most of the others in the large room and created a sense of privacy. Her awareness of him intensified. He smelled of fresh wood shavings, a few of which still clung to his kilt.

“But we’ll be carousing during Feill Sheathain a week hence. Midsummer’s Eve or St. John’s Day to you Sassenachs.” He grinned. “’Haps even a lady such as yourself will let down her hair.”

Good lord, the celebration was certain to be pagan…and beyond scandalous. She had been excluded from festivities while a part of the MacIrwin clan. Donald’s idea of a celebration involved him and his soldiers, food and drink, and all the whores they could find. The common people of the clan were suppressed and barely given enough food to survive, even though they were the ones who did all the work.