Before she could determine who they were, Alasdair tipped her face toward him. “I’m hoping you won’t leave me out here alone, Gwyneth. ’Tis too early to go to sleep.” With his fingers, he traced her cheek and chin. Tingles spread in the wake of his touch. “Do you ken, tonight is when fairies roam the earth, looking for mortals to pull mischief on.”

She shook her head, suppressing a grin.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in fairies, for I won’t be hearing it.”

“Are you never serious?”

“Aye, ’tis serious I am about wanting to kiss you,” he said in a deep, low tone.

Heavens! Could she not find the strength within herself to resist him? She put her hands before her, to ward him off, but he pressed firmly against her with his hard chest. Her fingers yearned to stroke over him and beneath his clothing, to absorb the feel of his muscles. But she couldn’t.

“What of Paula?” she blurted.

“Who?”

“The young lady you spent so much time dancing with.” And laughing with. Oh, I am daft. I should not have said anything.

He lifted one brow and stared at her for a long, tense moment. “I don’t want to kiss her.”

Did he mean it? She concentrated on his ornate falcon brooch near his shoulder, the blue and red jewels sparkling in the dim light.

“Gwyneth, ’tis glad I am that you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” How mortifying he saw through her words.

“Och, nay. You’re not.” He grinned and held her with one hand around hers, his grip gentle, his thumb rubbing her palm.

She could’ve easily pulled away, but his warmth, the way her whole body and mind focused on the spot where his skin stroked hers, gave her pause.

“Will you not gift me with another kiss in the garden?” He advanced, and she retreated.

She did crave the profane decadence of his mouth upon hers. Her lips burned in anticipation. Her breasts tingled, craving his attention, before the hot excitement slid down through her body.

When her back came up against the garden gate, he unlatched it. She stumbled backward through. With quick reflexes, he caught her against his body, so hard and solid. A buzz of spellbinding need swept through her.

A groaning sound came from the garden. “What is—”

“Shh,” Alasdair breathed against her ear, and she shivered. After their entrance, he eased the gate closed and urged her behind an evergreen shrub. The balefire lit up the sky and reflected off the gray stone castle wall to cast a soft glow down into the flower garden.

The sounds came again, a soft male groan. Was someone hurt? And then an answering giggle. Oh, dear lord, two people were…making love in the garden. Gwyneth’s face grew hot as the fire crackling outside.

“We must go,” she whispered.

“Nay. They will leave soon enough.”

His hand rested heavy on her waist, his fingers stroking through her corset. Her nipples peaked and ached for his touch, for his wet mouth, licking, sucking.

She tried to draw in fresh air to clear her mind, to fight the effects of the spell he cast over her, but instead inhaled the smoke that had seeped into his clothing along with his clean male scent.

His hot breath fanned her hair. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth. She gasped but he placed his thumb over her lips. The thrill of him coursed through her, possessed her. She flicked out her tongue against his thumb, then surprised herself by sucking it into her mouth. She didn’t know why she yearned to do that, but she wanted some part of him within her. Wanted to taste him.

Alasdair hissed against her ear, moaned her name. Shocking herself, she wondered what that other, very hard part of his body would feel like against her lips.

Though she could scarce think, she knew the other couple nearby in the garden continued with their mating, oblivious that anyone was near. Their sounds of pleasure escalated. The woman cried out. Was that how Gwyneth sounded when Alasdair made love to her? She could only remember experiencing him in a most earthly, carnal way that sent her flying toward the heavens.

As the man in the garden groaned with his release, Alasdair pressed his lips against Gwyneth’s throat and trailed his tongue downward to her collarbone. The way she had taken to sucking his thumb put lascivious images in his head. Moving his sporran aside, he pressed his erection firmly against her stomach.

He craved the woman in his arms more than he craved spring in the midst of winter. And though it made him a traitorous Scot, he yearned to cast his gaze upon her more than the bonny hills surrounding him. He wanted to savor her and drink her slowly like the finest whisky.

Her skin smelled of smoke and woman. Her hands, fisted on his doublet and tugging him closer, spoke of unfulfilled hunger. He knew of hunger, aye, indeed. The kind that made his soul yearn and set his body afire.

The other couple in the garden finished their tryst and left, but he was happy to see Gwyneth hadn’t noticed. He enjoyed being the sole focus of her attention. And he reveled in her earlier jealousy.

She melted and swayed against him with sighs, inciting his arousal to yet a higher level. Taking his thumb away from her mouth, he kissed her, full and deep, fed her erotic kisses, and she ate. She flicked her tongue against his. Her whimpering little gasps and moans made the aching pleasure in his erection intensify, and he wanted naught more than to slide into her tight, wet heat.

Loving the way she held him close, he yanked up her skirts and petticoats. With his fingers, he relished the softness of her thighs, the curve of her hip. Her silky skin stole the last of his rationality.

Discovering the stone bench nearby, he sat and tugged her to him, straddling his lap, facing him. He raked her skirts up to her lap.

“Oh, Alasdair, I cannot,” she whispered in a desperate tone.

“You must only do what you wish.” Please let me make love to you right here. “I’m dying to have you, a shùgh mo chrìdhe.”

He spread his hand on her thigh, above her stocking, and stroked it upward. He rubbed his thumb across her mound, her soft curls and lower, gently through her moisture and swollen female lips that made him ache. She gasped and jerked against him.

With his thumb he massaged her wet, swollen nub. She fell to his shoulder and moaned incoherent words. Aye, she was loving that. But no more than he did. He was ready to ignite like gunpowder.

She strained toward him, closer to his shaft. He yearned to bury himself forcefully deep inside her, but he wanted her to be the one to initiate the action, so she could not deny how much she wanted him.

She tugged at his kilt beneath her, then lifted herself off his lap, shoved his kilt up and captured his hard shaft in her cool hand.

“Oh, saints, Gwyneth!” He barely curbed the primal urge to thrust. “Take me inside you,” he whispered against her lips.

By slow degrees, she lowered herself onto him. Trembling with restraint, he forced himself to remain still as he slipped deeper into her hot, drenched passage. Had he made that growling animal noise? She took his humanity and control. He wanted to ravish her like a rutting beast takes its mate, with wild immoderacy.

She covered his face with kisses. Emotion ached in his chest, and suddenly with bright clarity, he knew what it was.

Mo dia, I love her.

He froze for a moment, savoring the realization. How had that happened? He knew not. The only thing certain now was he would never let her go. Never.

He drew her upward, then lowered her again. Her tight body clenched and caressed him.

Watching her eyes, drifted closed in bliss, he taught her the rhythm. She placed her feet on the ground and rode him with eagerness and abandon as if she could not stop. Sweet heaven, she desired him.

Marry me, Gwyneth. Nay, he could not say the words again. Not now. Her mouth would tell him no, even as her body said yes.