Squaring her shoulders, Gwen drew a deep breath and plunged into the boudoir. She listened intently for the sound of Drustan’s door opening and realized to her chagrin that she was trembling.
She flinched when she heard the door open, and counted to ten slowly, giving Dageus time to sneak out of her chamber and blockade the door from the corridor.
Silvan had chuckled when he’d told her that if Drustan refused to listen, he and Dageus would do their best to bar him in from the outside by hammering a plank or two over the doors. God, she hoped it didn’t come to that!
Time was up. She turned the handle and quietly opened the door.
His back was to her, and he was facing the fire, staring into it. He’d changed into snug leather pants, a billowy linen shirt, and boots. His silky black hair spilled unbound over his shoulders and down his back. He looked as if he’d stepped straight off the cover of one of those romance novels she ordered from Amazon.com so she didn’t have to be embarrassed by some supercilious male clerk in the bookstore.
Ha, she thought. When she returned to her time, she was going to start buying them flagrantly, with no apologies. She’d never seen a man blush while buying Playboy.
But she had to survive the wrath of Drustan MacKeltar first.
Murmuring a silent prayer, she closed the door behind her.
He spun around the moment it clicked shut, and when he saw her, his silver eyes glittered dangerously.
Shaking a finger, he stalked toward her, and she skittered away from the door in case he planned to toss her out it again. He followed like a magnet to steel.
“Doona even think, English, that I’ll be tolerating more of your lies,” he said with silky menace. “And best you get out of my chamber, because I’ve had enough whisky that I’m of a mind to taste the crime of which I’ve been accused.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to the massive bed, draped in silk and covered with velvet pillows.
Gwen’s eyes widened. Indeed, his expression was a combination of fury and raw lust. The raw lust was perfectly wonderful; the anger she’d cheerfully do without.
She was going to be cool and rational this time. No stupid comments, no emotional outbursts. She would tell him what had happened, and he would see reason. She hastened to reassure him. “I’m not trying to get you to marry me—”
“Good, because I won’t,” he growled, closing the distance between them, using his body to intimidate her.
She planted her feet and held her ground. Given that her nose came only to his solar plexus, it wasn’t as easy as she made it look.
“What’s this?” he purred softly. “You doona fear me? You should fear me, English.” He closed his hands around her upper arms like bands of steel.
Silvan and Dageus must be pressing their ears to the doors, waiting for his explosion, she thought, but they’d misjudged him. This was not a man who exploded—he seethed quietly and infinitely more dangerously.
“Answer me,” he demanded, shaking her. “Are you such a fool that you have no fear of me?”
She’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, yet when he stood so close to her, it was difficult to remember where she’d decided to begin. Her lips parted as she stared up at him. “Please—”
“Please what?” he said silkily, lowering his head to hers. “Please kiss you? Please take you the way you accuse me of already having had you? I’ve had a long time to think today, English, and I must confess that I find myself fascinated by you. I rode for hours before stopping in the tavern. I drank for hours, yet fear all the whisky in fair Alba wouldn’t cleanse you from my mind. Have you spelled me, witch?”
“No, I have not spelled you, I am not a witch, and please don’t kiss me,” she managed. God, she wanted him! Whether he knew her or not, it was her Drustan, damn it all, just a month and five centuries younger.
“Och, that’s a rare request from a woman,” he mocked. “Especially one who says she’s already tasted my loving. Do you now disparage my intimate attentions?” His gaze was silver ice, challenging. “Was I less than satisfying? You claim we’re lovers; mayhap we should be again. It would seem I’ve left a less than favorable impression.” He closed his hand about her wrist and tugged her toward the bed. “Come.”
She dug her heels in, a feat in soft slippers on a planked wood floor.
Her protests whooshed from her lungs when he scooped her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed. She landed on her back, sank deep into velvet-covered feather mattresses, and, before she could scramble away, he was on top of her, his body stretched the length of hers, pinning her with his weight.