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Everything about Cat pulled at him, her courage and self-reliance, the wild freedom that clung to her like the unique dotting of her freckles.
Cat Campbell was a raging wildfire wrapped up and barely contained in a woman’s body.
He’d learned long ago to look away from desires that were fruitless. He was not the man for the wildfire that was Cat Campbell, not when he must uphold the Worthington name.
“People who have fallen under the spell of love are often misled by it. They can no longer judge it as the danger it truly is.”
Duty, honor, power, and responsibility were attributes that far exceeded attraction, respect, and love for a woman. Or at least so he’d been told.
To have someone who cared that much about him, not his estate, money or title, but about him… It was not something he’d thought possible.
“I have a…problem,” he said, his voice smooth like pure Scottish whisky. His words funneled down through her like the liquor. “A problem?” She wet her lips, his closeness making her yearn to rest her hands on his broad shoulders, but she flattened them against the rough stone wall at her back. “An ache has plagued me from the moment I sat in that damnably cramped carriage across from a temptress for two bloody long days.”
“All day I have met with old acquaintances and dry, pompous men. Listening to philosophy and political theories and business ventures.” He opened his eyes. “The whole time, I could not stop thinking of you, Cat Campbell.”
“And right now…we are just a man and a lass. Not English and Scot. Not Viscount and peasant.”
“God, Cat,” he murmured against her lips. “I cannot get you out of my blood.” “I am quite bloodthirsty,” she murmured back as he fitted her snuggly against him. She tried to lift her legs and remembered that she wore a full gown, the stays encircling her as if in iron. “And I have way too many clothes on.” Her words were muffled as they kissed, slanting. “Agreed,” he said, his hands coming to her cheeks, cradling her face, as the kiss intensified.
Cat kissed him with frantic intensity, the passion in her taking over any thoughts of consequence. Only Nathaniel mattered, he and she together, their heat meeting and growing.
“Take me to bed, Englishman,” she said, but knew on a level that she didn’t want to think about that Nathaniel Worthington was turning into much more than an adventurous romp to her. And that was something she couldn’t allow to happen.
Nathaniel rubbed his mouth, remembering the feel of a perfect set of lips sliding against his in passion last night. The ache that he’d sated several times seemed to hover on the point of return whenever he thought of Cat, her wild auburn curls and pale skin freckled with dots, which he had traced from the tip of her forehead to the tip of her toes in the firelight before the hearth. But it was more than her physical beauty that drew him to her. It was her fierce need for freedom, her innate honesty and bravery, and her resilience that had her capturing his thoughts.
“Although some view marriage as a business agreement, I find that I require more in a wife than beauty, youth, and refinement.”
Nathaniel almost laughed, though surely the man would think him mad. Perhaps he was. For despite the threat of poverty looming over his head, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than escort a wild Highland lass to the Frost Fair.
If someone had foreseen her sipping tea next to a noble Englishman while standing in the center of London on the surface of the Thames River, she would have called them mad.
“Nathaniel Worthington is an amazing lover. I have given him my maidenhead, and the passion he has kindled in me has ruined all other men for me. He does not love ye, and he will never wed ye, ye glittering, cold trout of a woman. Bàs an fhitchich ort.”
“Anger only harms the angry person.” Her brows gathered. “It is best to figure out what or who truly has hurt you, and then forgive them.”
“I understand if you can never forgive me, but you will not do anything to risk your damn neck. I will help you return to Finlarig Castle. I will heed your wish for me to sard off and leave you alone. But I will never let you jump rashly into danger. I cannot,” he said and shook his head. “Do you understand me?”
“Lady Catriona Campbell is…” He paused. What was Cat to him? Lover, angel, temptress. She had captured his mind from the moment he’d first seen the perfect spattering of freckles across her face. She had captured his need from the moment she’d responded to his feverish kiss. She had captured his respect when she’d awkwardly climbed upon a feisty horse, riding all day without excuse. She’d won his admiration when she’d risked her life to save a drowning orphan. She’d stolen his breath when she’d revealed her lovely form to him before the fire. And his heart? It had nearly cleaved its way from
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“Lady Catriona Campbell…” his voice rang out, “is a valuable Highland Rose, a unique, brave, and beautiful person, and…I hold her in utmost esteem.”
“I, therefore, would risk treason to ensure her safety,”
“The heart changes one’s loyalty, does it not? Making one do things for their love that the ministers of government and officials of the realm advise against.”
“Buin mo chridhe dhuit,”
“Cat, I cannot promise you that I will never be taken from you as the world is unkind to mortals, but know that as long as blood courses through my body, my heart will never leave you.”
“I love ye, English,” she said, smiling up at him. “I love you, too, my wild Highland Rose.”
