The Highlander's Thief

Chapter Fourteen

McWilliam took the stairs two at a time. He wanted to check on Rhona before she retired for the night. Worry that she was unwell churned his stomach.

"Rosa?" She walked right into his chest. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her from falling backwards.

A gasp slipped from her mouth, and she froze like a rabbit caught in a trap her sky-blue eyes wide.

Just an hour's separation and she already looked even more God damn radiant. How was that possible?

"What are you doing?" he asked. She was standing on the top step and it looked like she'd been planning to leave the tower.

"Like you don't already know," she snapped, pulling free. "But if you honestly thought that foolish stunt would trick me into stealing your ring, you're even more barbaric than I first thought."

"What are ye going on about, wee lass?" She was like a whirlwind. She never did anything by halves, his Thistle. Loving or fighting, she threw herself into it wholeheartedly.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, the urge to gather her into his arms almost unbearable. His body remembered only too well the feel of her pressed against his chest, not an inch between them. And she'd kissed him with a beautiful innocence, letting him take control of her mouth just the way he liked it.

His blood ran south, and his groin stirred.

If only he hadn't decided to abandon his belted plaid today of all days. The folds of fabric hid his body's rebellions, unlike these bloody breaches, dammit. If she looked down she was in for a nasty surprise.

Rosa pressed her fists to her hips and glared up at him with unmistakable fury. "Don't you pretend it wasn't you who unlocked my door."

"I didn't. Wait, someone let you out?"

"Yes." She blinked. "It wasn't you?"

"Nay." He rummaged in his pocket for the key. It was still there, right where he'd left it. But, there wasn't the one blasted key. There was another and he knew exactly who had it. "Where were you going anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

Rosa shrugged. "Just stretching my legs, my lord." She glanced at her feet. In anyone else he would have said it was a tell—a sign that she was lying—but she lied all the time and had never glanced towards her feet before.

"I'm on my way to see Rhona so—"

"So you're just going to lock me back up?" she finished for him, disgust colored her voice.

"You're a criminal awaiting trial." His mother's old bedchamber was more than she deserved. If this crumbling castle had a dungeon, he would have locked her up there.

"I'm not a criminal," she said brusquely.

"Don't you ever get sick of lying?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on," he interrupted, steering her around and back up the stairs.

Her feet dragged. "I don't want to go back, Lord Laird," It came out a whisper so soft he could have pretended he hadn't heard. But something inside him twinged. She'd been locked up in that room for days on the end, her only respite an hour or two at a grave and then being attacked by a Scotsman. More guilt.

Perhaps, maybe, after this morning, he could give her a little leeway.

She turned towards her room but he caught her wrist, tugged lightly. "Let me show you something. Just for a moment," he added in what he hoped was a menacing tone. He didn't want her to think he was softening.