A McNab? Imagine that.

  He'd kept her from foolishly walking into a pack of thieves, which she would have done. She needed to hate him. But she didn't.

  She sat there, hungry, trying not to think about him as he roasted the birds, trying not to look at him, and concentrating on every past cruel act of his vile clan in the hope that she could dredge up some spark of fight against what she was feeling.

  In the distance a wolf howled, and Grace pulled her plaid tighter around her. An owl called out.

  The fire crackled as he added wood. "You must be hungry."

  "I'm not hungry." Then her cursed belly growled loudly.

  He looked up at her while he turned the three grouse on a twig spit he'd made. "You're wrong, McNish. You are hungry. Your belly tells me."

  "I wasn't wrong," she said, forgetting to be silent. She crossed her arms over her plaid. "I'm never wrong."

  "I suppose that wasn't your empty stomach calling out just now?"

  "Aye, it was. But I wasn't wrong," she added stubbornly. He looked at her until she admitted, "You just happened to be right for a change." The Grace McNish rule: Never admit you were wrong. "Don't worry yourself about me, McNab. Hunger is a normal state for a McNish." She looked away from the meat, unable to watch it cook. She was so hungry she'd almost have eaten it raw.

  She sat there, miserable because she had lost control of everything, even her belly. The rich smell of the roasting birds finally got to her. "Aren't they cooked yet?"

  He chuckled. "Almost."

  "Remember the big one is mine."

  There was long silence; then he asked, "I take it you're talking about the grouse?"

  "You are a sick man, McNab."

  He shrugged. "If you want the big one, you can have it. Just ask."

  She straightened and put her hands on her hips. "My stone hit the biggest grouse, and we both saw it. I want it understood. The bird in the middle is mine."

  "Are we having another challenge, McNish?"

  "I don't know what you mean. I was just pointing out which bird belongs to whom. You McNabs have trouble keeping your hands off things that don't belong to you."

  He waited a moment before calmly and arrogantly responding, "Who struck the first kill?"

  "Why . . . you did," she said sweetly. "Don't the McNabs always kill first?"

  He looked as if he had a murder on his mind. Hers.

  She decided this time it would not be a good idea to grin smugly—she did have some sense of prudence, after all—and she changed the subject instead. "The birds are burning."

  He looked down at the spit, where the two outer birds—his birds—were aflame. He swore and jerked the spit from the fire.

  She held out her hand and asked sweetly, "May I have my bird, please?"

  His narrowed gaze met hers.

  She pointed at the spit. "That nice plump one in the middle. The one that's not burnt. That one is mine."

  He used her dirk to pry off a charred bird. It crackled and the burned legs and wings crumbled to the ground. She almost felt sorry for him when she saw how he stared at it. Almost, but not quite. A McNab should understand what true hunger was.

  "I'm waiting," she said brightly.

  He stabbed the dirk into her bird, and the meaty juices ran out, sputtering as they dropped into the hot ashes. He slid the bird from the spit and held it up for her to take.

  She plucked it off the dirk before he could do anything rash, like steal it for himself. She ripped off a leg and just stared at it for a moment because it looked as good as it smelled. When she tasted it, she closed her eyes. It was heaven. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavor. She licked her lips, sighing as she swallowed, and opened her eyes to find him staring at her with the look of a man starved. She quickly hugged the bird to her chest. "This is my bird, McNab."

  "What bird?" he asked distractedly, still looking at her mouth.

  "This bird!" She held it up in front of her face.

  Scowling, he viciously bit into one of the charred birds. His expression changed. He looked like someone who had just eaten a big lump of Lowland coal. He stopped chewing. It looked as if his eyes were tearing, and she could have sworn that his jaw twitched.

  "Mmm." She took another plump mouthful and oohed and aahed over how perfect it was.

  He crunched down on blackened meat, then paused, blanching slightly before he chewed again, very slowly.

  "This is soooo good,” she said.

  He swallowed, hard, then grunted something about his being only a little well done.

  "Mine's perfect, McNab." She leaned over and looked at his bird. "Look. I believe there's a piece of meat right there." She paused and pointed toward the breast of his bird. "A wee one that's not too well done." She looked up. "See it?"

  "It's fine," he growled, and bit off another bite before tossing the carcass over his shoulder.

  "So is mine." She bit into the meat with great relish. "Hmm, hmm, hmm."

  He frowned at the second bird, then tossed it and the spit over his shoulder, too.

  The look he gave her said he knew exactly what she was doing and didn't like it one wee bit. Just the kind of look that sparked her to say, "Delicious." She ducked her head to hide her grin. She munched some more and heard him stand. Och, she thought. Can't take it, McNab. She ignored the quiet sound of his footsteps and finished her delicious meal, then turned and tossed the bones into the fire.

  She turned back around and looked up—her third mistake. Her second had been ignoring his footsteps. Her first had been pushing him too far.

  He towered above her. "So torment is your game, now is it, McNish?"

  "Aye, McNab," she said, returning his look evenly.

  He pulled her up with such speed that her vision blurred. He held her fast against him. "You're about to learn a new game, m'fheudail."

  * * *

  She fell right into his trap and opened her mouth to speak.

  He kissed her into silence. She struggled for barely a moment—less fight than he'd expected. While he used his hand to firmly hold the back of her head, he filled her mouth with his tongue.

  She stilled and almost instantly raised her fists, which barely reached above his shoulders. Then slowly she opened her hands, lowered her warm palms, and slid them around his neck. She held him the way he held her.

  After a long and passionate kiss, she pulled her mouth away from his and rested her head against his chin. "Och, McNab. What are you doing to me?"

  He pulled at her plaid. "Stripping you naked and having my vile way with you."

  She shook her head. "Nay." But then her lips moved over his softly. Her tongue darted past his, kissing him back passionately.

  He moved his other hand down her back, over the soft roundness of her buttocks, and felt her arch her body against his; then her hand slid down around his waist.

  No meek, submissive woman here, he thought. He moved his hips against her, catching a mating rhythm old as time. She moved with him, responded as she had to every challenge he gave her.

  His lips never left her mouth, that mouth that pushed his patience to the limits; now it pushed his passion beyond anything he'd known before.

  Her hands gripped him tighter, and she matched him, hip to hip, tongue to tongue, movement to movement. He could feel her need to hold her own sense of power in this, as she did in everything. His hands moved lower, up under her plaid and shirt, then skimmed the back of her legs and moved to touch the warm soft skin of her inner thighs.

  She gave a gasp at his touch, a sound he wanted to hear again. Her skin was silky, like touching a rose petal. He stroked downward until he held the back of her knees and pulled them up around his hips.

  She moaned something against his mouth, half plea, half cry. Her hands tugged the back of his clothes up; then she slid her palms inside his trews.

  Holding her tightly, he sank to the ground with her beneath him. He broke the kiss for the first time and straddled her, running his fingers over the soft skin of her eyelids, down her jaw."Och, m'fheudail."

  She opened her misty eyes, and he ran his finger over her damp lips.

  He was lost in the look she gave him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find his way out. Just as he had done to her, she reached out then and traced his jaw, then ran two fingers along his cheek to stroke his eyelids, his brows, then touch his lips.

  He drew her hand away, holding it while his other opened her plaid and her shirt and stroked the white skin of her neck downward to her belly.

  She caught her breath at his touch; then her eyes grew misty and she moistened her lips.

  He parted her clothing more until her breasts were bared, and he teased them with a slow fingertip. She tried to sit up, her hands moving to mimic his touch, but he slid his arm under her back and pulled up so she arched toward him. He lowered his mouth to her bare waist, sucking until he had made his mark on her.

  The whole time, her hands were busy pulling at his clothing, baring his chest.

  His mouth closed over her breast, taking as much of it into his mouth as he could. He straightened and laid her back on the ground. Her nails scored his flexed thighs. He touched her again and felt her body rise with the tide of passion his touch brought.

  "Such fire, McNish," he whispered into her ear. "Such hot fire. Burn for me." He cupped her low and touched her so she moaned. He slowed his caress, and she cried out and ran her hands over him through the rough wool of his trews.

  He shifted out of her reach and slid his arms under her knees, lifting her to his mouth. He blew on her, then kissed her there for the longest time.

  She gave a thin moan of pure pleasure, then pulsed hard and fast. Before she had barely stopped throbbing, he did it again.

  He lowered her legs to his hips and jerked down his trews, moving over her, placing his hands by her head. He shifted slowly up and down, rubbing against her. He kissed a path up her belly, ribs, and breasts. His mouth moved up her neck, and he paused, the swollen tip of him settled barely inside her.

  Her eyes grew wide, and he slowly entered her, watching her face for fear or pain. She jerked his head down and filled his mouth with her tongue. He inched inside more, her tightness closing around him until he met her maidenhead.

  He stilled, then slid his hand between them. She found another quick release, tightening around him. He broke the kiss, closed his eyes, and threw his head back.

  With a swift thrust, he broke the barrier, possessing her where no man ever had.

  She screamed, and punched him in the jaw.

  "Damn, McNish." His eyes shot open, pain throbbing through his jaw, and he froze; then he shook his head and flinched slightly before looking down at her. "What the hell did you do that for?"

  She glared up at him, accusation in her eyes. "You hurt me!"

  "I had to."

  "Why, because I am a McNish?" She sounded as if she were going to cry.

  He swore and gritted his teeth together. "It only hurts the first time."

  "Oh." She paused, then looked up at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you in pain?"

  "No," he answered without thinking.

  "Then you've done this before?"

  Oh, hell. The answer to that question would probably get him more than a swift punch in the jaw. He moved his hands to hold her head and kissed her slowly, then moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, "It doesn't hurt the man, McNish. Only the woman." He looked down at her, his lips almost touching hers. "Does it still hurt?"

  She appeared to think about this for a moment, then wiggled her hips slightly.

  He counted in Gaelic, searching for control, praying that he wouldn't have to stop.

  "Nay."

  He shifted, pulling back and watching her face for signs of pain.

  "Don't leave me," she said in a panicked rasp, her small hands holding on to his buttocks.

  "I'm not leaving you, McNish. I'm becoming part of you." He slid forward. "Slow and easy." He slid back, beginning a timeless rhythm.

  Within moments her eyes drifted closed.

  "Feel me ... as I feel you."

  Her hands slid up his forearms and gripped them tight.

  He ceased all motion and asked, "Am I hurting you?"

  She opened her eyes, misty, slanted, green as the dark depths of a Highland forest.

  "Nay." She shook her head; then, as if to prove it, she tightened her knees on his hips.

  He loved her in long slow strokes that drew out the sensation, that taught them the feel and texture and pleasure of each other. Primitive need made him want to come, but he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay inside her forever, feel the tightness, hear her murmurs, revel in her until he died from the intensity of her.

  "More," she softly chanted with each breath, impatiently prodding him with her body to move more swiftly.

  He gritted his teeth and continued just as slowly. She opened those misty eyes and watched him, her expression half dare, half pleasure, before she gripped his hips tightly and tried to quicken the pace.

  She drew a long breath that he felt to the very depths of her. "Quicker, McNab."

  "Slower, McNish." He edged in and out so slowly, savoring each inch, the slow and easy friction that he knew would prolong their pleasure.

  She pushed up, hard and strong, and a slight smile touched her lips when suddenly he was inside her as deep as anyone could be. She closed her eyes and moved against him. He matched the motion, but grasped her hips and slowed the movement as he bent to rim his tongue over her shoulder and to tease down to a breast.

  She arched up, and he slid an arm under the small of her back, his hips beginning a slow, deep grind that made her moan and reach to grip his forearms again. He licked a path up her white belly and across each rib, then shifted his hold so his hands held her by the waist and he pulled her up against him as he knelt, until she could do little but cling to his shoulders.

  Not once did either of them miss a motion, a beat. He could feel every inch of her with each withdrawal, could feel the swollen woman's point that ran like a small tongue over his shaft.

  Her release came hard and fast and on a scream that sent him far over the edge.

  When he came around, he was sure he was blind. He opened his eyes, expecting blackness, and he got it. Her black hair was wrapped around him, as were her warm legs and her warm, soft body. Had he been blinded, at that moment he understood that it would have been worth it.

  He took a long, slow breath. The air was filled with the musky scent of their loving and the clean pine smell of the woods in which they'd lain. Her eyes slowly changed.

  She stared up at him and murmured, "My God ..."

  If she were the only woman he could ever make love to, he'd die a happy man. He realized then with sharp clarity that he'd just lost the one battle he had thought he could win.

  * * *

  She stared up at McNab's face. He looked as though he'd been hit with a caber. She turned away, feeling exactly the same way.

  She had liked it. Liked it? She wanted to live forever in his arms. How could she?

  Traitor. Weakling. Coward. She could have stopped this.

  She should have. But she didn't. She closed her eyes against the sharp pang of guilt that struck her. He was her enemy. A McNab. But the true horror was something she could no longer deny—he was a man she could love.

  "We need to talk," he said, his deep voice wrapping around her like chains. He reached out to brush the tangled hair from her face, and she flinched. He paused, something unreadable flickered through his eyes; then he looked down at her. "I hurt you again."

  She looked away and shook her head, then pushed at his shoulders. He moved off her, and she jerked her clothing down, grasping the front of her plaid and shirt with one right fist. She scrambled to her feet.

  "McNish?"

  That voice, oh, God, that voice. She couldn't face him. "You didn't hurt me. I hurt myself." And betrayed my clan, she thought, imagining her grandfather's face when he found out. A McNab.

  'There's something I need to tell to you." He stepped toward her, his hands out to her.

  "Please." She shook her head and turned her back to him.

  His hand touched her shoulder, and she stiffened. God ... she was going to cry. She never cried.

  "McNish."

  "Not now. Not ever, McNab!" And she did something else she'd never done. She ran.

  Chapter 8

  Where the hell is she?" Colin muttered, stumbling through the dark depths of the forest. No one could disappear that quickly. "Damn, McNish!" He walked farther, searching the bushes, the trees, every dark and dank nook and cranny.

  A man's shout pierced the forest silence.

  Colin froze and released a branch of a thick bush.

  "You devil's spawn! Let go of me!"

  He'd have known that mouth anywhere. He edged closer to a thick copse of trees.

  "Ouch, damn ye! Catch her, Sim! The wee bitch bit me!"

  "I'll do more than bite you, you vermin! McNaaaaab!" She kicked one of the thieves.

  Colin drew his dirk and stepped into the clearing. "Let her go."

  The two thieves turned, still struggling to hang on to her. He cast a quick glance to make certain she was unharmed.

  "It's about time, McNab!" She glared at him.

  There were times when she didn't have the sense to be afraid. This was one of them.

  She turned to the two thieves. "He's a McNab." Her face took on that stubborn look of challenge. "Surely you've heard about the McNabs. They'll cut out your liver and feed it to the wolves!"

  Colin groaned. "McNish…."

  "He'll skin you alive, you thieving cowards!" She jerked her arm away from one of the men and grabbed his hair in both fists, then yanked hard. "And scalp you bald!"

  "Get this viper off me! And get her hands out of me hair. Another minute and I'll be bald!"

  "You'd best let go of her," Colin ordered, although he wasn't quite sure who needed saving most. McNish or the thieves.

  "Aye, you sniveling, belly-crawling—"

  "McNish! Be quiet."

 

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