The Highlander's Forbidden Bride by Donna Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

the hearth to chase the intense chill and dry his garments before the dampness soaked through. He held his chilled hands out in front of the flames, though he doubted the heat would chase the cold dread that descended over him.
    “Looks like you’ll be sharing my bed a lot longer than you ever thought possible,” Carissa said, sitting up with a smile and a slow stretch.
    He wished he could strangle her right there and then, but that would make him like her, and he wasn’t anything like her. No matter how he had lived these past two years, he had not become a barbarian…at least he prayed he hadn’t.
    “While that is not an appealing thought,” he said, keeping his focus on rubbing the warmth back into his hands, “what is appealing about our forced cohabitation is that it will provide more than enough time for me to get answers from you.”
    “If you prefer talking to sex, that’s up to you.”
    “Have you no morals?” he asked with a vehement snarl.
    She sighed dramatically. “I forget I talk with a Highlander, honorable through and through.” She gave a shrewd laugh. “But I have heard stories that Highlander’s truly enjoy—”
    “Enough!” he shouted. “I will not degrade myself by resting between the legs of my enemy, or for that matter going where far too many men have been.”
    Carissa popped out of bed. “Too bad. You’re missing the enjoyment of your life.” And with that said, she yanked off her nightshift.
    Ronan stood speechless, staring while she took her time dressing. Damn but she was gorgeous. She had the most curvaceous body he had ever seen. And where he thought she’d have hard muscles from her noted and often used skill with a sword, her arms bore no trace of it. Rather, her arms appeared soft, her skin silky. Her slim legs were toned but not hardened, and her stomach not completely flat but with just enough of a curve to match the rest of her. No sculptor could ever do her body justice. She was perfection. The thought was like a shot of icy water in his face, and he quickly turned his head away.
    “Enjoyed the view?” She laughed, having finished dressing in a dark blue wool skirt and blouse and busy twisting her hair up to pin to the back of her head with an intricately carved bone comb.
    While her clothing was plain, down to her leather boots, she looked exceptional, as did her hair, a few strands breaking loose to add a carefree wickedness to her appearance.
    She was fast with her quips, and, unfortunately, he wasn’t. It took him a moment or two to evoke a wise response, which is why at times he preferredsilence to be his answer. Silence oftentimes said more than words.
    “Too shy to admit it?” she taunted. “Well, I’m not. You are a splendid male specimen. It’s a shame you only let me look but not touch.”
    He cringed with gritted teeth as he rounded on her. “Do you forget how much I hate you?”
    “No, you have made that abundantly clear. But you don’t need to love or even like someone to couple with him,” she said.
    “I do,” he claimed adamantly.
    “Have it your way,” she said with a shrug, and pushed the rushes aside with her foot.
    “What are you doing?” he demanded.
    “I’m going down into the root cellar to gather food staples so I can cook the morning meal since I’m starving.”
    “You know how to cook?” he asked, surprised, recalling that she had slaves who had done everything for her.
    “I can manage a simple meal,” she said, “but then you don’t have to eat my cooking if you do not want to.”
    His grumbling stomach answered for him, and she laughed as she yanked up the door in the floor. She turned and reached past him for a candle on the mantel, her soft wool sleeve whispering across his face, and he caught his breath.
    “Like my scent?” she asked softly, candle in hand.
    He quickly regained his senses. “What fool likes the smell of death?”
    After a lazy, sultry laugh, she said, “That isn’t death you smell,