The MacKinnon's Bride by Tanya Anne Crosby Read Free Book Online Page A

her features were soft and delicate,
hardened only by the memory of her stubborn temper. His lips curved
slightly at the image of her standing before him, fists clenched at
her sides.
    Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?
    Vixen.
    Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly
braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls
that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his
forehead. The feel of it upon his flesh hardened him fully, and he
had to restrain himself from drawing a lock into his mouth to
savor. He reached out, instead, testing a soft curl between his
fingertips.
    Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker
than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.
    And her lips... they were her best feature, he
decided, full and luscious... made to suckle.
    His gaze shifted to her breasts. Rising and falling
with her slumber, they were her next best attribute, he resolved.
High and round and full, they were made to nourish a man’s bairn...
to whet a man’s appetite... to be suckled and loved.
    Bloody hell.
    Iain snapped his eyes shut, constraining his
thoughts, and shuddered. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her at
once, telling himself that he had no need to be preoccupied with
some wench’s bosom—or her mouth!
    Not now.
    Certainly not hers!
    Careful not to wake her, he knelt beside her,
bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and
then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once
liberated, she slumped sideways. He caught her, and eased her down
upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he
examined them. Though he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly,
they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet
she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her
wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them
coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined. His brows furrowed
as he turned them, considering their callused condition.
    His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and
watching, the strangest look nestled deep within her soulful
eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark
cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary
had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s
admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.
    What secrets had she to be discovered?
    She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit,
scooting away. “Haven’t you a bargain to put forth?” she asked him,
her voice throaty from slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you
changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me,
after all?”
    “ Troublesome wench,” Iain said
without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You
just dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do you think? That I’d risk my
son for the comfort of some wench’s lap? I dinna think
so.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered,
hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but
he’s your son .” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I
wonder, would you do the same for a daughter?”
    Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease
sharpening. “Of a certainty, lass,” he answered after a moment’s
deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for
any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your da?”
    She lifted her chin, cocked her head, and smiled
slightly. “We shall see, shall we not?” Her smile deepened when he
frowned.
    She was provoking him, he realized.
    Such a contradictory creature, she was, noble born,
with mettle enough to vanquish a king’s will, and yet—his gaze
shifted to the hands she continued to stroke—those hands were more
suited to a Highland lass than to a soft English miss. She followed
his gaze, and seemed to understand his scrutiny, but she didn’t
bother to explain. He didn’t bother to ask.
    She wasn’t his concern, Iain