Traitor or Temptress. Helen Dickson

which brought his face on a level with hers, he produced a small dirk from his belt, testing its sharpness with his thumb. His eyes were merciless when they settled on Lorne.

      ‘Come here.’

      Mutely she obeyed and moved to stand in front of him, her eyes riveted on the knife. When he handed it to her, she took it with trembling hands. ‘What do you want me to do?’

      ‘Shave me.’

      Her eyes widened until they were two great green orbs, and her soft lips parted in disbelief. ‘Shave you? But—I—I can’t,’ she whispered shakily. ‘Oh, no. Certainly not. I won’t do it.’

      ‘You can and you will.’

      ‘But—I’ve never—’

      ‘Now is the time to learn,’ he bit back, refusing to let her off the hook lightly. He noticed her shaking hands and his eyes narrowed. ‘And if you draw a single drop of my blood you must be prepared to suffer the consequences.’

      Lorne’s eyes snapped to his, stormy once more. His tone threatened terrible consequences should she commit such a crime a second time. She did not know him well enough to discern what thoughts and intentions his face was reflecting, and she was unable to imagine what form his reprisals would take. However, hurt that he might believe she truly intended to harm him had the effect of subduing her nerves and reverting her to her former state of proud rebellion.

      ‘Are you not afraid that I might use this knife to slit your throat?’

      Despite the stubborn tilt to her chin and her rebellious tone, there was a tiny quiver of fear in her voice, and when Iain heard it his heart softened. She had shown so much daring and amazing courage, so much indefatigable spirit in running away and fighting him so relentlessly, that he’d actually thought she was fearless. Now, however, as he looked at her, he saw the strain of the last twenty-four hours on her face, the mauve smudges beneath her eyes and her pallor.

      ‘No. I trust you,’ he said gently, deciding that helping her to relax while she held the knife was in both their best interests. ‘Just stay calm and you’ll do just fine.’

      The soft words coming on the heels of his sudden change in persona from captor to carer took Lorne by surprise. It sounded nice, but she continued to glare at him in furious silence.

      ‘Now—come closer.’

      Amazed by his unflappable calm, Lorne moved to stand to one side of him, intending to perform the dreaded task with as little contact as possible between them, but Iain had other ideas. Gently but firmly he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer so that she stood directly in front of him between his thighs. Placing his hands on her hips to prevent her moving away, his eyes laid siege to hers. In the circle of his arms he could feel the alert tension of all her muscles. Her stillness was like that of an animal poised for flight.

      ‘I want you where I can see you. Now—stop glaring at me and start shaving.’

      Conscious of his hands holding her firm, with a militant look in her eyes she tipped his head back with her finger and began to ply the blade carefully to the lean contours of his jaw. Shaving the uninjured side of his face first, she passed the blade over his cheek, wiping it after each stroke on a kerchief which Iain provided.

      ‘If you cooperate, life will be much easier for you when we reach Norwood,’ he told her, his eyes tracing the classically beautiful lines of her face, thinking that she really was extraordinarily lovely, her skin fine and soft.

      Lorne sighed, feeling inclined to do just that. For one thing she was in no fit state to continue sparring with him—not that she wanted to. She was also physically exhausted and her arm was hurting.

      ‘Have you never shaved your brothers?’ Iain asked conversationally, liking the feel of having her close. His gaze was able to dwell on her hairline, on the fine bloom of pale blonde hair, which was like a newborn babe’s.

      Preoccupied with her task and gnawing on her bottom lip in deep concentration as she carefully applied the blade to that vulnerable area beneath his nose, she shook her head slowly. ‘I told you, I was sent to England to live with my grandmother. I haven’t seen either of my brothers for seven years.’

      She paused in her task and frowned irately when she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practised ease of a born seducer. The movement shocked her to the depths of her virginal innocence and made her heart pound in her chest.

      ‘I think you’re beginning to enjoy this. Do you have to hold me in quite that way? Please remove your hands,’ she said, meeting the enigmatic gaze of the man who was nine years older than her in years but centuries older than her in experience, who had done and seen everything there was to do and see, and who knew exactly the effect his intimate hold was having on her.

      Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to Iain’s lips and urged him to draw her a bit closer, settling her thighs intimately against his loins, the action flicking a fiery brand across his senses. ‘Not a chance. Not until you’ve performed your task to my satisfaction. I don’t want you taking off before you’ve finished removing my beard,’ he murmured teasingly, his warm breath touching her face.

      Lorne began again, oddly relaxed by the low timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Do you always wear a beard?’ she asked softly.

      ‘No. Only when my military duties keep me away from home for any length of time—or when I’m hunting, as now. I find it tedious always having to shave.’

      ‘You have a manservant. Couldn’t he do that?’

      He chuckled at that. ‘I wouldn’t trust Archie anywhere near my face with a sharp blade. I prefer to do it myself—unless there happens to be a pretty maid with a steady hand willing to perform the task for me.’

      The softening of his voice caused Lorne’s heart to skip a beat. ‘I seem to recall you gave me little choice,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes by wiping the blade once more. ‘You—you are a soldier?’ she asked, not really surprised, for there was an aura about him of a man who had often confronted danger—and derived pleasure from it.

      ‘Was. When peace was restored between England and France, I returned to Norwood and vowed to live an untroubled life running my estate and pursuing life’s simple pleasures—which I was doing nicely until you came crashing into my life with all the force of a tribe of Highlanders. Unfortunately, peace at Norwood will not be restored until this business with your father is settled.’

      ‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she retorted sharply. After a moment’s silence in which she was uneasily conscious of his eyes perusing every detail of her face, she said, ‘During the war with France, did you serve in Flanders?’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘Robert, my brother, was there, too.’

      Iain scowled with derision. ‘I know—fighting for King Louis.’

      Lorne was quick to defend her brother. ‘To be fair to Robert, he fights for what he believes to be right—just as you do—and his prime concern is for the Highlands and the Highlanders’ way of life. But I remember what you said when you came to Kinlochalen that day. You spoke the truth when you said the Highlanders were enmeshed in the ways of the past, settling scores by the old methods. You also said that the world is changing, that Scotland is changing, but Robert’s obstinate and independent spirit will never accept change.’

      Iain regarded her in amazement. ‘Considering the short time you spent with your brother before you were sent to live with your grandmother, you appear to know him well. You also remember a great deal about that day I rode into Kinlochalen, Lorne McBryde.’

      ‘I remember everything about that day,’ she said quietly, meaningfully, a faraway look entering her eyes as she paused in her task. Her eyes settled on his. ‘I may have lived in England for the past seven years, but I was born a Highlander and my memory is long. Both Robert and James wrote to me on a regular basis at Astley Priory.’