Chapter Two #3
Until she gave everything to him, no doubt. Her body, her soul. Her independence. A shudder racked her body. In an instant, Logan was at her side. “Cold?”
“No.” But the tremble wouldn’t go away.
Tentatively, he reached toward her, and when she didn’t pull away, he tugged her close, fitting her against the side of his muscular body.
This time, she didn’t fight him. It was Innes who scared her, she realized, not this man.
As big and intimidating as Logan Douglas was, if he’d intended to hurt her, he would have done it by now.
He was, in his harsh, masculine way, attempting to comfort her. To help her.
“Shhh.” He patted her head awkwardly, but his touch was gentle and more soothing than she would have expected. “You needn’t fear him any longer. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Logan touched his fingertip to the wound Innes’s dagger had inflicted on her chest. The light skin-to-skin contact sent an unexpected prickle of desire rolling through her.
Her breath caught, and for a suspended moment, she froze.
And then her wits returned in a rush. She jerked away, tamping down the unfamiliar sensation.
She crossed her arms and gazed at the flames licking at the bottom of the pot. Logan sat beside her in silence.
“He thought brutality was the way to win my affections,” she murmured eventually, moving her fingers to press over the dagger wound. She slid Logan a glance. “That approach never works with women, you know.”
Logan nodded grimly. He didn’t try to touch her again. “It doesn’t work with anyone.”
“He has wanted to marry me since my husband died in a hunting accident five years ago . . .” Maggie sighed. “It seems like for ever.”
She never spoke of this to anyone, and yet she wanted to tell Logan Douglas, stranger though he was. She forged onward. “His name is Innes Munroe. He’s threatened, cajoled, coaxed, but I’ve refused him again and again. All I want is for him to leave me in peace.”
Logan sat stiffly, staring at the fire. His fingers curled into fists. His face was hard, his expression angry. He truly felt protective of her, she realized. But that was absurd—he hardly knew her. Perhaps he was the kind of man who felt it his duty to protect the weaker set.
He spoke through tight lips. “What happened last night before I found you in the snow?”
A renewed shudder rushed through her. “I was asleep, and he and his man kicked in and splintered my door. I tried to fight him, but I . . . couldn’t.
He was drunk. He took me from my bed, threw me on his horse, and started riding like a madman up the mountain.
I”—she sucked in a breath—“I think he intended to bring me here.”
She glanced at Logan to gauge his reaction. He scowled down at her, his forehead creased. “Haven’t you any men in your clan? To care for you? To look out for your safety?”
“I don’t require a man to protect me.”
“Of course you do.”
She huffed out a breath. “Well, there are men in my family, of course. The MacDonald of Beauly is Torean, my first cousin. However, I’ve never asked—”
“Why didn’t your laird protect you from this Munroe?” The growling threat had returned to Logan’s voice.
“He believes I should accept Innes.” She shrugged, thrusting away the dark feeling of betrayal that admission brought with it.
“At least, that’s what Innes said. He said my cousin approved of him abducting me from my home.
That it—” Maggie swallowed the bitter taste of bile. “That it was Torean’s suggestion.”
Logan made a low, menacing sound, and his shoulder muscles bunched.
She shook her head in bemusement. Though it probably should have roused her independent nature and raised her hackles, she found herself lapping up Logan’s attention like a starving kitten would a bowl of sweet cream.
No one had ever been so protective of her—even Duneghall had left her to her own devices upon sensing her capability to care for herself.
“Why does that distress you, Logan Douglas?” She raised her hand and touched it to the solid bulk of his arm.
“I don’t enjoy seeing a woman ill used.”
“But you don’t know me.”
Logan’s hard fingers pressed beneath her chin and lifted it until she faced him.
“I know you, Maggie. I’ve lain beside you, flesh against flesh.
I’d say I know you well.” He lowered his head until their noses were inches apart, and his warm breath washed over her cheek.
He stared at her with those deep black eyes, searching, studying.
His pupils were dilated, his lips parted. Lord, what beautiful lips he had.
She’d lost every impulse to push him away. In fact, she wanted him close. Closer. Her lids descended, heavy from the anticipation of his kiss. As he drew nearer, she leaned into it. They were so close she could all but feel those lips on her. Taking her. Possessing her.
For the first time since she became a widow, she craved a man’s kiss. That intimate sharing. That carnal embrace . . .
He dropped her chin. Then he rose and turned toward the fire.
“Porridge is ready,” he said gruffly.