The Highlander's Touch

Page 55

“Got what all?” he asked absently, filling his spoon with a mound of berries and cream.
“How is this topping made?” she asked, changing the subject swiftly.
“Much like butter. You churn it with paddles or shake it in a jug. It is merely cream skimmed from the top of milk, mixed with sugar and a touch of cinnamon. It thickens as you paddle it and add the sweetening. I used to watch them make it when I was a lad, flattering cook and anyone else in the kitchen to get my hands on it.”
Whipped cream in the fourteenth century, she marveled. She wondered how many things these “barbarians” had that modern scholars never discussed. But why wouldn’t they have such condiments? In the few days she’d been in Castle Brodie, she’d noted many things that surprised her. It all just seemed too civilized.
She fixed her gaze on her plate trying to prevent herself from rising from her chair, taking his spoon away, and giving him something else to lick. Her finger. Her lower lip. The hollow of her spine.
Although she’d had little experience with men, she was innately sensual and she’d fantasized often. Perhaps more than most, because she’d tasted so little of sexuality. Tonight, with this magnificent warrior dining regally at the end of the table, her imagination took flight.
In her fantasy he walked to her end of the table, capturing and holding her gaze with that subtle magnetism he had. His eyes were heavy lidded, banking a challenge: Become a woman, Lisa? He took her hand, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her, a soft brush of his lips, a quick velvety stroke of his tongue, promising so much more, slipping deep into her mouth when her lips parted on a sigh. Her fantasy picked up speed, fast-forwarded abruptly to his pressing her back onto the table, slipping the gown from her body, dropping whipped cream on her breasts, and licking it from her moist, warm skin with the same careful deliberation he’d given his spoon. Perhaps a dab of warm, rich cream would inadvertently fall where she’d touched herself before, and with his lips he would …
Swallowing hard, she looked at him.
He raised his eyes from the frothy concoction on his spoon at the precise moment she looked up, and their gazes locked over the length of the polished wood table. Where would you drip whipped cream on him, Lisa? The answer came with frightening swiftness and conviction: Everywhere. She wanted to explore his body, the hard ripples, the smooth skin. The candlelight bathed his olive skin with a golden hue, and his dark good looks were set off perfectly by his linen shirt and the splash of black and crimson draped across his chest. He was mesmerizing.
“Are you hungry, lass?” He licked his spoon languidly.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away. “No. I’ve eaten quite enough,” she managed.
“You seem to be watching my dessert most intently. Are you certain there isn’t something else you wish to sate your appetite?”
Besides you to remove your clothing, lie on the table, and let me finger paint you with whipped cream, you mean? “Nope,” she said casually. “Not a thing.” She watched him for a moment; he still had a great deal of dessert left. How was she going to get through this? “Actually,” she said, leaping to her feet, “I’m exhausted and would like to retire.”
He dropped his spoon and moved swiftly to her side. “I will escort you to your chambers,” he murmured, taking her arm and tucking it into his. Lisa shivered. The man was throwing off the heat of a small forge. His scent enveloped her, faint but spicy. It was a fragrance she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She was certain she’d smelled it before but couldn’t figure out where. It was definitely a unique scent, one that modern-day perfumers would have killed to get their hands on.
“I can walk by myself perfectly well,” she said, removing her arm from his.
“As you wish, Lisa,” he replied easily.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you suddenly being so nice to me? I thought you were angry with me. I thought you didn’t want to marry me. I thought you thought I was a spy.”
He shrugged innocently “First, I’ve always been reasonably pleasant to you. Second, I doona have any choice but to marry you, and third, marrying you renders distrusting you obsolete. I am a logical man, lass. When a warrior realizes he has only one course of action, he makes the best of it. Anything else would be foolish. That doesn’t mean that I doona still have many questions. I plan to learn everything about you, lass,” he said meaningfully. “But I am no longer going to fight my situation.” Not one bit of it, he added silently. Not my magic, not my dark side, not my adherence to rules. I am a new man, Lisa Stone, he told her inside his head. And it felt good. Never before had he accepted any portion of what he considered his dark side, but never before had he been so tempted by a woman to do so. He had a feeling that a man might need a little magic to woo and win Lisa Stone.