Some actor! Alasdair certainly hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he recognized the crystal Morgan had found.
Well, she was on to him now, and even Justine would see that she had been wrong about this man.
Morgan marched to the table the maître d’ indicated and sat down without looking back to the highlander. She cringed when her sister called out to Alasdair, but bent her attention on the menu.
The menu, however, was not sufficiently fascinating to keep Morgan from noting a very muscular leg sliding under the table beside her. The dusting of golden hair on Alasdair’s leg caught the light and Morgan had an impulsive urge to feel whether his muscles were really as firm as they looked.
She gripped the menu harder instead.
Moules marinara, avec un demi baguette de l’ail.
Morgan swallowed when Alasdair’s knee bumped against her own and she felt her cheeks heat with self-consciousness. She ignored her sister’s not-quite-concealed nudge of Blake. Those two huddled behind their menus, smugly satisfied co-conspirators.
Strong fingers landed on the table within Morgan’s peripheral vision. She hated how she noted their lean strength and deep tan. Morgan imagined those fingers sliding up her flesh and swallowed awkwardly.
“My lady Morgaine?” Even his voice was low and husky, a perfect pitch for intimacy. If she drew him, Morgan would put Alasdair against a fiercely blue sky, his hair blowing in the wind.
Wait a minute! She wasn’t going to draw some con man!
“My lady?” Alasdair murmured again and Morgan didn’t have it in her heart to ignore him.
Auntie Gillian had always said there was no excuse for rudeness. Morgan composed her features in an unencouraging expression. She glanced up and nearly drowned in fathomless blue eyes. Her heart stopped, then lurched forward again.
Why, oh why, did this scoundrel have to be so attractive?
Alasdair cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with what he had to say and flicked a glance to the menu. His ears reddened and Morgan remembered that he hadn’t been able to read the guidebook in the castle.
A tiny traitorous part of her heart melted in sympathy when he leaned closer. Alasdair’s voice dropped to a husky burr that eroded Morgan’s resistance even further. “My lady, I fear that I do not know how to proceed in such circumstance…”
Surely it couldn’t hurt to help the man order a meal?
“It’s in French,” she explained before she could question her compassionate impulse. “They have a lot of steak and seafood, it seems.”
He looked blank.
“Beef and fish.”
“Fish?” Alasdair grimaced comically. “Who would have fish when they could have good beef?” He slanted a suspicious glance her way. “Unless the beef here is tainted?”
Morgan decided not to get into the whole ‘mad cow’ business, especially as she didn’t understand the specifics very well.
Instead she stuck to the tried and true. “Studies show that it’s not healthy to eat red meat every day,” she informed the highlander.
Alasdair scoffed openly. “’Tis a far sight healthier red than any other shade.”
Morgan knew that this time she looked blank.
But Alasdair’s firm lips twisted and his fair brows drew together in a frown. “Aye, there’s many as think they can fool a man with stewing and spices, but when meat is gone, ’tis gone, and no kitchen wizardry will disguise the truth from a man’s belly.”
He seemed to be speaking from experience. Morgan supposed that if she had ever been served bad meat, she would be similarly opinionated.
She deliberately did not think of her own culinary efforts, many of which had not been fit for a dog.
Alasdair shook his head, then turned those beguiling blues upon her. Morgan was astonished to find a twinkle glimmering in their depths and could not look away. “When the pigs will not consume it,” he confided in a low rumble, “any cook must be compelled to face the truth.”
His words were such a close echo of her own thoughts that Morgan felt as though he seen right into her mind. She felt herself blush furiously.
Alasdair’s gaze danced over her face and the resolute line of his lips softened. If Morgan thought his tone had been low and confidential before, the way it rumbled now proved this man had considerable charm still to spare. “My lady Morgaine, would you do me the courtesy of choosing some viand to fill my belly?”
Morgan tried to act unaffected by his appeal and was pretty certain she failed. Fumbling with the menu and dropping it on the floor was a big clue.
Alasdair gallantly dove to retrieve it at the same moment as Morgan. They bumped heads en route. She sat up hastily when she saw his strong fingers close over the laminated sheet.
By the time she was sitting straight again with the menu securely in her grip, Morgan’s face was so hot that she was sure it was as red as a beet.
One glance at Justine’s smug smile was enough to revive her. This guy was a crook! And she was going to prove her sister wrong on this matchmaking venture!
Morgan took refuge in the details of the menu. “How hungry are you?” she asked, proud of her businesslike tone.
“Very.”
Morgan refused to let Alasdair’s low chuckle affect her attitude.
A waiter carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres, including escargots, past their table. Alasdair sniffed appreciatively at the waft of garlic butter, then looked alarmed as the food was deposited on the next table. He was obviously shocked when the diners tucked into their appetizers.
“They eat snails? Like some vermin in the fields?” he demanded in an incredulous whisper. The woman in question apparently heard Alasdair, because she shot a hostile glance toward their table.
Morgan swallowed her smile. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“Indeed, I would expect so!” Alasdair inhaled sharply and looked towards the other diners with unconcealed horror. “I beg of you, my lady, find me some decent fare.”
Decent would be big, red and dead, in a man like Alasdair’s vocabulary, Morgan was sure. She scanned the menu. “There’s a Delmonico steak in a pepper sauce.”
A glint of interest in Alasdair’s eye told Morgan she had made a good choice. “Aye? ’Tis good fresh meat?”
“Oh, I’d think so. They serve Steak Tartar, after all.”
He frowned. “What is this Tartar’s steak?”
“It’s raw, with onions and an egg and some spices,” Morgan explained. “But the meat has to be very, very fresh.”
Alasdair nodded firmly. “I will try this.”
“But it’s just an appetizer.” At his blank look, she continued. “A small serving to start the meal.”
“And the other?”
How could he even wonder about a Delmonico steak? The only time Morgan had ordered one—the “house special”—she’d taken so much of it home that she’d had it for dinner for the next three nights. “That would be a main course.”
Alasdair nodded approval, his glance straying to Morgan’s black clutch. He leaned toward her, capturing one of her hands in his great warm one. His voice was low with intent, and Morgan felt that tingle awaken in the depths of her belly. “My lady Morgaine, you must understand that I need that stone…”
That’s what she got for trying to help!
“I’m sure you do,” Morgan snapped and easily pulled her hand out of his gentle grip. She snatched up her purse and slapped it on the table at the furthest point from Alasdair. Just for good measure, she moved her chair a foot closer to Blake.
Alasdair stiffened. “What do you think I mean to do?” he demanded, as though insulted. “Steal the token from you?”
Morgan arched a brow. “It would hardly be news, would it?”
Alasdair snorted and Morgan took refuge in her menu, pretending she hadn’t already decided to order the filet mignon.
“Morgan!” Justine chided. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Alasdair is our guest tonight, after all.”
Morgan deliberately set her menu aside. “That’s only because you don’t know that he’s a thief.”
Justine and Blake gaped at Morgan most satisfactorily.
“My lady, I told you that I could explain…” Alasdair murmured, but Morgan wasn’t going to listen to anything a con man had to say for himself.
“A thief?” Blake echoed, adjusting his glasses with a frown. “Why on earth would you say that?”
Morgan snatched up her purse and rummaged in it, dropping the crystal from the regalia on the white linen tablecloth with a triumphant flourish. “Because he stole this from the regalia!”
The response was less than she might have hoped for.
Justine and Blake stared at the stone as though they didn’t know what it was. Alasdair’s hand moved on the table, but Morgan stilled any acquisitive move he might have contemplated with one cold look.
“From where?” Blake asked.
“What is it?” Justine asked simultaneously.
“It’s the crowning stone from the Scottish regalia,” Morgan explained impatiently. “Don’t you remember that it was mounted on the top of the scepter in the display this morning?”
Blake rolled his eyes. “Morgan, you really have to start listening. What’s the point of taking these tours if you don’t pay attention? The guide specifically said that the stone had been missing for seven centuries or something.” With a dismissive wave, he picked up his menu again. “That Robert the Bruce dirtball is supposed to have sold it.”
Alasdair inhaled sharply, and Morgan glanced up to find his eyes blazing. “Robert the Bruce would never have committed such a foul deed!”
Blake shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters now. The guy was a loser, no matter how you slice it.” He ran a finger down the array of offerings and wrinkled his nose. “Do you think the lobster would be any good?”
Justine clicked her tongue and winked at Alasdair. Morgan was irritated to hear her sister’s soothing hostess-with-the-mostest tone. “Alasdair, I sincerely hope that you’re not insulted. Morgan has the most active imagination.”
“I’m not making this up!”
Justine laughed lightly. “Oh, Morgan. You always said that when we were kids, too. Honestly, monkeys outside the window and pet dragons in the closet.” Her lips twisted as though she couldn’t help laughing, then she plucked the stone from the table.
The tension emanating from Alasdair was tangible. Morgan noticed that his fists were clenched on either side of his chair.
If he grabbed for the stone, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
“Don’t you see?” Morgan said urgently. “He used us to get the stone out of the castle, and now he’s going to steal it back from us.” She gave Alasdair a scathing glance. “Probably sell it for a fortune.”
“That?” Blake’s expression was skeptical. “Might get five bucks for it, on a good day.”
“It’s kind of pretty.” Justine turned the stone to catch the light, then tossed it to Morgan as though it were no more than a bauble. Morgan fumbled but managed to hold on to it. “Did you find it in one of those New Age shops? They’re just nuts for crystals, aren’t they?”
Morgan felt herself tremble as her fingers closed over the stone. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Then why don’t either of us remember the stone being in the scepter?” Blake asked. “Face it, Morgan. Your imagination has gotten away from you. Again.”
Obviously, they didn’t believe her. Morgan didn’t know how Alasdair had managed to fool everyone, but she was somehow going to prove that she was right. She shoved the stone back into her evening purse, glancing up when she felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon her.
And one look into those blue, blue eyes told Morgan that there was one person who already knew that she was right.
The steak of Tartars was good fare, but hardly ample enough to satisfy. Alasdair was greatly relieved when the servant slid a great wallop of beef beneath his nose. The smell alone made his innards growl in anticipation.
Anxious not to give offense in this strange court, he had already noted and adapted to the use of the small, tined spear that had been awaiting him at the table. He surreptitiously watched the lady Morgaine herself as she carved a piece of her own much more meager serving of meat, then mimicked her actions.
And closed his eyes when the succulent flavor flooded his mouth. He was too hungered to care whether ’twas bewitched. The red wine was finer than any he had ever known, wine being a rarity in his life and one oft so musty by the time it ventured this far north that Alasdair preferred his ale.
All in all, he could not object to the quantity or quality of the food in Morgaine’s domain.
As long as one avoided the snails.
“I must thank you, my lady,” he murmured. “For the fare is most fine.”
Morgaine looked unimpressed by his gratitude, although she nodded curtly. Conversation flared briefly as each commended the meal to the attentive servant, then silence reigned again. Alasdair took another morsel of meat and tried to think of a way he could win the crystal from Morgaine’s clutches.
Let alone curry the queen’s favor.
“You know, Alasdair, you just might be able to help us,” Justine commented brightly.
“Indeed?”
“Yes.” The advisor smiled. “You know, Morgan has a fascination with folk tales and old stories. I was wondering if you might know some, you know, stories you heard as a child that you could share with us.”
Alasdair glanced sideways at his adversary, only to find her expression murderous. Evidently she did not like this advisor sharing tales of her tastes. Why would she be interested in the tales of mortals, except to turn them to her own dark gain?
But all the same, this might work to his advantage. Alasdair summoned a winning smile. “Aye, that I do. My gran is a great teller of tales, and I have heard the lot of them from the cradle.”
“Really?” Justine was obviously impressed by this news. “You see, Morgan, I just knew Alasdair would be able to help.”
Before Morgaine could comment upon this, a servant hovered at the periphery of the table and coughed discreetly. Blake looked up and beckoned to him.
“Excuse me, sir.” The servant’s manner was as deferential as if he addressed Morgaine herself. Alasdair wondered whether the common folk here were not permitted to speak to the great lady without intercession. “We did manage to obtain tickets for this evening’s performance for you”—Justine cooed with delight—“although there is a small problem.”
“Really?” Blake fastidiously wiped his mouth and laid his fine napkin aside. “And what’s that?” He did not look surprised by this morsel of news, nor did he so much as glance at the sorceress Morgaine. Alasdair could not help but wonder whether these two had launched yet another scheme on his behalf.
He would not consider what he might owe them for their intervention.
The man cleared his throat. “Sadly, there are only two tickets available…”
“Ah!” Blake’s face wore an expression of exaggerated dismay.
Justine pouted in a manner that Alasdair would have thought most uncharacteristic. “But I really wanted to see this play. It’s our only night in Edinburgh.”
The pair of advisors turned winning smiles on their patroness.
“Well, then, you should go,” Morgaine said flatly and stabbed at her meat. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, we couldn’t,” Justine protested, her bright glance dancing toward Alasdair so pointedly that he realized his role in all of this.
As did the tiny queen, evidently. Morgaine muttered an expletive beneath her breath that Alasdair was astonished she knew.
And then he was so sorely insulted that she found his companionship offensive that he could not summon a word in his own defense.
“Well, that’s settled, then.” Blake pushed himself to his feet and looked at the dark band on his wrist. “Almost curtain time.” He presented a gold square to the man, who bowed and scurried away, then smiled at Morgan. “I’m glad this worked out so well. You and Alasdair just take your time here, everything’s taken care of.”
“Have dessert and coffee,” Justine added as she got to her feet.
“And Alasdair, surely you wouldn’t mind seeing Morgan back to the bed-and-breakfast?” Blake asked amiably. “Any city at night is no place for a woman alone.”
Alasdair got to his feet politely and inclined his head. “I should be most honored to accompany the lady Morgaine wherever she desires…”
“You can’t do this to me, you know,” Morgaine said tightly, granting a glare at Justine that did not bode well for that woman’s future. “I’ll just go back to the hotel myself. This isn’t going to work.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” Justine protested. “Sit and enjoy yourself. Talk. Relax for once, Morgan.” She slid her arm through Blake’s and smiled for him alone. “I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful time this evening.”
The pair exchanged a hot look that left no doubt in Alasdair’s mind as to the status of their relations. Blake retrieved his gold square and they swept away, leaving Alasdair with the lady Morgaine.
Who was evidently not very happy with the situation.
No sooner had they left than Morgaine jabbed a finger toward Alasdair, giving him no chance to try another measure of his charm. “You may have fooled them, and you may have fooled the guards, but I know what you did and I’m not going to forget it.”
“But I can explain…”
“I’m sure you have some story.” She sniffed with disdain and pushed her plate away, obviously preparing to leave.
“But my lady, I truly must speak to you…”
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” Morgaine said crisply. She stood up and gathered her small satchel, the crystal making a little bulge in its soft sides. She met Alasdair’s gaze coolly. “And you don’t have to see me back to the hotel, regardless of what Blake and Justine have said.”
With that, she strode out of the restaurant.
Alasdair watched her go, grudgingly admiring the way she held her head high. She was a feisty bit of woman, that much was for certain.
And Alasdair was not going to let her out of his sight, regardless of what she had to say about the matter. His gran had always said the MacAulays were too cursed stubborn for their own good, and for once Alasdair was content to prove her right.
There was too much at stake to do otherwise.
It was probably the best exit Morgan had ever made in her life.
She hadn’t tripped over a single thing, or tried to leave through the ladies’ room, or had her words come out in the wrong order. She hadn’t even inadvertently dragged the linen napkin away from the table. And she hadn’t been to the ladies’ room, so her skirt couldn’t be tucked into her pantihose.
But it was just her luck that there wasn’t a single taxi in front of the Lyceum Theatre.
Something had to go wrong. It always did.
When a great blond man stepped out of the restaurant while she lingered indecisively at the curb, Morgan knew that her luck had run out. She wouldn’t be able to manage hanging around without talking to Alasdair again.
And Morgan didn’t trust herself to say no to him again so quickly. She jumped off the curb to hail a cab flying past, but the taxi kept going. In its wake, the street was dark in both directions.
Well, if her options were talking to Alasdair or walking back by herself, there was no choice.
She would walk.
It was a nice evening after all and not that late, despite the darkness. Morgan told herself that the exercise would do her good after that meal. Plus she could work off some of her irritation with Justine’s meddling.
She hastily picked the road she thought led to the bed-and-breakfast, without looking back to see whether Alasdair was behind her. She headed off at a quick pace, despite her little black heels, and was momentarily alarmed by how quickly she became the only one walking in the street.
Morgan nervously glanced back at the brightly lit theater behind her. Her heart skipped a beat when she thought she saw a figure step quickly into the shadows.
No. She was imagining things. Again. Edinburgh was a safe city, probably a lot safer than Chicago, where she regularly walked by herself.
At least, she walked streets she knew were safe.
And in daylight.
Morgan scanned the front of the theater, but Alasdair was gone. She refused to feel disappointed that he had finally taken no for an answer.
After all, she didn’t need an escort. She was sure it wasn’t far to the bed-and-breakfast. And it was only eight-thirty—it just got dark early here.
There was no problem.
Morgan clutched her purse, her instincts screaming to the contrary, and trotted in what she was absolutely positive was the right direction.
Directionally impaired Morgan was, of course, completely wrong.
But by the time she realized her mistake, there wasn’t much she could do about it but keep walking. Periodically, she thought she heard a stealthy tread on the pavement behind her, but whenever she looked back, the street was vacant.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frightened. Her heart had no such indecision—it was pounding in her ears like the sound track of a rock video.
But Morgan kept walking.
And cursing her own ability to get herself into a pickle—as Auntie Gillian would have said.
The neighborhood she found herself in must have been part of the university. It was completely, eerily deserted, the windows of the lecture halls dark and vacant. Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement, and a candy wrapper rattled as it tumbled across the road.
There wasn’t a vehicle in sight, and the only light came from the streetlights. Keep moving, she told herself firmly.
Morgan studied a building opposite as she walked, certain she had seen it sometime during the day but unable to place it. Had she been going to the castle? To the palace? For tea? Back to the bed-and-breakfast? All the streets were twisted around each other, their names made no orderly sense, and it was so very confusing.
She could have headed back to the theater, if she could have managed a guess at which way she had come. Morgan rounded a corner and the dark silhouette of a park loomed three blocks ahead.
She hesitated. Crossing that dark expanse alone wouldn’t be a clever move.
Morgan considered the narrow streets to the left and the right, but didn’t like the look of any of them. The street behind her was filled with ominous shadows. Left without many choices, she marched onward, ignoring the lump in her throat.
A cat yowled suddenly and Morgan jumped. She lost her balance on her unfamiliar heels, tripped over the curb, and took one step down into the gutter.
And broke the heel of her shoe in a sewer grate.
The heel disappeared through the metal grate and she heard it splash into something unmentionable far, far below.
Morgan was almost ready to cry. She loved these shoes! And she would never be able to get another heel to match. She turned to head back to the theater, one way or the other, then realized she had bigger problems than matching a heel.
Morgan wasn’t alone anymore. She looked up into the cold eyes of a truly Dickensian ruffian, standing on the curb right beside her.
Complete with a nasty little knife.
Morgan swallowed carefully. She hadn’t even heard him coming.
“C’mon darling, give me all your lovely money.” The knife flashed as he waved it impatiently at her. “C’mon, c’mon, hand over the wee purse. I’ve not got all night for this.”
Another shadow separated itself from an alleyway and advanced, this young man a close copy of the first. “Hey, she’s a cute wee bird.” He chuckled darkly. “We could have us some fun, we could.”
Morgan’s blood ran cold. Justine had been right.
Again.
But it was a little bit late for second thoughts.
“C’mon! C’mon!”
Morgan eyed the pair of thieves and realized she’d be lucky to get out of this with just the loss of her purse.
Suddenly a bellow echoed through the empty street. It sounded like a boar had gotten loose and wasn’t too pleased about its situation.
Morgan saw no more than a tawny blur before the glint of the knife disappeared. She backed away from the scuffle, uncertain whether the new arrival had come to her rescue of simply wanted the spoils for himself.
The first attacker went down with a yelp and his head hit the pavement with a sick thud. Blood trickled across the sidewalk. A great shadowed figure pivoted and dove after the second attacker, who made the mistake of trying to flee.
He managed to take four steps before he was snatched up from behind.
The boy gave a good fight and cursed eloquently. Morgan caught a glimpse of dirty plaid and the brassy glint of her defender’s hair, and her heart began to pound. Although she knew she should run, Morgan couldn’t help but watch.
No more than a moment later, Alasdair kicked the limp body of the second thief aside. He spat on the pavement between the two, who looked a lot younger than they had just moments before, then his simmering blue gaze locked on Morgan.
She took a cautious step backward, her heart racing.
“What in the holy name of God do you think you are doing?” he roared, then came after her.
Now Morgan ran.
Actually, she hobbled, one heel up and one heel down. But even as she ran, Morgan couldn’t help but wonder what Alasdair intended to do to her. Hadn’t he said before that he’d toss her over his shoulder and have his way with her?
As much as she hated to admit it, a part of her really liked the idea. She was running as much from that realization as from the highlander.
But she didn’t get far before Alasdair scooped her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder in one bold move, muttering all the while. Morgan struggled, but his one hand was clamped so firmly over her knees that she wasn’t going anywhere that Alasdair didn’t want her to go.
Her mouth went dry.
“Of all the fool things to be doing, I never would have imagined the likes of you to have so little sense as this!” he raged. “And what manner of foul kingdom is it you have that the common folk show no respect for a queen within their own filthy ranks?”
Alasdair stalked down a shadowed street, and Morgan was surprised to note that it didn’t look so bad on closer inspection. Within moments, they emerged onto a brightly lit and very busy thoroughfare.
“Never have I seen the like of it, though the fault is as much yours as theirs. Did Justine not warn you to not walk alone on these streets? What manner of queen employs advisors, then ignores their counsel?”
Morgan was embarrassed and annoyed to realize how close she had been to comparative safety. Alasdair rounded the corner and strode into a throng of people who eyed them with curiosity.
She wriggled, to no discernible effect. “Um, you can put me down now.”
But Alasdair showed no signs of setting Morgan on her feet. She wasn’t even sure he’d heard her.
“Mere lads they were! Not more than thirteen summers!” His disgust was evident. “What manner of town is it that a boy can find himself such trouble? Where are their sires and their mothers? Have they not decent work to pursue, rather than thieving from women?”
Morgan struggled, not trusting the way her skin heated everywhere she touched Alasdair. The strength of his hand locked around her knees sent unwelcome shivers all through her.
But he was evidently not interested in any thoughts Morgan had on the matter.
He ranted, waving his free hand as he stomped down the street. “And what manner of advisors have you by your side that they would be so quick to leave you unattended when such danger lurks at every turn?”
“They are not my advisors! Now, put me down.”
Alasdair growled on as though Morgan hadn’t said anything at all. “You may be assured, my lady, that they were not the first to be interested in your bonny curves. Had I not been busy with the last, these would never have gotten so close.”
He muttered an expletive that made even more people turn to look, and his voice dropped lower. “Aye, were you a woman of mine, I would be having fine words for your lack of interest in your own safe keeping…”
“But I’m not a woman of yours,” Morgan retorted. “So please put me down.”
Alasdair stopped suddenly, and Morgan braced herself for trouble. She couldn’t help but wonder why he had heard that one comment.
“Aye,” he acknowledged in a dangerously soft tone. “That you are not.”
His hands were suddenly on her hips, moving with the sure touch of a caress. The heat of his palms launched a tingle over her flesh that Morgan would have preferred to have been without.
Then those hands lifted her high. Morgan’s mouth went dry as Alasdair let her slide slowly down the length of him until they stood toe to toe. His hand still rested proprietarily on her waist and his gaze blazed into hers. She barely dared to breathe as she stared up at her self-appointed protector and felt his thumbs tracing little circles on her back.
Morgan was fully aware of the erection she slipped past. His hardness pressed against her stomach as though there wasn’t all this clothing between them.
And the glint in Alasdair’s eyes was unabashedly sensual.
Nothing else could have fired her blood like the evidence of Alasdair’s arousal. Matt’s continued pursuit of other women—and his avoidance of intimacy with his wife—had left a deep scar in Morgan’s belief in her own attractiveness.
To have this aggressively masculine man desire her was a siren’s call Morgan couldn’t ignore.
But Alasdair was waiting. And when Morgan looked deeply into his eyes, she understood why.
He was waiting for her to decide how to proceed. Morgan knew not only that Alasdair wanted her but that she could push him away with one fingertip.
And if she did, he would go.
Just having the choice made Morgan want to choose otherwise. She eyed his firm lips and wondered…
It had to be the glass of wine she’d had with dinner.
Or maybe it was the adrenaline rush of barely escaping a mugging.
But the truth was that Morgan didn’t care. She wanted to kiss Alasdair, just once, just a little kiss, just because she had the choice.
Maybe not such a little kiss.
Right here, right now, she had the perfect excuse.
Alasdair’s grip tightened ever so slightly on Morgan’s waist. “You are not going to be so foolish as to run off again, are you?” he demanded, his fair brows bristling. “You may be sure that I shall see you safely to your abode.”
Morgan could smell Alasdair’s scent, and her toes curled inside her mutilated shoes.
“No.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She was vaguely aware of catcalls and whistles around them, but couldn’t have cared less about anything beyond this man.
Alasdair arched a brow. “Promise?”
The “r” rumbled in his chest, the vibration startling against Morgan’s breasts. She felt her nipples tighten as her imagination concocted what she could have expected if she had been Alasdair’s woman.
How would he kiss?
“Promise,” she agreed, breathless.
Alasdair smiled then and lifted one hand to gently touch her cheek. “Are you unharmed by those ruffians, then, my lady? Hale and hearty?”
His protective concern was the icing on the cake. No one other than Justine and Auntie Gillian had ever been so concerned for Morgan’s welfare. Certainly, no one had ever saved her from thugs.
“Yes.” Her voice was breathy, like some silver screen movie star. “I’m just fine.”
“Good.” Alasdair nodded emphatically and started to step away.
It was Morgan’s last chance.
Before she could lose her nerve, she stretched to her toes. Alasdair froze, obviously uncertain of what she meant to do. Morgan paused, a finger’s breath from his firm lips and looked into those blue, blue eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, then kissed him.
Morgan had been thinking of just brushing her lips across his, sort of a sisterly buss of affection, but Alasdair evidently had different ideas. He stiffened for just a moment, as though surprised, then made a quick recovery. He angled his mouth across Morgan’s and lifted her against him.
Possessive, passionate and powerful.
Perfect.
Some of that tentativeness lingered in his touch, reassuring Morgan that she could rebuff him—if she wanted to. She melted at that certainty and wound her arms around his neck.
And he deepened his kiss.
Morgan’s imagination hadn’t begun to do his kiss justice.
Her eyes closed in pleasure as Alasdair’s one hand cupped her buttock and the other cradled her shoulder. Her lips parted of their own accord, and the sleek heat of Alasdair’s tongue slid between her teeth.
The whistles Morgan had heard earlier were nothing compared to the ones echoing around them now.
But Alasdair tasted so good that she didn’t care. Her arms twined around his sturdy neck, her fingers taking note of the muscled strength of his shoulders before tangling in the thick hair at his nape. Morgan could feel the thunder of his heart against her own as his kiss became more demanding.
Alasdair wanted her. Her. Morgan’s skin heated, and the tingle of desire in her belly grew to a roar. She wanted to wrap her legs around Alasdair and drag him back to her lair.
And ravish him all night long. Alasdair had unlocked a barricaded door, setting ten years of pent-up desire free.
Morgan didn’t want to cage it again.
Alasdair must have been thinking along the same lines. He lifted his lips from hers, and his sapphire gaze clung to hers for an electric moment.
Then he swung her up into his arms and began to stride through the crowd.
And Morgan had a moment to think.
What on earth was she doing?
How could she have forgotten what Alasdair had done?