She was silent for a moment, then asked, "Why?"

"Because you're the type of woman who needs to be kissed. Hourly, softly. Fiercely." He skimmed his hand down over her hip and murmured near her ear, "Thoroughly."

She shivered, then eased over on her back and faced him. Her breasts pressed against her nightdress, her nipples hard, and just below them she ran her finger back and forth across the cover in long, languorous movements. "That sounds like a lot of work, MacCarrick," she purred with that accent. "Will you be the man to do all that to me?"

He groaned and leaned forward, thanking God for whisky. "Anna, you have no idea."

She put one finger against his chest and pushed. As she turned away, dismissing him, she said, "Stirred?"

What imp had caused her to taunt him like this? She didn't feel like she was rubbing a bear's belly, she felt like she was jabbing it with arrows when the beast was in bed with her. And she knew better.

It was just that the ride here against his chest had been so surprising, and then seeing him grin had been confusing. Here was the man who'd just spied on her and seen her naked, but the look on his face afterward had been…rewarding?

Or she was simply drunk. Yet again.

"I like that," he said. His voice, so husky and rumbling, always pleased her. Even when she'd despised him and the words—and accent—his deep voice conveyed, she'd enjoyed the sound. But tonight she could no longer despise him. Tonight it made her tremble.

"You like what?" she asked, too curious to refrain.

"No' that you tease me."

"Then what?"

"That you think you can tease me and actually keep my hands off your body with a finger."

She did think that. For some reason she'd always known he would never force himself on her, even when he'd kissed her at the lodge. "But I have." She needed to bite her tongue. Was she trying to provoke him? She'd already agreed to let him kiss her whenever he pleased!

"Tonight you have," he agreed, then pulled her to her back to face him. "But if you look at me like that again and speak to me in that voice, you will no' fare so well in the future." His tone was low, his eyes watchful. She realized she found his eyes as pleasing as his voice. They were dark, but now she noticed lighter flecks. She wished she knew what color those were….

Oh, Lord, she feared she was looking at him like that just this second. She tore her gaze from his and studied his lips. She remembered how good kissing him had felt and absently asked, "Then what would happen?"

"Then I would kiss your lips." He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, and the whisky insisted that she allow it. "And your neck." He caressed his fingers down her neck. The feeling was so pleasurable, she fought to keep her eyes open and lost. Then no touch at all. Just when she was opening her eyes to his, she felt the first contact to her breast. "And then your breasts."

Never breaking her gaze from his she sucked in a breath and tensed. Because she would pull away. Now she would. In one second…He continued watching her, making it impossible to look away, while lower, his fingers were slow and hot on her hardened nipple.

"You mustn't do—"

He pinched lightly, and her eyes slid closed again. She vaguely perceived him levering his body above her, but she felt his lips on her neck like fire. She moaned and soon his hands covered her breasts, his thumbs sinuously rubbing her nipples. Nothing could possibly feel this good….

Was he working his hand inside her nightdress? The jolt of his hot skin directly against her breast roused her, made her remember who this was and what they were doing. When she swatted his hand, he grasped her wholly. She tried to wriggle from him, and he groaned.

"MacCarrick, let go of me!"

"Let me touch you." He growled the words.

"No!" She broke from him, turning away, her breathing heavy. Her breasts were sensitive as if protesting the lack of his touch. She ached between her legs more strongly than she ever had alone in her bed, and to her shame she'd grown wet there.

She felt him roll on his back and heard him exhale a pent-up breath. "You'll be the death of me, Anna."

When dawn neared and he heard her finally sleeping, he rose, still hard as iron, miserable as only a man denied could be. He'd never felt skin so soft. Never dreamed of skin so soft. And he'd had his hands on her, teasing her to need again. Only his coarse touch had stopped him from uncovering more.

He glared at his scarred hands. They weren't changing.

He supposed he would have to get used to nights filled with heavy, aching erections and no relief in sight. Because apparently, he'd just signed on for many more.

She affected him, and for some reason, around her, he either became like a lowly animal or strove to be noble. Both were asinine in his mind. Noble? Him? He'd had difficulty keeping his hands off her when she was violent toward him. And in the nights before, when he'd removed her shirt to change her bandage, his fingers had itched to sweep across her chest, to slip beneath her chemise and grasp her breasts and cup her. How noble was that? She most likely still hated him, but now she was teasing him? He was a dead man.

As he washed his face with cold water, he looked in the mirror, scowling at his harsh reflection, seeing nothing there that would make her want his touch.

He dried off, then sat for some time watching her sleep, listening to her whisper occasionally in Catalan, wondering why he'd decided to leave his crew and the possibility of any income behind. Why had he promised to get her to safety when all he'd wanted was to pay off Beinn a'Chaorainn?

Court was the only man in his family in memory to have a note on his land, and it shamed him. The only thing that lessened the feeling was knowing it was a lot of land. Knowing he'd purchased it for less than half its value helped as well.

To make way for sheep, a foppish English baron had cleared the lands of Beinn a'Chaorainn of tenants, forcing them to the coast to eke out a living there. Then the baron left the administration to factors, who knew little about the land, and without good management the farm couldn't compete with the wool churning out of Australia. Debts from a high life in London forced him to sell at a loss akin to robbery.

Court smiled a mean smile. The violent removal of Highlanders from the land and sometimes even their forced emigration had been happening for years. In fact, many of them had been driven to Australia.

And now they owned those wildly profitable sheep stations that dominated the world wool market and bankrupted shortsighted English barons.

We will always win in the end, Court thought.

Before they'd been cleared, the tenants had been prosperous, and their rents, when fair, were still substantial—not grossly so, not able to support a high life in London, but comfortable. Court liked comfortable.

He'd planned to ask them back. But he couldn't—not until he owned his home completely and could never lose it. So why the hell had he decided to put his plans on hold? Why had he chosen to help her?

At that moment Anna turned on her back in sleep. Her brows drawn, she softly murmured, "Wolf."

He bolted from the room, then stomped down the stairs, uncaring of guests sleeping beneath them. Groot was already up.

"Need a coach," Court said as he sat at the common table. "And I'll pay extra for a driver worth his salt and horses that doona spook so easily."

"I can send the boy to Toulouse. Guess you're taking the lady?"

"Aye. I'll need some coin."

"Should I put the debt on Ethan's or Hugh's tab?"

It would serve them right. "Split it equally."

Groot chuckled. "And your crew?"