Page 83 of Enchantment of a Highlander

She’d never been in an actual tub before. Loch bathing was chilly and turned to a small bowl of meltwater in the winter, but this…

She stepped over the high edge of the tub. The water enveloped her skin in a velvety warmth so decadent it bordered on sinful.

She pulled her other leg into the hot water and eased into its embrace. Everything was warm and comforting and weightless. She leaned back against the soft sheet draped on the opposite side of the tub from Alec, sitting between his ankles.

He watched her through a milky haze of steam, his light eyes dark with desire. The water stirred and his feet brushed against the sides of her lower back.

“I want ye closer.” His feet tucked against her and drew her toward him in a smooth surge.

He didn’t stop until they were pressed together in a tangle of legs that left her senses suddenly heightened and on edge.

The water caressed her skin and the subtle waves rocked them together with each gentle swell.

“I said closer.” He lifted her into his lap and slid his hands to her thighs, guiding her to straddle his waist.

With the way they sat, he could slide inside her with the slightest thrust.

And judging from the way his lips lifted in a grin, he knew it too.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Alec woke to darkness. The sun had not yet begun to glow its outline against the shutters.

There was more time to sleep.

There was more time to love.

He rolled to his side and reached for Celia, desperate for her rosemary scented warmth, the soft comfort of her naked skin.

His fingers slipped against cool sheets. Sleep beckoned, but he held it at bay with a grunt.

He looked to where Celia had lain beside him, but in a world so absent of light, seeing was impossible.

“Celia,” he called in a voice heavy with his deep slumber.

His heart slammed hard in his chest.

Not again.

“Celia,” he said sharply.

Still no reply.

Alec’s blood thundered through his veins, heating his body from the chill of the night with all the frustration, all the rage and hurt only Celia could incite.

He kicked his legs from the bed and bolted across the room while securing the discarded bath linen around his waist. The fabric was cold and heavy with wetness, but he paid it no heed.

The latch shifted against the pressure of his thumb in a clatter of metal and the door swung open.

Soft light bathed the private stairwell.

The rain had stopped.

Perhaps Celia had left. Perhaps she’d returned to her cottage in the woods.

Fear bathed his mouth in something metallic and hot.

Perhaps MacDougall waited for her there, ready to attack.