"Ye must learn not to shy away when I touch ye." Once again, he spoke softly, his tone meant to seduce and conquer. Conquer. He wondered at that, openly marveled at the sweet possibility and the enduring promise.
Lady Callie would not willingly surrender to anyone, least of all Colin MacPherson. No, now that she knew most of the story, she would fight him in her own way, subtly and artfully. She would flirt and dance attendance upon him when they were surrounded by people she needed to enchant, but when they were alone she would lift her chin and dismiss him silently.
He would never understand what motivated her.
Yet he wanted to win this contest--this battle of wills. He needed to have her need him, to want him and to come to him with her darkest fears and in her loneliest hours. And he wanted her to burn for him just as intensely as the flames rose within him.
All the loathing he felt for her--for her father and her family remained--still...
He picked up her hand in his and studied her long, delicate fingers. Hands that had never seen a day's hard work. Hands that had pursued the finer arts, stitchery perhaps. He knew so little about Callie Whitcomb and what he now planned would weld them together for eternity.
This could only result in heartache for both of them. And yet...
Her face now framed by his hands, he traced her jaw line, marveled at the softness.
"Hawke," she whispered his name and the sound was bittersweet.
"Nay, do not try to figure out why we have been thrust together. Do not try to understand what I am about to ask of ye for ye will not be able to make sense of that which I am about to tell ye."
"I--" she began.
"Hush." He lowered his lips to hers, and brushed them softly with his own. He lingered upon the lush ripeness beneath his mouth, he feathered kisses--light kisses--where he would have liked to delve deeper and taste all that was Lady Callie Whitcomb.
)
