Grace shook her head and smiled, concentrating on the finishing touches of the bandage.When she was done, she sat back on her heels, her cheeks tingling with heat, unable to look at him. She’d never felt so comfortable in a man’s presence before. She’d never felt so unsettled in a man’s presence, either.

Duncan was different from any other male she’d ever encountered. He did something to her, something that made her feel . . . well, simply delicious.

His finger pressed beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “I want to kiss you again.”

She jolted back in surprise, but he held her firm. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “Tell your sister you’re takin’ some air.”

Looking at him wide-eyed, she nodded.

They rose and headed toward the exit. As she passed by Claire, who was doctoring Lieutenant Ross’s torso—he’d been clipped by a bullet in the waist—she murmured, “I’m going out to take some air.”

Claire nodded but hardly spared her a glance, so intent was her focus on the red-haired lieutenant. Claire possessed a rather odd fascination with the art of doctoring, so it didn’t surprise Grace that she had taken the responsibility for treating the men’s various ailments. Except for Duncan’s injury. Besides helping Grace fashion him a new sling, Claire had left his recovery entirely in Grace’s hands.

But as they passed the major, he scowled at them, his eyes narrowed at Duncan. Grace tried not to flinch away from the man. It seemed so strange to her that a man who at times didn’t seem to care one way or another about his own wife would give a fig about her interactions with one of his men.

But there was male logic for you, she thought. In some warped way, he felt it was his duty to protect his sister-in-law’s virtue.

“I need ye back in ten minutes, Mackenzie,” he said roughly.

“Aye, sir.” Duncan’s voice was mild, as if he hadn’t noticed the major’s glare or ominous tone. He must have, though—they were impossible to miss.

Grace followed Duncan out onto the deck. It would have been a warm day on the Channel if not for the biting northeasterly breeze. She wrapped her arms over her chest and shuddered as the wind threatened to tug her hair from its pins. It was good she wasn’t wearing a bonnet, because it would have caught the air and blown off straightaway.
Duncan turned back to her, then frowned, seeing her shiver. In a flash, his coat was off and over her shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t need—”

“Come,” he said, placing the flat of his hand at the small of her back, “let’s get you out o’ the cold.”
He turned and entered the forward cabin, where the hold was located. But instead of taking her into the hold, he opened a door and led her into a small room so full of wooden barrels there was hardly enough space to stand.
She opened her mouth to ask what the barrels were for, but before she could speak, his good arm went around her. He hauled her to him.

“Oh,” she gasped, instantly overwhelmed by the feel of a hard male body pressing against her. She stared up at his rough, masculine face.

“You’re driving me mad, lass,” he murmured.

Then his lips were on hers, and she was lost. There was nothing but the feel of him surrounding her, the heat of his mouth, the sensuous slide of his lips over hers. He tasted delicious, like heat and pleasure and sensuality, like nothing she’d ever imagined before. She opened her lips to let out a breathy sigh, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth and she groaned instead.

Was this how it was done? She knew a kiss consisted of one person’s lips pressed against another’s. She’d seen a few kisses in her life. But this . . . this was . . . Oh, God. Deep, erotic pleasure. And as he explored her mouth with his tongue, she bunched his shirt in her hands and held on as a heavy pressure built between her legs.

His hand slid down her back, trailing over the dozen cloth-covered buttons that lined her spine. And then he cupped her bottom in his big hand and pressed her tighter against him.

A deep shudder pulsed through her. God . . . this was . . . this was . . . It was nearly too much. Too intense. Every part of her body, inside and out, was alive and tingling with an ache almost too sweet to comprehend.

And then she felt it—the hard ridge of his male flesh pressing against her lower stomach.

She jerked back.

What in heaven’s name was she doing? This wasn’t her. This wasn’t even possible.

She gazed at him, breathing hard, her lips parted, her eyes wide. “What are we doing?” she whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

He stared back at her. “I canna resist you, Grace.” He blew out a slow breath. “Worse, I dinna wish to.”