Reluctant (Heroes of the Highlands) (The MacKays #3) Read Online Free PDF Page A

older sister Katriona could be when applying her well-used sharp tongue. Though she had a feeling she fell short of her mark. “You don’t do much to ingratiate yourself to people.”
    He grunted. Then shrugged.
    “But it was the Gaelic Berserkers who sought out my queen. Namely Fionngal MacLauchlan.”
    “You’re telling me that Fionngal the Bastard and his two mated Berserker brothers sent you to spill my blood rather than claiming it themselves?” He sounded on the verge of laughter, but his implacable features never changed.
    “Well, they couldn’t find you, for one thing. Also, I can kill you without spilling a drop of blood, which is a great deal less messy. Unless you want to bleed for sake of legacy and such, then I can make you bleed out of every orifice. We can discuss that later. Can I impose upon you to tear this for me?” She indicated the place where she needed the fabric separated from the rest of the bolt.
    He took it from her hands, gripped the silk, and ripped it clean down the middle as though tearing a parchment.
    Kamdyn’s brows shot up to her hairline. “Thank you.” She plucked it from him, trying not to be impressed at his strength. “Lift your arms, if you please.”
    He complied, the engorged muscles at his sides flexing to create a most impressive V.
    Kamdyn bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. “Right, then.” She cleared her throat. “Hold still and I’ll put this around you.”
    He raised a russet eyebrow but remained otherwise motionless.
    Preparing herself to touch his skin, she went to him and wrapped her arms around his impossibly thick trunk, meaning to hand herself the other corner of blue silk.
    His scent suddenly flared thick in her nostrils. River and leather. His skin was warm, hairless, and smooth. Without thinking, she rubbed her cheek on the hard swell of his chest.
    All the moisture abandoned her mouth and headed elsewhere.
    A deep breath expanded his torso and a low growl rumbled in the chest next to her ear. “Kamdyn.” Her name had become a deep and tortured groan. “What are you doing?”
    “Sorry.” She quickly grasped the corners of the silk and stepped away from him, the movement of her legs causing a delicious friction at the moistened flesh between them. “Slippery,” she explained as the held up the fabric, and winced at her choice of words.
    His nostrils flared and his wicked features arranged themselves into what could only be called a predatory arrogance.
    For the first time since meeting the Laird of Shadows, Kamdyn became inexplicably afraid. Swallowing around a lump in her throat, she wrapped the fabric around his waist and fumbled to secure it with a knot.
    Stepping away from him, she inspected her work and frowned.
    “Do I look sufficiently dignified for my death?” Soren asked wryly.
    He looked like a god trying on his mistress’s skirt. “Decidedly not.” Kamdyn winced and couldn’t hold in a bubble of laughter.
    He was staring at her again with that strange intensity. As though he couldn’t believe what he saw. He studied the small blood stain on the front of her robes as though it contained the answer to mysteries of the universe.
    “We don’t bleed overmuch,” she explained. “Immortal and all that.”
    He didn’t blink. Not for a long time.
    Kamdyn sobered. “I’ll fix your wrap, I promise.” She reached for the knot and tried to make the fabric more like a tartan. Masculine and fine. “Are you afraid?” she whispered, before she could stop herself.
    “What have I to fear?” His voice was so strong, so arrogant.
    “Pain,” she said incredulously. “Death. Answering for your sins.” She absurdly wondered if there was an equivalent to hell for Berserkers, but thought it an inappropriate thing to inquire about, considering the circumstances.
    Soren gave another of his nonchalant shrugs. A nearly indiscernible flex of his massive shoulder. “Who gets to decide what is sin?” Ice blue eyes bore down at her.
    Kamdyn