Highlander's Touch by Karen Marie Moning

Author:Karen Marie Moning [Moning, Karen Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance
ISBN: 9780440244172
Google: Wl5J-lrz7fQC
Amazon: 0440236525
Barnesnoble: 0440236525
Goodreads: 815150
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2000-11-06T11:00:00+00:00

THREE DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THEIR FIRST DINNER IN the formal dining room. That was seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, and Lisa had felt each one of them whiz past her—gone forever.

Nine shifts of nurses had changed at home. Nine meals had been taken by her mother—bland food, she was certain. No ripe plums and apricots carefully selected from the market on her lunch hour. Illness had changed Catherine’s appetite, and she’d developed a craving for fruits.

Lisa had spent the days snooping as furtively as possible, but she had begun to suspect it was futile. She didn’t have the first idea where to look for the flask. She’d tried his chambers several times during the day, but the door was always locked. She’d even gone to the turret to the left of his chambers to see if there was a way she could manage to scale the outside wall to get there, but it was hopeless. His chambers were on the second floor of the east wing, and there were guards on the battlements above it at all times.

She’d passed the evenings indulging herself in offensively sumptuous meals. Last night, the first course had been a mixture of plums, quince, apples, and pears with rosemary, basil, and rue in a pastry tart. The second course had been a chopped meat pastry, the third an omelet with almonds, currants, honey, and saffron, the fourth roasted salmon in onion and wine sauce, the fifth artichokes stuffed with rice. By the honey-glazed chicken rolled in mustard, rosemary, and pine nuts, she’d been wallowing in guilt. By the berry pastries with whipped cream, she’d despised herself.

And each night, he’d savored his dessert with the same lazy sensuality that made her long to be a berry or a fluff of topping. She couldn’t fault his demeanor, he’d been an impeccable dinner companion and host. They’d made cautious small talk; he’d told her of the Templars and their plight, spoke of their training and extolled the strengths of his Highland fortress. She’d asked about his villagers, whom he seemed to know surprisingly little about. He’d asked about her century and she’d made him talk about his instead. When she’d asked about his family, he’d turned the tables and asked about hers. After a few moments of strained evasions, they’d mutually conceded to leave each other alone on that topic.

He seemed to be going out of his way to be gracious, patient, and accommodating. In turn, she’d been carefully reserved, finding an excuse each night to dash from the table after the final course and hole up in her room.

He permitted her escape, for the price of a tantalizing kiss each night at her door. He had not tried again to enter her chambers; she knew he was waiting for her invitation. She also knew she was perilously close to extending it. Each night it was more difficult to find a reason not to take what she so desperately desired. After all, it

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