Excerpt of The Chieftain by Margaret Mallory

Tension coiled in Connor's belly and spiraled down his limbs. It was wrong to hold her like this, wrong to even think of kissing her. He knew it, and yet he wanted to feel her lips. This once, he wanted to be reckless. To do something that was just for him. And how could he help himself when he could feel her body drawing to his?

What harm could there be in one simple kiss?

"Ilysa." He breathed her name as he lowered his head.

One innocent kiss, and then he would put this behind him and do his duty, as he always did. But the moment her lips, soft and trembling, touched his, fire burned in his belly.

And yet, he might have had the strength to pull away if she had not curled her fingers into his shirt and pulled him closer. Hot jolts of lust shot through him from every point her body touched his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and was vaguely aware that he had startled her, but she did not pull away.

When she made a high–pitched sigh against his mouth, he knew it was a lost cause. He pulled her hard against him and gave her deep, hungry kisses that should have frightened her. Instead, she returned them with an urgency that matched his own.

He could never trust a woman to want him, the man, rather than the chieftain. But he trusted Ilysa utterly and completely. She knew him, with all his flaws and shortcomings. She would not be in his arms for any reason except that she wanted him.

And, by the saints, he wanted her. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he backed her up to his bed. He refused to think, refused to let his conscience catch up with him. For once, he was giving in to blind passion.

Part of him wanted her to say no, to be the sensible lass she usually was and push him away. Instead, Ilysa melted into his arms. He pressed her against the side of the bed with his body and devoured her mouth for long minutes. He only tore his mouth away from hers to run his lips and tongue along the divine curve of her throat, which he had been longing to kiss without knowing it.

But as he reached to pull back the bed curtain, guilt reared its ugly head. This is Ilysa. Duncan's sister. If ever there was a lass who deserved honorable treatment and his protection, it was she.

Connor unclasped her hands from around his neck. Her breathing was uneven, and her eyes held a dark passion that spoke to the erotic dreams he harbored. And yet, he forced himself to pull away. It was his duty to protect her, even from his own desire—and hers.

Confusion clouded her eyes. If Connor looked into them another moment, he would lift her onto the bed, and they would not leave it for a long, long time.

"This is wrong," he said and turned his back on her. "Forgive me."

"I don't understand," she said, and her light touch on his shoulder pulled him like an undertow.

"'Tis my fault," he said. "I beg ye, Ilysa. Go quickly."

***

...Ilysa touched her fingertips to her lips. She had dreamed of this, but it had been more wonderful than she ever imagined. While Connor held her, she had felt as if anything was possible.

Still, she understood Connor could never be hers, not truly and not for long. That did not keep her from wanting however much of him he would give her. Connor had not wanted to stop any more than she had. His kisses did not lie. His sense of honor stood in her way. He had only turned away from her out of some misplaced sense of duty.

Ilysa may not have Connor for long, but she did mean to have him. Then, for the rest of her life, she would have that to remember.