Lord of the Isles

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He kissed the tears from her cheeks. “I do love you, Aileanna, and I’m no’ marryin’ Moira. I wil na’ go through with the betrothal, no’ now.”

“Don’t . . . don’t lie to me. Lust isn’t love—that’s what you said, didn’t you? I won’t come second to anyone, Rory, not even your dead wife. I deserve more.”

He gave her a slight shake. “Stop. Why wil you no’ try to understand? Aye, I desire you as I never have another, in cluding Brianna. But I do love you, Aileanna, more than I should. And I canna’ let you go. I wil na’ let you go.”

“Did you just say you aren’t marrying Moira?”

“Aye, ’tis what I said,” he growled.

She hesitated then asked, “And you love me?” She low

ered her eyes and her cheeks flushed. “As much as you loved your wife?”

“The love I feel for you is no’ the same as my love for Bri

anna was. Canna’ you understand that?”

“Aye, I can.”

He blinked, then grinned. “I’l make a Scot of you yet, mo chridhe.” His eyes darkened. “But now al I want is to make you mine . . .”

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