Amanda Scott

“It is no wiser to taunt a man with words than to poke a wildcat with a stick.”
― Amanda Scott, The Laird's Choice

“But as she rounded the last turn before the hall landing, she nearly collided with Sir Ian, carrying his mother’s shawl.
“Oh!” Lina exclaimed, coming to an abrupt halt a step above his.
“Rather careless of you to leave this behind,” he said.
He was too close.
“Aye, it was,” she agreed, stepping back up a step to gain more space.
His eyes danced. “Mayhap I should demand a penance before returning it.”
“You dare,” she said, stiffening and wishing he were not so fiendishly beguiling with that boyish gleam of mischief in his eyes. He was definitely not just a mischievous boy anymore, though. And, for a lady to encourage such behavior . . .
He looked up, as if to heaven, and murmured, “Just one wee ki—”
“Shame on you, Sir Ian Colquhoun,” she interjected, thinking she sounded just like her mother. “Galbraith cannot know that you are on this stairway.”
“Once again, you are wrong, lass,” he said, his eyes still alight. “He is still with Lizzie on the dais—giving her a well-deserved scolding, I trust. I saw that you had left the shawl and offered to find a maidservant to return it to you. But this is much better. I do think you should thank me prettily for taking so much trouble.”
“I will thank you. After you have returned it to me.”
Cocking his head, he held the shawl higher, so she’d have to reach for it.
When she did, he moved it back out of her reach.
Lina lowered her outstretched hand to her side and eyed him sternly from her slightly superior height. “I thought you sought my approval.”
He stepped up to the stair below hers, putting the shawl out of reach again. His face was now inches higher than hers and his body again much too close for comfort.
“I’d prefer something else just now,” he said softly, looking into her eyes.
Reaching with his left hand for her right wrist, he held it firmly. Apparently oblivious of her attempt to snatch it free, he pressed the shawl into her hand and let go of her wrist, his gaze never leaving hers.
She waited to see what he would do next.
He smiled then, wryly, as if he dared her to walk away.
His lips were tantalizingly close.
Lina shut her eyes.

“Coward,” Ian murmured, enjoying himself.
Her eyes flew open. Then, to his astonishment, she learned forward, brushed her lips against his right cheek, and whirled, snatching up her skirts in her free hand as first her right foot and then her left blindly sought the next stair upward.
Reaching out, he easily caught her arm. “Not so fast,” he said, turning her back to face him. “You must not kiss and run, lass. That’s against the rules.”
“The lady makes the rules, sir. Let go of me.” She was two steps above his again, looking disdainfully down her nose at him. She did not try to pull away.
She was testing him, he knew. But she was right about who made the rules.
Even so, the urge was strong to seize her and teach her what kissing was all about. However, he also wanted to make her desire that kiss enough to abandon her disapproval. And that was the greater challenge.
Sakes, if he were seeking a wife and had no royal duty commanding him . . .
Shifting his grip to her hand, he drew it to his lips and slowly kissed each knuckle. Then he kissed the silky skin above them, turned her trembling hand palm up long enough to breathe gently into that tender palm . . . and released her.
With a barely discernable gasp, she turned away, her dignity apparently still—or again—intact. He enjoyed watching her move, so he stood where he was to savor the sight. His reward came when she stopped before vanishing around the next curve and looked back. Her lips parted slowly, invitingly, in surprise.
He bowed and had the delight of seeing her whirl again and hurry away.
“I shall win this battle, I think,” he murmured to himself.”
― Amanda Scott, The Knight's Temptress