She shouldn't—she should not—want to be kissed by the man who had abducted her at sword-point. No eighteenth-century lady should admit to wanting to be pressed up against a man's body, especially one as rock hard as his. An image of his face, with its high cheekbones, straight nose and chiseled jaw, flitted through her traitorous mind. Sensual lips, far too full to be ignored; long, dark hair that curled against the collar of his white shirt; and mesmerizing eyes, golden with flecks of brown, all reminded her of the huge wolf that stalked her father's forests, often bringing down a fleet-of-foot doe.

Kaitlin tugged at the silken scarves that bound her wrists to the four-poster bed, holding her captive. Her ears strained for the sound of human movement, but all she could hear was the creaking of the wooden hull as the ship pitched in heavy seas and plunged into deep troughs. They must be in the treacherous waters of the Inner Hebrides, judging from the violent rolling of the frigate. Where was he taking her and why? Who was the handsome stranger anyway?

She stopped struggling for a moment and closed her eyes. Her mother had been right. If she had not insisted on accompanying her father on his diplomatic mission to Alclud, she would be safe at home now in Gwynedd. But Kaitlin didn't like playing things safe. Four rowdy, older brothers hardly left her a coddled female. Her soul was as wild as the rugged terrain of Wales. How many times had she been warned that ladies did not go riding astride and certainly not with only a minimal bodyguard. But had she listened?

Still, her riding along the coast of the Highlands on a bright summer day didn't account for the ban...