Dash berated himself as he watched Caitrin stomp off toward the steps alone. He shouldn’t have pushed her. After all, he was the one escorting her to her room. He should have kept his bloody mouth shut. But so many questions were nagging him after that uncomfortable dinner that he was apparently incapable of holding them in any longer. “Caitie,” he called after her, though she refused to turn back to look at him. He had to claim a Scottish lass with a temper, didn’t he? He couldn’t have sought out a mild-mannered English girl who would follow his every dictate and make his life easy. He had nothing except his own impulsiveness to blame for his predicament. Dash wasn’t even sure if it was a predicament. Every time his eyes settled on Caitrin, he felt a tug at his chest. Was it because he’d claimed her, or was there something more to it? Something predetermined? He didn’t feel like he was here because of some accident, some momentary loss of control. He felt as if he’d always known her.
