Chapter 12 #2
She held his gaze and reached up, unclasped the waistcoat, let it slide from her shoulders, and draped it over the back of the chair.
“Do you still feel as if I am tormenting you, me Laird?”
Laird MacRaeh’s eyes darkened with desire. “Your gown.” His voice rumbled low. “I wish to see it on the floor.”
A jolt of excitement whistled through her body. She had not anticipated this, but now that she was in the moment, she did not want to deny him or herself. She straightened then met his heavy gaze with a lustful one of her own.
She carefully reached behind her back and unlaced the ties on the back of her dress. Moving slowly, so that she could maintain eye contact with the Laird, she peeled the gown off her shoulders and pushed the material so far down that the material pooled at her waist.
The library air hit her immediately; the thin linen of her chemise, all that remained above the waist, clung close and felt worn soft in the coolness of the room, offering almost nothing.
She felt the cold against her skin, the fabric press and settle, and the immediate tightening of her nipples against the linen.
She prayed to every saint she could name that the firelight was low enough.
She knew they were visible because the fabric was far too thin, but she did not look down or try to cover herself. Instead, she kept her eyes on his face, kept her chin level, and breathed.
He looked at her. Slowly. From her face, down, then back up again, dragging his gaze across her with a thoroughness that made her feel as if the air itself had grown hands.
When his eyes returned to hers, his jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, and the tendons in his forearms stood out against his skin.
A pulse fluttered at the side of his throat. He swallowed.
She felt the heat flood through her all at once—the burn in her chest, her face, and the persistent ache between her thighs.
I am in serious trouble.
“Next question,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she had expected.
He took a moment to ask it. A long moment. She used every second of it trying to remember how to breathe normally.
She got it right. She got the one after wrong, and before he could speak, she reached up and pulled the ribbon free herself.
Her hair fell. Loose and heavy around her shoulders, chestnut against the white linen, and she sat with it loose and her chin up and looked at him through the fall of it and said nothing at all.
She watched him come apart one fraction at a time.
The breath he drew in was audible. His arms had become so tight across his chest that the fabric of his shirt pulled taut at the shoulder seam.
His eyes moved over her, the loose hair, the bare throat, the linen pressed thin against her in the cool air, and he kept all of it behind his jaw, which was doing the work of ten men.
And she felt it—the power of it. The dangerous, intoxicating, unplanned awareness that he wanted her, sitting three feet away, holding himself very still and wanting her, and that his desire was costing him something significant.
Her own longing responded instantly, helplessly—a deep pull deep within her that had no regard for logic—and for a moment she completely forgot what she had been trying to prove.
“The moon,” she said. Her voice came out softer than she intended.
He blinked. The spell cracked slightly. “What?”
She nodded toward the tall, narrow window at the top of the far wall. The moon had risen above the clouds while they talked, full, pale, and clear, sitting in the window frame as if it had placed itself there intentionally.
“You can see it perfectly from here,” she said. “If you stand in the right place, the shelf doesn’t block it.”
He turned his head to look, and she watched his profile—the sharp jaw, the line of his throat as he tilted his head back slightly to find the right angle.
The fire was low now, and the room’s light had softened to a warm amber, catching the edge of his hair and allowing those coppery highlights to shimmer.
She felt an overwhelming and entirely inappropriate urge to touch it.
Just to feel what those silky tresses were like under her fingertip.
Instead, she gripped the arm of the chair.
“The man in my book is up there,” she said. “The one who was banished for daring too much.”
“Ye’ll be gettin’ yer face in the moon,” he said. “Starin’ at it like that.”
She laughed softly and openly, and she saw him freeze at the sound, his head turning back toward her, his eyes locking on her face.
“I would look at the moon even if it fell straight on my head,” she said. “I would be lucky to disappear.” She was thinking of the man with his bucket, going willingly into the dark, and she smiled at the thought.
“Is that so?” he said. His voice had dropped.
She met his eyes. “I would rather vanish than share a future with someone who does not see me clearly.”
He was very still. Then he unfolded his arms and took one step toward her, then another, and she did not step back because this was precisely where she wanted to be.
“I see ye, Isobel,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I think you might.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Her pulse slammed. Her fingers tightened on the chair arm. She stopped breathing entirely.
“I do,” he insisted. “I see ye, me Lady, but with each glimpse you allow me to catch, I only want more.”
“As do I,” she agreed.
Before she could act, the Laird pulled her to her feet and kissed her.
His mouth pressed down on hers, and she felt the full weight of his certainty in it.
She made a sound she had not planned—something small and undone—swallowed immediately between them.
Her hands moved to his shirt before she even decided to put them there, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling.
His hand found her waist through the thin linen, palm wide and hot against her ribs, and he pulled her toward him.
The chair scraped back across the stone with a sound she barely registered.
She felt a tingle of heat streak through her core and gasped, panting for air.
His other hand moved to her jaw, fingers curling behind it, tilting her face up.
His mouth was hard and demanding, tasting of woodsmoke and fresh air.
The chemise was nothing, less than nothing—her ribs felt the heat of his palm through it.
She sensed each of his fingers distinctly, the exact spread, the ridge of his knuckles, the warmth of his palm, and the gentle pressure as he drew her closer.
Her back arched into him. She could not have stopped it.
His hand moved from her jaw to her hair, fingers closing in it, and his mouth tilted against hers.
She kissed him back with the same intensity because there was no other way to respond, and the low sound he made against her lips traveled through her chest and her throat, settling somewhere in the pit of her stomach and not leaving.
His fingers trembled. Once. Against her waist, a small involuntary shudder, and she felt it more than anything else—more than the heat, the pressure, or the demanding certainty of his mouth—and she broke apart at it, completely and without permission, every careful thing she had been holding together suddenly coming loose.
Then he stepped back. One sharp, sudden step, his hands dropping. He created space between them and stood in it, his chest rising and falling faster than usual, with storm-dark eyes and his mouth pressed tight.
“Enough,” he said. The word came out clipped and hard and Isobel blinked rapidly, momentarily stunned by the sudden distance that separated them.
He looked at her for a second, with something raw behind his eyes, then turned and walked out. The door closed behind him, not quite a slam and not gentle either.
Isobel stayed in her place. Her hands remained curled.
. Her hair was loose around her shoulders.
The fire had nearly burned out, and the rain tapped steadily against the windows.
The room was dim, quiet, and plain, except that she could still feel his mouth, his hands, and the low sound he made against her lips that echoed through her chest like a struck bell.
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
Her fingers were shaking. She could feel her own pulse in them.
“Right,” she said aloud, to nobody, to the moon in its window.
She picked up her garments and shrugged them on. Wound the scarf back around her throat. Tied the ribbon twice because her hands were not cooperating. She straightened the chair. She set the folklore book back on the shelf, spine out, neat.
She looked at the desk. The surface dust held the pale impressions of his palms where he had pressed them flat against the wood.
She looked at them a moment longer than she should have.
Then she went to bed and prayed that come morning, after her mind had time to process what had just happened between them, she would understand why the Laird had pulled her closer only to shove away again.