Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
She came back to herself slowly. A sense of warmth greeted her first, then the smell of woodsmoke.
That was followed by the awareness of a body that ached in places she had not expected.
The blanket over her was heavier than her own.
The pillow carried a scent she did not recognize, cold air and leather.
The crackle of a fire reached her from somewhere nearby, low and steady and contained.
She opened her eyes.
Stone walls older than her chamber. A tapestry she had never seen, dark figures in a hunt. A fire burning in the grate, and beside the bed, close enough that she felt the air shift when he moved, Alasdair.
He was kneeling on the floor beside her, a damp cloth in his hands and a basin near his boot, gazing at her face.
He had looked at her many times over the past weeks, but not like this—not without the council chamber, the clan, and the weight of his authority behind it. He went still when her eyes opened.
“Rest yerself, Isobel,” he said softly.
She tried to speak, and her throat caught on the rawness of it. Somehow, the smoke was still trapped deep in her lungs, and the sound that came out was not a word. He shook his head once.
“If it hurts, daenae try to speak.”
He pressed the cloth to the side of her neck, and she felt the coolness move through the heat still resting in her skin.
His hand was large and gentle, and she looked at his face while he worked.
The crease between his brows. The set of his jaw.
He was looking at her throat, her collarbone, and the places the smoke had touched, checking each spot carefully before moving onto the next.
He pressed the cloth to her jaw and rested his fingers there, and she felt the warm weight of them. In response, her pulse jump against them.
He is taking care of you, she told herself. That is what this is.
“The library,” she managed.
“The far wall.” He kept his eyes on what his hands were doing. “The shelves. Most of it is gone.”
She thought of the worn spines, the verse collection with the faded inscription inside the front cover, and the distinct smell of that room on a rainy afternoon.
She felt the loss quietly and from a distance because the more immediate thing was his fingers still at her jaw and the fact that she had not taken a full breath in several minutes.
“Ye said it was the candle,” he said.
“It must have been.” She swallowed against the rawness. “I don’t remember it clearly. The ceiling buckled, and then I couldn’t stand, and then…” She stopped. “And then you were there.”
He was quiet. His hand had not moved from her jaw.
“Aye,” he said at last.
He sank back into his chair and looked at her, and she looked back at him, neither of them speaking.
The fire settled with a small, gentle sound.
Outside, the castle was quiet in that late-night hush which indicated that the halls were empty, and the servants were long ago tucked in bed.
She suddenly realized how far she was from her own chamber and how little she minded that fact.
“The weddin’,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m goin’ to postpone it. Until ye’re well.”
“No,” she rushed to interpose. “Everything is planned. All is ready. We must have the ceremony.”
“Ye nearly died in me library.”
“I didn’t.”
“Isobel.” The way he said her name had weight to it; she felt it from her collarbone down through her chest.
“My father’s name rests on this arrangement,” she said. “His standing. His debts. I am not going to undo all of that because I inhaled too much smoke.” She pushed herself upright against the headboard and felt the room tilt and then settle. “I am perfectly capable of taking my vows.”
He was on his feet before she had finished, hands at her shoulders. “Careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“Ye are bein’ stubborn.”
“As are you,” she retorted.
A muscle moved in his jaw. He let go of her shoulders and turned away. She watched the width of his back and saw the tension held in it. For a fraction of a second, she admired the controlled effort of this man who was stalwartly keeping himself from saying something.
“I am nae postponin’ it to satisfy meself,” he said as he turned on his heel and spun back to face her. “Ye ken I daenae wish to wait a second longer before makin’ you me bride.”
She processed his words but did not fully understand them.
If he wants to marry me, then why is he insisting upon postponing?
Isobel figured she had nothing to lose and everything to gain by voicing her thoughts, so she asked, “Then why?”
The fire was behind him. Alasdair’s face was half in shadow, and his hands were at his sides.
“Because I daenae want ye to come to the weddin’ still smellin’ of smoke,” he said. “Because I want ye to have a day’s rest and a proper meal.” He paused. “The weddin’ will happen. Tomorrow…Three or five days hence. It makes nay difference to anyone.”
She held his gaze. He held hers back. He looked tired and angry, and something else underneath both of those, something she had been watching build inside him and then suppress for weeks, was very close to the surface now.
“And because,” he said, quieter. “I would like the day before it to be somethin’ other than this.”
The room was very still.
“Two days,” she said.
He looked at her for a long moment, and something shifted in his face. “Aye. Two days.”
He sat back down on the edge of the bed and picked up the cloth from the basin.
She was very aware of his weight on the mattress and the small distance between them.
He smelled of smoke still, the same smoke she carried, and there was some comfort to be had in knowing that they had faced this particular challenge together.
He pressed the cloth gently below her jaw, and she let him, tilting her chin and watching the side of his face. The firelight flickered across his jaw, and she observed him work, aware in the quiet that he had said the wedding would still happen.
“I came as fast as I could,” he said. He was not looking at her. “From the study. When I smelled it.” He set the cloth down beside the basin. “It wasnae fast enough.”
“It was,” she said.
“It nearly wasnae.”
She reached out and put her hand over his. She felt him go still beneath her palm. Then he turned his hand over and closed his fingers around hers, slowly, and she felt her breath go out of her in a long, quiet exhale.
He looked up. They were close. She could see the gray of his eyes in the firelight and the scar along his eyebrow. The pulse at his throat moved faster than she had ever seen before.
“Isobel,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He kissed her. His free hand came up to her jaw and her cupped her chin gently.
His mouth was warm and certain on hers, and she felt something let go in her chest that had been held tight for weeks.
She kissed him back with everything she had kept composed through corridors and arguments and moments that had never quite been only what they appeared to be.
She felt the breath go out of him. She felt his grip on her hand tighten.
He pulled back and looked at her. His chest rose and fell rapidly. The pupils of his eyes were blown wide and Isobel saw the hunger in his stare.
“We daenae have to do this now…tonight,” he started.
“If you tell me again that I need to rest, I will be very cross with you.”
Something moved through his chest, and she felt it, the low rumble of it, and she realized she had made him laugh.
He kissed her again, and this time there was less caution in it.
* * *
He kissed her, and she kissed him without hesitation, and the resolution dissolved entirely.
Daenae, he thought, even as his hand moved to the back of her neck and drew her toward him. Ye ken what this will cost ye.
He already knew. He had known for two weeks and had been acting as though he did not, which was a distinction that had served him poorly.
He kissed her jaw and felt her breath shift against his cheek.
He pressed his lips to the soft spot below her ear and felt her grip tighten on his shirt, hearing the small sound she made—barely there, unguarded in a way she never was when she was watching herself—and something in him tightened around that sound, pulling it close and refusing to let go of it.
“I have ye,” he said against her skin. “We’re in nay hurry.”
She tugged at his shirt, and he leaned back, allowing her to take it off him. He felt her eyes on his chest. He was not used to being looked at like this—openly, without the authority he usually had to hide behind. He sat still under her gaze, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep still.
She reached out and touched the burn on his forearm. Her fingers were very light, barely more than a wisp of pressure.
“From tonight?” she said.
“Aye.”
She kept her fingers there and looked at him with an expression that passed through him before he could stop it. Concern. Uncomplicated and genuine, she looked at him with the same openness she gave to everything.
He reached for her hand and drew it to his chest. Gently, he pressed it flat over his heart and felt her fingers spread there. A sense of acceptance mixed with yearning moved through him in a long, slow wave.
“Tell me what ye want,” he said. His voice came out low and huskily, just as he’d intended.
Color moved up her throat and into her face.
She looked at him for a beat, and he saw the moment she decided what she meant to say.
She reached for his hand and drew it slowly to her breast. Just as he had done with her palm, she pressed his fingers to her chest through the thin linen, and he felt the beat of her heart thumping beneath his touch.
Then, his fingers curved around hers. He felt her nipple harden against his palm and heard the sound she made, small and startled and entirely unguarded.
“I didnae mean to do that…yet. But was it…all right?” he asked, not wanting to press her too fast too soon.
She nodded; her lip caught between her teeth.
He slowly drew the linen from her shoulder, watching her face as he did, giving her every chance to stop him.
Her eyes stayed on his face, her chest rising and falling quickly.
When he pressed his mouth to the curve of her breast and took her nipple between his lips, she let out a sound that was far from small.
Her fingers tore into his hair, holding him there.
He ran his hand down her body, over her waist, hip, and the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
She pressed into it, toward him, her hips tilting.
He felt her heat and heard her breathing grow uneven.
He thought only of what they were doing together…
the bridge they were building this night…
and all the glorious moments that would unfold next .
“Alasdair,” she said his name. Not a command, not a question, just his name in her voice with nothing kept back from it.
She is the bonniest lass I’ve ever beheld. Isobel Graham, me betrothed, me wee rabbit is all I can see…all I ever care to look upon again.
He moved his hand to the hem of her chemise, felt her breath stutter, lifted his head, and looked at her face, making sure she was ready to proceed.
Her eyes were dark and entirely clear. “Don’t stop,” she said.
Alasdair removed her chemise, tossing it over his shoulder without a care, then buried his head in her bosom and kissed every inch of her chest. Alternately, he moved his mouth between one breast and the other, lapping his tongue around the stiff nipple before sucking one into his mouth.
“Yes,” she moaned as his lips traced a hot trail down the center of her breastbone. “That is exquisite.”
Alasdair purred contentedly as he cupped her left breast with his hand and moved his mouth toward the right one.
He lavished her body with his attention…
his affection and Isobel responded by tracing her hands over his bare shoulders, digging her small fingernails into his muscles, and calling out his name.
He teased her nipples until they were ripe buds, then just as he slurped one into his mouth with urgency, her legs quaked underneath him.
“Alasdair,” she gasped his name and clung tighter to his neck.
When she came apart, she turned her face into his shoulder, and he held her. She shook uncontrollably for a long moment. He relished the feel of her heartbeat beneath his hands and mouth and did not pull away into she let out a long, slow exhalation.
“I…I do not know what to say,” she breathed heavily.
“Ye need not say anythin’ unless ye want to talk.”
Alasdair gathered her against him, and she came to him without hesitation. He reclined on the mattress and laid with her head on his chest and her hand flat over his heart. Her breathing slowed.
“If ye’ve got somethin’ to say, Isobel, I’m here to listen.”
She hummed quietly, as if contemplating the matter, then pressed her mouth to his collarbone. He exhaled deeply. His hand moved to her hair and he slowly stroked the tendrils, pushing them back from her face so that he might better see her eyes.
The fire had gone to coals, and the room was amber and still. He laid there and waited for Isobel to speak, but she uttered nary a peep.
She was asleep before he was. He listened to her breath, reflecting on the softness and longing he'd suppressed as liabilities.
At seventeen in that castle, he learned to hide his needs and avoid grief, maintaining this for twelve years—until the elders decreed that he must marry a Lowland girl.
This Lowland girl…Isobel. She had the heart of a Highlander and Alasdair was proud to call her his own.
She shifted in her sleep and pressed closer to him. Alasdair kept his arm around her and did not let go.