Chapter 8 #2
“You deny it?” He grabbed his mead cup and tossed back a swig.
“Nae.”
“Lady, you are beautiful and brave,” he said, plunking down his cup. “Had you made me such an offer any other time, a chain would no’ be needed to keep me at your side.”
“I had hoped to seduce you,” she admitted, half glad to speak freely. “It seemed best for such an arrangement to happen naturally and not because I told you what I desired.”
“So that is the way of it?” A wicked gleam lit his eyes. “You’re a lusty lass and wanting a tumble?”
She bristled. “This has nothing to do with carnality.”
“Then what?” He glanced at the chain binding him to her bed. “Dinnae tell me ye have a bent nature?”
“No!” Isolde gasped, heat scoring her cheeks. How easily he’d wrested control, twisting her words and dashing her hopes. Worse, he’d drawn her attention to the invisible chain binding her to the bed.
Her chain, woven of her troubles, confined her as surely as his bound him.
Not that he’d care if he knew.
Impervious and proud, he sat upon the edge of her bed, so darkly handsome that even now he took her breath. But a muscle flexed in his jaw and his cold expression left no doubt to his opinion of her.
“Do not look at me that way.” She flicked at sleeve, nerves making her heart race. “You do not know me at all.”
“Nor do I intend to.”
“Are you always so rude?” She frowned back at him.
Of a sudden, the lacings of her gown seemed overtight and an uncomfortable heat welled in her breast. Looking aside, she fixed her attention on the closed shutters.
Rain still pelted them and the smell of old, water-sogged wood and cold, damp stone filled the room.
But the worst of the storm had moved on.
The thunder came farther apart, each rumble more distant.
She drew a shaky breath, the hot sting at the backs of her eyes blurring the long line of shutters. Blinking hard, she willed the tears not to spill as another faint roll of thunder echoed through the night. Soon, the storm would be far out to sea, racing elsewhere.
If only the storm inside her would pass as swiftly.
But that wasn’t likely. The MacLean had the power to rile her. Steeling herself against him, she turned back to the table and helped herself to another piece of cheese.
She wouldn’t let him spoil her appetite. Feeling a bit better, she ate the cheese and reached for more. Before she could bring the second morsel to her mouth, the MacLean placed an elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, again peering intently at her.
Isolde set down the cheese. “Must you stare?”
“Aye, for you astound me.” He gave her a slow smile that would’ve been devastating had its warmth reached his eyes. “A stare unsettles you, yet if I obliged you, I’d be doing much more than gazing across a table at you.”
“For a time, perhaps,” she admitted, her voice icy. “Emotions would not come into it.”
“Och, aye. Nothing would come of it at all save your pact negotiated behind a barred bedchamber door.” His eyes darkened, glinting dangerously. “With me attached to your bedpost, or should I say joined to you?”
“Are you not hungry?”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “I am ravenous.”
“Then eat your fill, there is nothing stopping you.”
“Not so, Isolde of Dunmuir. There is much that keeps me from staving my hunger.”
She nudged the platter of roasted seabird toward him. “The gannet is plump and tender, delicious.”
“Tasty, I am sure.” He eyed the platter, his gaze skimming first over the seabird’s crisp-roasted, golden breast, then lighting upon her own. “But I would no’ say plump.” He narrowed his gaze then, and she could almost feel the heat of his perusal.
With deliberate slowness, he lifted his cup to her. “Of a certainty, well-formed, tender, and succulent.”
Pretending not to have understood the undertones, Isolde lowered her own gaze to the victuals Dunmuir’s cook had taken great care to prepare.
In addition to the roasted gannet, there were two bowls of still-warm leek soup, and her favorite, soft green cheese delicately flavored with herbs.
Precious little remained of the cheese, but she hadn’t touched the small spiced cakes and the large ewer of honey-sweetened mead held more than enough for two.
Not a noble feast, but the best Dunmuir’s kitchen could offer.
Those who supped belowstairs had contented themselves with the leek soup and coarse black bread, washed down with ale.
Indeed, she’d rather have the same ale and soup as everyone else, but Cook enjoyed providing Dunmuir’s chieftain with the best victuals he could. His pride would suffer if she ate the lesser fare served in the great hall.
“Keep eating, lass. I enjoy watching you.” The MacLean's voice cut through her thoughts. “Indeed, if I were of a mind to-”
“You talk more than old woman,” Isolde snapped before he could finish whatever taunt he’d meant to sling at her.
His mouth twitched. “As I was about to say, were I of a mind to indulge you, which I am not, your robust appetite would make our time together most interesting.”
Isolde’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “I am not a tavern wench, Sir Donall.”
“Yet you would play a vixen’s game. A game that sends trepidation straight to your maidenly heart.” He peered at her hand, his eyes narrowing when he saw how her fingers clenched her spoon. “Aye, for all your daring, you are afraid.”
Her chin came up. “I fear nothing. Least of all you.”
“Perhaps you should.” A wholly different light came into his eyes and her heart turned over at the transformation. “I am no’ a man to have his passions trifled with, sweeting.”
“I told you, I am not interested in your passion.”
“So you did.” He nodded. “But what about your own? Do you no’ have womanly needs?”
“I have chiefly concerns. That is all.”
“Shall we see?” He reached across the table, pried her fingers from around the spoon, and then upturned her hand. “A quick test,” he said, his gaze on hers as he slowly trailed the tip of one finger across her palm.
She jerked, a gasp escaping her. His touch sent heated tingles racing up her arm. Even now, as he lifted his finger, warmth lingered where his hand still cradled hers. More alarming, it was an intensely pleasurable sensation that slipped past her resistance to spread all through her.
Mercy, even the tops of her ears tingled.
As if he knew, he released her hand and then leaned back against the bedpost. “Be wary of your wishes, my lady. Your folly could get you burned.”