Chapter 18 #2
He looked back at her, his smile returning. “Did you not know that?”
Mercy, his eyes even twinkled.
“I know much.”
He chuckled, damn him. “But do you know the truth? That is the issue, sweetness.”
“I am not your sweetness.”
“A shame.”
“Not to me.” But it was, gods pity her.
So she kept her frown in place. But her heart thundered.
What was wrong with her that just looking at him made her melt?
That was the sensation, and she knew it was wrong.
Yet how could she feel otherwise? With his raven-black hair gleaming in the firelight and that same reddish glow edging his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, he reminded her of a Celtic pagan god.
Untamed and lusty, his dark good looks only added to his appeal. The borrowed plaid didn’t hide his muscular shoulders and arms, or his well-made calves.
She imagined every inch of him was hard and strong.
A thought that made it difficult for her to breathe.
She also suspected he possessed some kind of magical powers because he made her tremble.
She’d spent her entire life on Doon, a rocky and rugged island in the Hebridean Sea.
Her home was a cold and windswept place.
She was accustomed to chills. But the shivers rippling through her were not from the brisk sea air coming through the window and cooling her skin.
More than that, she would never forget their time together, the intimacies they’d share. She suspected she would always look back, not just remembering, but regretting their loss.
Would that happen to her?
She rubbed her arms, hoping not.
Then, as if the devil himself meant to punish her, she felt an urge to run her fingers through the fire-glossed thickness of his hair.
The desire increased the longer she looked at him.
Even his scent bothered her. He stood so close she couldn’t help but breathe it in.
A mix of Dunmuir’s own piney soap and clean wool, with just a hint of the sea and the night’s cold air.
The enticing blend heightened her awareness of him and teased her senses.
Her heart hammered and she determined to keep her inhales as shallow as possible.
What she really needed was Devorgilla’s tincture.
And more than one wee flask.
“That is mine,” she said, glancing at the flagon he still held out of her reach. “Give it to me.”
“Och, I shall,” he said, again sounding amused. “Dinnae doubt it.”
Isolde’s chin came up, the spell broken. “I doubt everything you say. I also do not like you.”
“That may be so, yet…” A slow smile spread over his face. “I dinnae see you running.”
“You know why.” She couldn’t believe his arrogance. Equally aggravating, she couldn’t have fled if the table before her turned into a fire-spewing dragon.
Her feet seemed nailed to the floor.
So she stood where she was, gripping the top of her chair, frozen in place as if the old gods had cast her to stone.
“I know you will not be drinking this.” He pulled out the flagon’s stopper and poured the potion onto the floor rushes.
“An astounding concoction,” he added, dropping the empty flagon and its stopper onto the table.
“Vanquishes freckles and purges dogs of fleas. Telling is that your dog doesnae have fleas and you bear only one freckle.”
“Aye, because of the potion.”
“You are no’ good at lying.” He shook his head. “I have to wonder what will you claim next? That the potion will keep me from wanting to kiss you?”
Isolde’s eyes widened. He’d come so close to guessing the potion’s purpose.
Hoping not, she tightened her grip on the chair. “I do not believe kissing is necessary to-”
“To tup?” His eyes twinkled again. “Kissing is no’ at all required. But it makes the deed more enjoyable.”
Before she could think of an argument, he took up his favored stance, resting a shoulder against her bedpost.
“Highlanders appreciate pleasure. And I, lass…” He paused as he crossed his arms. “I am more Highlander than most.”
“I know what you are.” She did. “You are a man who thinks highly of himself.”
He lifted a brow. “With or without reason?”
“How can I say? I do not know you that well.”
“Ah, but you will soon know me as well as any woman can.” As he spoke, he watched her with a slow burning fire in his eyes. “And that knowing is by your own command. Is that no’ the way of it?”
She couldn’t answer.
Better said, she refused. She needed all her wits to stand erect, to keep her knees from buckling. The heated look he was giving her warmed her inside and out, searing her with tiny flames wherever his gaze lighted, igniting a fire of her own deep in the lowest, most intimate part of her belly.
“Come here,” he said, his eyes darkening to a shade close to peat.
She didn’t budge.
He smiled. “Afraid, Isolde of Dunmuir?”
She stared at him, wondering at the madness that drove her to start this. She could fault no one but herself. The problem was, she hadn’t expected him to cause certain stirrings. She wanted to despise him, seduce and be done with him.
Now…
She felt her heart squeeze, her mouth go dry as her pulse leapt, quickening at the promise of his kiss.
“I do not fear you,” she spoke at last, amazed she could.
“I am glad.” His smile deepened, warming his eyes now. “I would no’ wish to frighten any woman.”
“I am afraid of nothing.” Only myself. The way you make me feel. As if I’ve stepped off a cliff, but rather than plunging, I soar. Spinning and floating and dancing on clouds, aware only of giddy delight, exhilaration.
And that, sir, is terrifying.
“Come here.”
His two words brought her back down, into her night-shadowed bedchamber, away from lofty heights of foolish womanly yearnings.
“Now, lass.”
A command this time. Irrefutable, assertive, and so compelling her feet shifted as if they sought to carry her toward him, acting on their own, heedless of her will.
Just as distressing, her fingers somehow relinquished their grip on the chair, joining her feet in a betrayal of her wish to stay where she stood. She dug her heels into the floor rushes, alarmed by the strange witchery he held over her.
As if he knew, he held out a hand, beckoning. “I would have but one kiss. Consider it a lesson in enlightenment.”
“Nae. Not this night.”
“You would deny me?” He lowered his hand. “Am I so plagued by ill luck of late that I’ve no’ just lost my freedom but also my wits?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Aye, my wits seem to have scattered,” he said. “Or did you, with your vast knowledge of men, think to have me sire a babe on you by sharing the air in this chamber?”
She blew out a breath. “I know how bairns are made.”
He raised a brow. “So you have claimed.”
“Then why ask me again?”
“You surely know a kiss is innocent?” He again extended a hand. “Come, lass, prove you are bold.”
“You, sir, would provoke a piece of wood to be bold!” She strode forward to clasp his hand.
“You please me,” he said, the press of his strong, warm fingers closing around hers heating more than her hand. “Now I shall please you.”
His low rumbling voice quickened her pulse. The feel of his large hand encircling hers proved soothing, a sensation that lessened her ire and sent delicious warmth spooling through her.
She just wished the moonlight coming through the window didn’t slant across his face, illuminating him.
But it did.
Worse, the silvery light and the room’s shadows drew attention to his every feature, underscoring his handsomeness. Was it necessary for him to have such splendid looks?
She didn’t know, but she wished she could ignore the fluttery sensation he’d kindled in her. It felt wondrous and threatened to melt her resistance.
He leaned forward then, so close his lips almost brushed hers. “Do you no’ want to be pleasured?”
“Nae.” She shook her head, flashed a glance at the discarded flask.
Mercy, but she needed a swallow of Devorgilla’s potion.
“This is not about enjoyment,” she reminded him, wishing he would straighten. Annoyed that pride prevented her from stepping back, away from him. “The matter is quite simple. Desire needn’t come into it at all.”
“Is that why you tremble when I touch you?” He spoke at her ear, smoothed his knuckles along the curve of her cheek. His caress sent a flurry of shivers down her back.
His chuckle said he knew.
“I shake with vexation, not pleasure.” She kept her head angled away from him.
“Indeed?” He captured her chin and turned her face to his. “Most beautiful lady, I do no’ believe you.”
“You vex me mightily, that is all.”
“Aye, well.” He lifted his hands, holding them palms out. “Then retreat behind your chair. I will no’ stop you.”
She didn’t move. “You have no right to care where I stand, or sit, or anything.”
“True, enough.” His smile flashing again, he grasped her arms and let his hands glide up to and over her shoulders, then back down again. “But there is a fine line between passion and ire. Sometimes it blurs.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye, and I shall prove it,” he said, kneading her arms.
“How?”
“Easily.” He looked as if he knew awareness flittered along her skin, her arms already capitulating. “I shall convince you with a kiss.”
Oh, dear. Her arms might have betrayed her, but her tongue held true, refusing to answer him.
Clearly sensing victory, he slid his arms around her and pulled her against his broad, hard-muscled chest.
“A thorough and leisurely kiss,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.
Something she saw there made her breath catch. She was losing the battle against him, besieged by the feel of his powerful body against hers, the tone of his voice, and – gods help her - the heart-stealing sensations spinning through her. Until this moment she could have denied them.
Now…
“Must you?” She could hardly speak.
“What? Kiss you?” He lowered his head, coming so close their breath mingled. “Aye, I must,” he said, and did.
He touched his mouth to hers with such tenderness, yet the impact of his soft, toe-curling kiss rivaled the strength of the arms he’d curved around her back.
A tiny sigh escaped her, the lightness of the kiss startling in its intimacy. As if he wanted to taste and test her lips before kissing her deeply. And she wished he would, for she found herself consumed by the most stirring sensations, headier than she’d dreamed a kiss would be.
His kiss was perfect in every way.
No, he was.
And where did that leave her?