Chapter 34
The MacLean started toward Isolde the moment she stepped into her bedchamber.
He’d bathed again, for his raven hair gleamed from his ablutions, while his dark eyes smoldered with hot need and something else – a power as wild and furious as the storm just beginning to unleash its anger on the cold, dark night.
Someone – like as not the man himself – had not bothered to fasten the shutters and so a chill wind blew through the room, causing the chamber’s two hanging oil lamps to swing on their chains.
Their flames danced, but the more fragile tapers of the candelabrum guttered, leaving tendrils of wax smoke to drift through the room.
Isolde had nary a moment to notice anything else for the MacLean was upon her in just a few swift strides. He loomed before her, a pagan sea god risen from the storm-tossed waters, the wrath of the heavens blazing across his handsome face.
“I dinnae believe what I’m seeing,” he said, his gaze flicking over her, taking in her disheveled rain-dampened cloak, the wild, wet tangle of her hair. Looking furious, he didn’t even blink when Bodo shook himself, sending a spray of cold droplets across his legs. “Have you run full mad, lassie?”
“I may well have,” she agreed, lifting her hands to twist the wetness from her hair. “Why else would you be here, in my privy quarters, waiting for me?”
“Why, indeed?” He glanced at Bodo, then back to her. “I am no’ surprised you’d risk your own neck, traipsing about in such weather, but I wouldnae have thought you’d put your wee dog in danger.”
“Bodo is fine.” Isolde bristled, guilt pinching her for she did regret allowing Bodo to accompany her.
She also wished the MacLean wasn’t shirtless.
But he was. His discarded tunic rested on the foot end of her bed, slung round her bedpost as if he’d just it tossed there. As if – the gods help her – the bedchamber was his, not hers.
“I would know you safe,” he said then, his brows drawing together. “The truth is, I’d have both of you well.”
Bodo cocked his head at the words, his ears pricking as if he’d understood and was pleased.
Isolde brushed at her sleeve. “We are fine.”
“So I see, my lady.” He tsked softly, for a moment reminding her of Devorgilla. “You cannae be left on your own.”
“I am not your concern.” She stood straighter, her shoulders squared and her chin raised. “All I need from you is-”
“My seed.”
“You are blunt, sir.”
He held her gaze, his eyes glinting. “It is my way.”
“So I am learning.” Isolde clutched at her damp cloak. Something had changed. He was still her captive, but the power between them had shifted.
As if to prove it, he reached out and pulled the cloak off her shoulders. “This is drenched,” he said, tossing it across a stool. “I will no’ have you catch a fever.”
“What then?”
“I would rather…” His words trailed off as Bodo leaned against him. “A moment, sweet,” he said, and then strode to her bed, Bodo trotting after him.
He snatched up his tunic. But rather than don it as she expected, he kept his back to her and appeared to fumble with the shirt. Bodo stared at him, too, the little dog’s stubby brown tail wagging, his devotion to the MacLean spearing Isolde’s heart.
She loved him, too.
A truth that both damned and shamed her – not just because he was an enemy laird, but because she still wasn’t certain his brother hadn’t killed her sister.
Uncomfortable, she glanced away, then wished she hadn’t, for she was sure she glimpsed Lileas’ anguished face briefly outlined against the clouds and mist racing past the windows.
No shame, not him… the pale lips seemed to whisper, but a burst of rain and flash of lightning dissolved the illusion. Wind and thunder carried off the imagined words.
And then she found herself crossing the room, her feet carrying her forward. To the MacLean, to her heart, and all of her secret dreams. She stopped just behind him, lifting a hand to touch his broad, well-muscled shoulders.
She drew a breath as he tensed beneath her fingers. “What would you rather?”
He turned to face her. “I want you,” he said. “You, and nothing else.”
Isolde started to admit the same, but she saw the twisted shirt in his hands then, and her heart swelled so much that her throat thickened. She watched him give Bodo the knotted tunic – a quickly-made toy – and her emotions spun out of control.
With a look of pure adulation, the little dog snatched the gift and bolted off with it, looking as if he’d never been shown a greater kindness.
Isolde was stunned to see how swiftly the MacLean had gained her dog’s affection and trust.
To realize as well, how easily he’d won hers.
He reached for her then, taking her hands in his. “I mean to have you, lady. And in more ways than the obvious.”
“I have denied you nothing.” She looked up at him, knowing he meant more than the giving of her body, yet she couldn’t break free of the one strand of resistance still binding her heart.
Her sister’s ghost stood between them, a barrier so impenetrable, physical need and not even the yearnings of her heart could breach it.
“You have already had me in many ways and your touch pleases me greatly.” She attempted a lightness she didn’t feel.
Desperate to steer him away from confessions that would only hurt them both, she pulled her hands from his. Hooking her fingers behind her neck, she twirled in a slow circle.
“How shall I please you this night?” she said, hoping to entice him. “Say your wish, and it is done.”
Feeling quite the temptress, she added, “I have already heeded one of your desires. I wear nothing beneath my skirts.”
His smile flashed. “Then dance for me,” he said, grasping her by the hips and pulling her against him, letting her see how much she roused him.
For the moment, settling for her passion as she still refused to receive his heart.
His love.
“Damn you, lass,” he swore, hating his weakness, thanking the gods for the thunder that buried his curse in its wall-shaking booms.
“Dance for you?” she spoke between the crashing thunder.
“Aye.” His entire body tightened at the idea. The image of what he wanted her to do – a display of the sinuous dream he’d had of her so many weeks ago.
“’Tis a simple wish, easy to grant.” She slipped her arms around his shoulders, threaded her fingers through his hair.
Sensual heat charged the air between them as she lowered her hands then and reached for the ties of her bodice.
“For a kiss, I shall dance for you in any manner you desire,” she agreed, her fingers already plucking at her gown’s bindings.
“You shall have all the kisses you wish,” he promised, dropping a light one on her freckle. “After you’ve danced.”
“Even the wicked kisses?”
“Especially those.” His blood surged, for he knew just what she meant – and, gods help him, he burned to again bury his face between her thighs. For the moment, he drew her closer, rubbing her arms to warm her, then stroking her back and her hair.
“Have you a length of silk?” He dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “Any length of such fine cloth?”
“I told you, I have no taste for such luxuries.”
“And I am ravenous for you.” He tilted her chin and claimed her lips in a long, searing kiss.
He drank of her, absorbed her taste, her essence, ravishing her with his mouth until she melted into him, soft and pliant.
Her heart thumped hard against his chest. Only then did he lighten the kiss.
He eased back from her, but kept hold of her hips, his fingers gently stroking her.
“Do you truly not have a length of silk?” he asked, touching his forehead to hers.
She shook her head, brushed a soft kiss along his jaw. “Nae, I do not. The only frippery I have is the emerald chain, and that was borrowed.”
“Ah, well. In truth, you do not need ornaments. You shall dance for me without the silk, and I will be entranced,” he promised, aware that the hard ridge of his arousal was straining against her.
“I am not a skilled dancer.”
“You will be.” He framed her face and kissed her deeply. Then, holding her gaze, he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out on his back upon the recently strewn rushes.
Smiling at her surprise, he looked up at her, his expression so heated she understood.
Evelina had told her of such things, claiming that to indulge a man’s carnal needs in this way would drive him wild. She could believe it. Just the thought made her breathless as well.
Excited.
The MacLean didn’t say a word. He just watched her, one brow cocked, fierce want on his handsome face. His gaze locked on hers, he leaned back and folded his arms behind his head.
“Step o’er me, lass,” he said, the request weighting her belly with warm, heavy arousal. “Lift your skirts and spread your legs so I can admire your beauty.”
Isolde’s heart raced.
“I don’t know…” She hesitated, but her body went liquid, the tingling between her legs almost unbearably delicious. Somehow, she found herself moving toward him. Then, so roused she could hardly breathe, she paused but an eye-blink and then did as he’d bid, giving him what he desired.
“That’s my vixen.” He curled his hands around her ankles, holding her in place.
She shivered, but with pleasure. “Is this good?”
“Aye, but I cannae see you well enough,” he said, his tone hot and smooth as the warmth pooling between her thighs. “Raise your skirts above your hips.”
“You are wicked.” Isolde looked down at him, waves of intense sensation flooding her, washing away all but her burning need. “The most base of men.”
His smile flashed. “Nae, the most besotted.”
“The most silver-tongued as well,” she returned, breathless.
“You shall have the attentions of my tongue later,” he promised. “Now hold your gown out and away from your body. Air your skirts so I can gaze up at your sweetness.”
“As you wish…” She complied. Heat, fluid and languorous, twisted inside her.
A river of tingles, there where he gazed on her.