Chapter 12 #3
Isobel watched him go, troubled. She turned back to the stone cross.
She thought of her own mother, buried somewhere near Lochlaire.
She didn’t even know where, had never seen her mother’s grave.
Everything had happened so quickly after her mother had been burned.
Alan MacDonell had sent his best men to deliver his daughters away to different places.
Isobel didn’t even know where her sisters were.
Hadn’t spoken to Gillian and Rose in twelve years.
She remembered Rose’s face as she screamed for her mum and da—arms outstretched and tears dripping from her chin as the big knight had carried her off before him on his horse.
Alan had wept, too, and told them all they must be brave.
Isobel had not cried, though she’d wanted to. She’d seen how it hurt her father.
She returned to the beach. Philip sat in the sand, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingertips.
The lantern flickered near his feet. Isobel sat beside him and took the bottle.
After taking a drink, she turned to him.
He had placed a palm behind her and leaned toward her, looking at her. Her pulse fluttered and set to racing.
“I want to talk to you about something,” she said.
“Hmm…?”
“It’s about your stepmother.”
“I dinna want to talk about my stepmother.”
“I know, and that’s why we must.”
His dark eyes were on her face, searching it, drinking her in, it seemed. Her mouth had gone dry, and she licked her lips, trying to recall what she’d wanted to say.
“You dinna belong here,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Ye’re too good for this place.”
Isobel didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t look away from his thick-lashed eyes. She found her lips trembling on his name, a whisper. The moment spun out, and Isobel was snared in it, powerless to break away from his heated gaze.
“Will ye forget me when you are a countess?” he asked, his voice low and husky, resonating through her.
Isobel’s breath caught, and she managed to whisper, “I will try.”
He looked away, to the waves washing the shore. Isobel longed to touch him, to stroke the strong line of his jaw, feel the firm, sensual set of his lips against her skin.
She swallowed hard, and said, “But I do not think I will succeed.”
He turned back to her, a feverish light in his eyes, and leaned toward her until his mouth touched hers. He kissed her gently, then murmured against her mouth, “I should not do this.”
Isobel leaned into him, sliding her arms around his neck. “Then I will.” She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, tasting whisky and desire. His arms came around her, crushing her close, his tongue plundering her mouth as he pushed her down into the sand.
His mouth was hot and demanding, and she answered it, pressing her body up against him.
Her mind was a fog of desire, but she knew she wanted this, wanted him this way.
His hand slid up her waist and ribs, to the laces of her bodice.
He worked them free, his mouth never leaving hers.
When his hand slid inside, closing over her breast, Isobel gasped and stiffened, shocked at the intimate touch.
His hand was warm and his thumb, rubbing over her hardened nipple, sent a nearly painful arrow of lust through her.
He drew back to look at her, his hand sliding up to cup her face.
He seemed about to say something, but instead he kissed her again, holding her face so he could explore her mouth with tongue and teeth until she was breathless, clinging to him and whimpering.
Though his kisses and touch swept her away, her mind could not forget that this was transient, that it was all she’d ever have.
It lent an urgency to her, her fingers tracing the strong lines of his face, the dark silky brows, the powerful corded muscles of his neck and shoulders.
His mouth left hers. He pushed her shift from her shoulders. His mouth scorched her skin, moving downward. She trembled when the cold air blew over her naked breasts. And then his hands and tongue were there, and need, fierce and aching, blossomed inside her, curling deep in her belly.
His hand was beneath her skirts, sliding up her thigh—and his knee was between her legs, pressing them apart. She yielded, consumed with these new sensations, afraid at any moment it would stop, and she would be left alone with this desperate need.
Her hands slid inside his jack and around his back, the long, hard muscles shifting and bunching beneath her fingers.
The heat of his mouth on her, the feel of his strength beneath her hands was more potent than the whisky that spilled into the sand beside them.
His hand brushed the damp curls between her legs, and she gasped, her legs closing involuntarily.
His mouth covered hers again, his kiss wet and drugging, as his open palm stroked her quivering belly.
Her limbs went weak from the bold stroke of his tongue and the sharp answer that pooled in her loins.
When his hand returned, cupping her, his fingers stroking deeper each time, ribbons of pleasure rippled through her. She made a sound against his mouth, as exquisite sensation ripped through her, tightening her muscles, shattering her senses.
Philip dragged his mouth away, staring down at the flushed and writhing woman beneath him.
Her red-gold hair was spread around her like fire, and the heavy throbbing in his groin increased.
He wanted to drive into her—she was ready for him, he’d seen to that, could still feel her body clenching around his fingers with the aftermath of her pleasure.
He closed his eyes, trying to force some semblance of control over his whisky-thickened senses.
He withdrew his hand as her long, reddish lashes lifted slowly to gaze at him, her eyes foggy. She smiled, sated and warm, and it sent an answering surge of lust through him. She was all soft, heated skin, fragrant and beautiful, and he wanted to rip open his breeks and to bury himself.
How had this happened? He certainly hadn’t planned it. Why could he not keep his hands off her?
Her bodice and shift gaped, round breasts, rosy from his body pressed against her, from his mouth…He rolled away, his hand coming down in a patch of wet sand. The empty bottle of whisky rolled away, waves washing over it and dragging it out to sea. What the hell was he doing?
“Philip?” she said, her voice soft and sensual, drawing him back.
But one look at her and he averted his gaze. “Cover yourself.”
He could not look at her and not touch her. The hands he scrubbed over his face and into his hair shook. She was still a virgin, he reminded himself—and decided he should be canonized on that point—the evidence of his heroism still strained painfully against his breeks.
When he chanced a look at her she was fumbling with the laces of her bodice, decently covered again. Her hair was wild though, red-blond curls spilling down her shoulders, framing a face flushed red with shame.
He pushed her fingers aside and pulled the laces tight, tying them quickly, but letting her tuck them into the top of her bodice. When she finally looked up and met his gaze, she held it for a long moment.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“I’m not.”
He had to look away, couldn’t bear to look at her when she said such things.
Was he mad, bringing her to this island, alone, and plying her with whisky?
And now all he could think of was Nicholas Lyon, Earl Kincreag, finishing what he had begun here in the sand.
He had awakened the woman in her for someone else, and it made him sick with jealousy.
He saw himself then, as her father might.
A man who denied his inheritance and lived like a nomad, tracking villains for money.
He could not even find a small child—or protect Isobel from his own base lust. If this didn’t stop, it would cost him his friendship with Alan MacDonell—a man he respected and loved—and he still would not get Isobel.
Alan wouldn’t allow it, and Lord Kincreag would never stand for such an insult.
At the thought of Alan, he knew they must delay no more. He should not have brought her here. She should be with her father, spending what little time they had left together.
He heard movement beside him, felt the soft touch of her hand on his sleeve, and felt himself waver, wanting to kiss her again, his hands itching to touch her skin, and wondering what could it possibly matter now?
What would one more kiss or fondle matter after what he’d just done?
He stiffened himself against this infernal weakness and stood, grabbing the lantern.
“Let’s get back before these clouds turn into rain.”