Chapter Ten
Perchance the blow to her head had muddled her thinking, but in that moment, Isabella felt she had never been more certain of anything in her life.
She was using what power she had, whilst she still had it.
Minutes earlier, sitting on the hearth rug with her eyes closed, it had occurred to her that she had never once been kissed by a young, vigorous and healthy man.
And never had she wanted such a kiss as much as she did now.
There was something about the raw combination of roughness and sensitivity in Hamish that she found impossible to resist. It was in the wildness of his half-braided hair and the calm intelligence of his blue gaze; the hard muscle of his arms and shoulders, along with the compassion that oft showed in his voice.
But his voice held no compassion now. “You want me to kiss you?” he repeated.
At first, she thought him angry. Then she realized that it was desire that brought such a throaty edge to the question.
Desire which answered that same emotion thrumming inside her very core.
“Aye.” She held his gaze unflinchingly.
“Is this a trick?” Uncertainty flickered in his blue eyes, but he wanted her. She had known it as soon as he put his hand over hers by the fire. His touch was gentle, but it still sent rivers of warmth surging up her arm.
She stepped closer, tilting her face so her breath mingled with his. “’Tis no trick. Does the notion of kissing me seem so strange?”
A pulse flickered in his strong jaw. Isabella resisted the urge to reach up and touch his stubbled chin. He was a bear of a man, who could overpower her in an instant.
“Ye must ken ye are a beautiful woman, Isabella. Ye must ken that I would willingly kiss ye.” His gaze lowered to her lips, which she instinctively parted. But still he hesitated.
“I know naught of this, when I ask for something so small but you deny me,” she breathed.
His eyes fluttered closed and for a moment she admired the upward sweep of his thick eyelashes, but the next moment his lips pressed against hers, and Isabella forgot all else.
His mouth was soft and firm at the same time.
His hands rested lightly on her waist and drew her closer, so her slight body came against his vast wall of muscle.
Nerves jangled in her arms and legs, not with fear but with excitement.
And then he pulled away.
“One kiss,” he whispered. “As requested.”
But Isabella wanted more, like a child standing before a tray of cakes recently drawn from the oven. Why stop at one?
“’Twas a very small kiss,” she whispered back.
His lips quivered. Those same lips that had recently been pressed against hers. “As you stipulated, my lady.”
She shook her head. “I knew not what I asked.”
“Ah.” Hamish slowly returned his hands to her waist and very gently caressed her. “But now you know better?”
“A little better.” She tipped back her head and smiled. Was she flirting? Was this wise? She hardly knew and certainly did not care. Her husband, bless his soul, had never ignited such fires inside her. Had never made her long for the feel of his hands upon her flesh.
Ye Gods. She wanted so much more than just a kiss from Hamish.
As if conscious of her thoughts, he ran his fingers lightly along her spine so she arched her back with pleasure. His hand travelled back down again and settled about her hips. His blue eyes gazed into hers, seemingly looking straight into her soul.
“Tell me what it is you do want,” he said throatily.
She had no words for what she wanted. And if she found them, no doubt they would make her blush.
Instead, Isabella rose onto her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his.
Hamish stood unmoving, allowing her kiss but not responding to it.
Emboldened, she linked her hands about his neck and kissed him again, full on the mouth.
With a groan of longing, he crushed her toward him, slanting his lips over hers to deepen what she had so willingly started.
When his tongue touched hers, she gasped at the physical intimacy of it.
And at the jolt of desire that shot through her core.
His hands stroked her face and hair, careful always to avoid the painful cut on her cheek, and in turn, her hands began to explore his muscular chest, tentatively travelling beneath the heavy wool of his cloak.
When she reached his waist, he caught her hands in his.
“Isabella,” he said. He was breathing hard, and his eyes had grown dark with passion.
She understood his meaning. They should stop now, while it was still safe.
But she didn’t want safe.
All her married life, relations between herself and her husband had been safe and polite.
And woefully unsatisfactory.
Now she wanted excitement and the unknown.
She wanted Hamish.
Is he about to deny me?
For as long as Isabella could remember, men had followed her with their gaze, wanting her, desiring her.
She had been a worthy prize, bestowed upon the man with the deepest coin chests.
But now, she finally understood what people meant when they spoke of passion.
She was more than a doll with a pretty face, dressed in fine silk.
She was a woman.
She stood in the circle of his arms and met his gaze, as her breathing slowed to match the pace of his.
“Ye dinna want this. Come the morn, ye will regret it,” he rasped.
“How do you claim to know the workings of my mind?”
She wondered if she should push her hands beneath his shirt and feel the warmth of his flesh. It would take but a moment. And she dared to believe there may come a point where Hamish no longer exerted such willful control of his actions.
Should I take him to that point?
Isabella trembled with growing desire and mounting indecision.
“I dinna claim ter know e’en the workings of my own mind where ye are concerned,” Hamish said simply. “Ye take me from human compassion to frustration and back again, all in the space of a dunnock’s song.”
She reached up and touched those russet-colored curls that had her so transfixed. His hair was coarser than hers, but just as thick. She ran her fingers through it and fancied she caught the scent of fresh air and moorland.
“Is that all?” she asked. She was no longer flirting. She simply wanted to know.
“Nay, ’tis not all.” His eyes darkened again, and a frisson of excitement travelled through her. “I have wanted ye from the first moment I saw ye, Lady Isabella.”
As if they had minds of their own, her hands ran down his arms, tracing the smooth curves of muscle. His body was so different to hers; large and broad and strong. The wildest wind could not topple him.
Whereas Isabella was like a Will-o’-the-wisp, faltering this way and that, always at the whim and mercy of happenstance.
She sagged in his arms and rested her forehead against his chest. He cradled her head in his large hands.
“I didna mean to upset ye,” he whispered.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, anchoring herself to his warmth and solidity. “I don’t know why I am upset.”
The adrenaline and excitement that had chased around her body with such fervor had drained away, leaving her limp.
“I shouldna have embraced ye so.”
Sheltered in his arms, she shook her head, her face still pressed against the soft folds of his shirt. “I am no pure maid, Hamish. I am a woman of nigh on thirty summers. A widow. I knew well enough what I was doing when I asked you to kiss me.”
He gave a low chuckle. “I am mighty glad ter hear it.”
His laughter stirred the remnants of desire and she shifted a little, placing her palms against the angular planes of his shoulders. “’Tis just the events of the day. So much has happened.”
So much is happening.
“I am no longer yer captor, Isabella. Ye ken so, aye? All of that is behind us.”
She reached up to touch his face, enjoying how he responded to the brush of her fingers against his stubbled cheek. She had never stood so close to such a force of raw, masculine energy. But neither had she ever felt so safe and protected in a man’s embrace.
“We are allies,” she said. “Friends perchance.”
An unreadable expression passed through his eyes. “It would be my honor to be yer friend, Isabella. Even if parts of me might be longing for something more than friendship.”
He pursed his lips and she smothered a smile. She could feel that part of him pressing against her hip. Desire flickered again inside her, like a pulse which thrummed slowly and steadily.
“Parts of me want more as well,” she whispered.
“But we shouldna.” His voice was uncertain. His hands moved in her hair. “Ye have suffered a blow to yer head. We have only just reached a truce between us.”
She arched her back, deliberately pressing the softness of her curves into the unyielding hardness of his chest. “And it is so very cold.”
“The kind of cold that addles a man’s thinking,” he agreed, stroking her spine.
“’Tis sensible, mayhap, to stay close together for warmth.” She cocked an eyebrow and met his darkening gaze.
“Yer a wise woman, Isabella de Neville. I have always thought as much.”
His hands moved slowly up her sides and brushed gently against her breasts.
Isabella felt as if she had been set alight.
She gasped and leaned into his touch until he lowered his lips to her collarbone and nibbled her gently.
At that point, she lost both strength in her limbs and direction in her thoughts.
There was no more planning or intention; only a delicious pleasure growing inside her as he kissed her neck and caressed her body.
The golden glow of candlelight shimmered at the edge of her field of vision, so that Hamish appeared touched by the Divine.
She was his, in a way she had never been anyone’s before.
“I want to lay ye down on the bed,” he said, his voice rough with desire.
“I want that, too.”
He scooped her into his arms and laid her reverently atop the covers.
“Ye are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”