Chapter 18 #2
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.”