Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Isobel told herself a bath would restore her sense. It seemed a reasonable hope. Warm water, silence, steam, and distance from Ruaridh MacLean ought to have been enough to settle any foolishness that had taken root in her mind.
Unfortunately, the foolishness had taken root rather deeply.
She was sitting in the bathing tub with her knees drawn slightly beneath the water and tried not to think of him. That proved impossible.
She thought of the bow first. It fit her hand as though made from some secret knowledge of her.
He didn’t gift her a pretty thing meant to flatter her into gratitude, but a useful thing, a weapon, a gift that said he had watched her and understood something important without making a spectacle of it.
Then she thought of the yard, of his bare shoulders, oh his hand on her wrist and his voice when he called her wife.
Isobel sank lower into the bath and pressed both wet hands over her face.
“Foolish,” she whispered.
The word echoed faintly against the stone walls and did nothing to improve matters.
She did not understand what was happening to her.
That was what unsettled her most. Anger she understood.
Defiance, resentment, suspicion… those were old companions.
She knew how to carry them. She knew how to sharpen them until they kept everyone at a safe distance.
But this was different, this warmth that came when he made room for her voice before others, this ache that followed when he gave her something made only for her and this terrible awareness of him, as if her body had begun listening for his before her mind had granted permission.
It was humiliating. It was also not entirely unpleasant. That, she decided, was the worst part.
The bathwater cooled slowly around her, though she remained longer than she intended. She washed her hair with lavender soap, scrubbed at her arms as if she might remove the memory of his touch, and finally admitted defeat when the water no longer held enough warmth to be useful.
With a sigh, Isobel rose from the tub.
Cool air touched her damp skin at once. She reached blindly toward the stool where her towel had been folded. Her hand met nothing.
Isobel paused. Then she looked. The stool was empty.
For a moment, she simply stared at it, certain she must have mistaken the place, but no. The stool was where it had been. The soap dish remained there. Her comb lay beside it. A folded shift rested neatly on the chair near the wall. But the towel was gone.
Isobel’s eyes narrowed.
There had been a towel when she had entered. She was certain of it. Sorcha had placed it there herself before leaving her alone. Linen did not grow legs and wander from bathing chambers… not without help.
A slow, dangerous understanding unfolded in her mind. Now, after all his grave respect and careful listening and maddening almost-tenderness, the great laird of Duart had apparently lowered himself to theft of bath linen.
Isobel stood dripping beside the tub, outrage rising with every cold drop that slid down her back.
“Ruaridh MacLean,” she said softly.
The empty chamber gave no answer.
Her cheeks burned, though whether from embarrassment, anger, or the appalling urge to laugh, she could not have said. She crossed one arm over herself and looked around once more, just in case some merciful scrap of linen had been overlooked.
Naething.
The man had been thorough. Isobel drew herself up as much as a wet, shivering, entirely towel-less woman could.
If he wished to begin a war of petty revenge, then she would remember that he had chosen the battlefield.
And she would make him regret it.
Ruaridh had faced blades, storms, hungry councils, and men who wished him dead. None of them had required as much discipline as standing outside the bathing chamber with Isobel’s towel in his hand.
He should have returned it at once. That would have been the mature, honorable choice, the choice made by a laird burdened with enemies, provisions, patrols, and a wife who already had fair cause to accuse him of being overbearing.
Instead, he stood in the passage and looked down at the stolen linen with the grim satisfaction of a man who had planned a siege.
From within the chamber came silence. Then the faint shift of water. Then nothing again.
Ruaridh bit back a smile. It was absurdly petty. Yet after the yard, after the bow, after Isobel had stood before his men and made every one of them listen, something restless had remained in Ruaridh all evening. It was happiness. It sat badly in him only because it was unfamiliar.
He lifted one hand and knocked. There was a very sharp pause.
Then Isobel’s voice came through the door. “Who is it?”
He leaned closer. “A humble servant of the household.”
“Ruaridh.”
“Aye. Though I enjoyed the other title.”
“Go away.”
“I would, but I have found something abandoned in the passage.”
Silence.
“What?” Her voice sounded dangerously low.
Ruaridh opened the door only a crack and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the outer edge of the wood. He slipped one hand through the narrow gap, letting the towel hang from his fingers.
“Is this what ye’re looking for?”
The gasp from within was deeply rewarding.
“Ruaridh MacLean!”
He did not look. He would have liked credit for that.
“I take it that is an aye,” he said.
“Give it tae me.”
“Is that how ye ask fer a thing?”
“It is how I warn a man before his death.”
“Ye threaten me often fer a woman in need of rescue.”
“I am nae in need of rescue. I am in need of linen.”
“A serious distinction.”
“Ruaridh.”
He heard movement then. A soft splash followed, then another, and the sound told him she had retreated back into the tub. Only then did he peer through the crack.
Isobel sat sunk low in the bath, the water high enough to preserve both her modesty and his life. Wet strands of hair clung to her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed with outrage. Her eyes, however, were bright. Ruaridh felt the smile he had been holding back slip free.
Her gaze narrowed. “Dinnae ye dare look pleased.”
“I wouldnae dream of it.”
“Give me the towel.”
He looked at the linen dangling from his hand. “This towel?”
Her eyes became perilous. “How many have ye stolen?”
“Moved,” he corrected.
“Stolen.”
“Borrowed.”
“Removed from its rightful place with malicious intent.”
“That sounds very legal.”
“I shall make it very fatal if ye dinnae give it back.”
Ruaridh considered her for one slow moment, then stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.
Isobel’s mouth parted.
“Out,” she demanded.
“I thought ye wanted the towel.”
“I want the towel, nae ye.”
The words struck lower than they should have, perhaps because of the way she said them: sharp, breathless, and not nearly as convincing as she intended.
Ruaridh leaned back against the door and folded the towel over one arm. “A terrible blow tae me pride.”
“Good. Perhaps it will improve ye.”
“I have been told I am impossible.”
“Ye… ye are worse than impossible! Ye are childish.”
“Aye.”
“And arrogant.”
“Often.”
“And smug.”
“I prefer satisfied.”
Her eyes flashed wildly at him. “I shall drown ye in this tub.”
He glanced toward the bath. “That would require ye tae leave it.”
She looked at him as though he had betrayed some great tactical secret. Ruaridh’s smile deepened. A small copper dish sat on the stool beside him, still holding a little bundle of lavender soap. Isobel followed his gaze a heartbeat too late.
“Dinnae touch that.”
He picked it up.
“Ruaridh.”
“Is this important?”
“That is me soap.”
“Ah.” He studied it gravely. “Then it would be a shame if it were moved.”
Her eyes widened. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
He moved it to the shelf behind him. Isobel splashed water at him. It struck his shirt full across the chest. Ruaridh looked down at the darkened linen, then back at her. For one suspended heartbeat, she appeared shocked at herself. Then her mouth twitched.
“Now,” he said slowly, “that was an act of war.”
“Ye started it.”
He pushed away from the door. “Perhaps I should negotiate.”
“I dinnae negotiate with linen thieves.”
“Then ye shall remain trapped.”
“I am nae trapped. I am choosing nae tae rise because there is a dishonorable man in the room.”
He took one step closer. Her chin lifted. The water shifted faintly around her as her fingers curled against the edge of the tub. He was dying to see her out of it, but savoring the moment was too precious.
“Give me the towel,” she ordered with a luscious pout.
“Ask sweetly.”
“Nay.”
“Then ask politely.”
“Nay.”
He lifted an amused eyebrow. “Then threaten me again. I am growing fond of that.”
Her eyes flashed. “Come closer and I shall show ye how fond of it ye are.”
Ruaridh did come closer. Isobel’s expression changed at once, just enough for him to see the moment her bluff met reality and found him much too large, much too near, and entirely willing to continue being foolish.
He stopped at the side of the tub, close enough that the steam from the bath touched his damp shirt, and close enough that he could see the drops of water clinging to her throat.
His amusement faltered. So did hers.
For a moment, the small chamber seemed to grow smaller around them. The scent of lavender rose with the steam. Isobel’s hair lay wet against her skin, and her eyes remained on his, proud and uncertain and alive with something that was not anger.
Ruaridh’s hand tightened around the towel. He should have given it to her. Instead, he was apparently determined to bring ruin upon himself in the most foolish manner possible.
“I am considering taking back all me gratitude fer the bow now.”
He smirked. “Because of a towel?”
“Because of a crime.”
“A small crime.”
“A naked woman may judge crimes more harshly.”
His blood heated so quickly that he had to look away. A slow, wicked satisfaction entered her face.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Ruaridh looked back. “Dinnae.”
She smiled. It was not a large smile, not even a sweet one. It was devastating.
“The Wolf of the Western Isles is embarrassed?”
“Nay.”
“He is.”
“I am considering whether drowning might be preferable after all.”
“Come closer, then. I shall assist.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself.
She reached one wet hand out for the towel. “Ruaridh.”
This time, her voice had changed. She was still proud, but there was a softness beneath it. He lowered the towel toward her. At the last moment, she seized his wrist instead of the linen.
He could have broken the hold in an instant. He did not.
Her fingers were damp and warm against his skin. “I learned from a very irritating man,” she murmured playfully, “that one should turn toward the thumb.”
Then she twisted. He let her free him, because he was not a fool and because the triumph that crossed her face was worth the loss.
“Very good,” he smirked.
“I ken.”
“Proud little menace.”
“Large linen thief.”
He lowered the towel again. This time, she took it and pulled it against herself beneath the water. Then, with the towel gathered high enough to cover what propriety demanded, she rose just slightly, still mostly hidden by the bath.
Ruaridh stopped breathing. Her eyes darkened.
“Ye are looking now,” she whispered.
His gaze lifted back to hers with effort. “Aye.”
“Ye said ye wouldnae.”
“I said I didnae. Past tense.”
Her mouth parted, in outrage and laughter tangled together. “That is wicked.”
“Aye.”
“And shameless.”
“Likely.”
“And if I had anything near me besides water, I would throw it at ye.”
“There is water.”
She splashed him again. This time, he caught her wrist before she could retreat. Water ran from her fingers over his hand. Isobel went still, the towel clutched against her with her free hand, her breath caught somewhere between surprise and invitation.
Ruaridh should have released her. Instead, he brushed his thumb once over the inside of her wrist. Her lashes fluttered. The sight went through him like a blade drawn slowly.
“Ye should let go,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
He did not.
Her eyes lifted to his. “Ruaridh.”
That was all, only his name. It undid more of him than any touch. He released her wrist, but he did not step away. Isobel did not move either. The little private war between them faded into something quieter and far more dangerous.
She looked at his mouth. Ruaridh’s control frayed.
“If I kiss ye,” he said, hardly breathing, “will ye strike me?”
“Possibly.”
He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the rim of the tub, giving her time. She did not turn away.
“I am still angry with ye.”
“I ken.”
“Very angry.”
“Aye.”
“And I am taking back me thanks.”
His mouth hovered near hers. “Then I shall have tae earn them again.”
She drew in a breath. That breath brought her closer.
The kiss began more softly than the rest of the scene deserved.
After all her threats and his smugness, after stolen linen and splashed water and wicked little smiles, his mouth touched hers with restraint.
He meant it to remain careful. He meant to take only what she offered.
Then Isobel’s wet hand caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. Ruaridh made a rough sound low in his throat.
The kiss changed. Heat moved through it at once. Her mouth opened beneath his, no longer startled by wanting but daring it. The towel remained clutched between them, and he was half-bent over her like a man with no sense left to his name.
His hand rose to her face, damp skin warm beneath his palm. He kissed her deeper, slower, and felt her answer him with a boldness that made every foolish game before it seem like the beginning of a fire neither of them meant to tend.
When he drew back, it was only because another moment would have made stopping harder. Isobel stared at him, breathing unsteadily, her lips parted and wet from his. Then her eyes narrowed faintly.
“I still want me soap back.”
Ruaridh’s laugh came out rough and helpless.
He rested his forehead briefly against hers. “Aye, wife.”
“And the towel.”
“Ye have the towel.”
“I mean every towel ye stole.”
“Moved.”
“Ruaridh.”
He smiled against the corner of her mouth. “I shall return them all.”
“And apologize.”
His brows lifted. “Fer victory?”
“Fer starting a war ye cannae win.”
He looked at her, wet-haired and flushed, wrapped in stolen linen and glaring at him like the most dangerous thing ever placed in his keeping. Ruaridh touched his thumb gently to her cheek.
“Nay” he said softly. “I dinnae think I can.”
For once, Isobel did not answer, but when he kissed her again, she didn’t stop him.