Chapter 7 #4
All of the anger and bitterness she had felt upon finding Ana Bisset in his camp was gone, replaced by two emotions she wasn’t entirely comfortable with: gratitude for the healer’s efforts to save her injured dog and amazement over MacCurran’s gentle feeding of that same beast. He’d actually coaxed Gorm to eat with softly spoken words.
The sting of impending tears forced her to turn away.
Damn him.
He’d done it again. Confused her. Shaken her beliefs.
“You need not fear,” MacCurran said. “The dog will live.”
Isabail blinked hard, banishing her silly tears. Then she turned to face him. “May I see him?”
“In the morning,” he said. “He’s resting now.”
Even the urge to protest had vanished. She now knew why he was keeping her from Gorm—he feared she’d be upset to discover Ana Bisset in charge of his care.
And truth be told, if she hadn’t seen the dog safe and secure in the healer’s hut herself, she likely would have been just as distressed as he imagined.
So, how could she resent his decision?
She nodded. “I look forward to it.”
“Are you feeling well?” he asked, frowning.
“Aye.” As well as could be expected, given the tumultuous bend of her thoughts.
He crossed the room to stand before her. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear the dog was well.”
“I am,” she said. To avoid his piercing gaze, she looked at her feet. “But I was anticipating the worst and this good news has . . . disconcerted me.”
His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
The rub of his callused palm on her skin stole her breath away.
She suddenly craved a repeat of the intimate kiss they’d shared the night before.
The press, the passion, the need. Oh aye, the need.
She knew the facts pointed to him having a hand in her brother’s murder, but at this moment, those facts felt vague and unfounded.
The man who cradled injured dogs was real.
Excitement was a sweet taste in her mouth, and she stared into his eyes with an anticipation that was palpable. He returned her stare for a long moment, his expression still and unreadable.
Isabail was lost in the fantasy of his lips on hers, a warmth settling into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the glowing coals in the brazier at their feet.
Then, with the suddenness of a falcon strike, he hauled her up against his body.
The rough press of his body against hers did nothing to calm the madcap beat of her heart.
Every place her body was soft, his was hard.
She barely resisted the urge to flatten her palms against the chiseled planes of his chest, to feel the evidence of his strength.
But she held back. She did not want him to think, even for a moment, that she was resistant.
He tilted her head and very slowly, very deliberately, lowered his lips toward hers. Just before they touched, he said, “I’m feeling rather disconcerted myself.”
And then he kissed her.
So deeply and stirringly that Isabail felt the ripples of pleasure reach right to her toes. It was a kiss of possession, a claim of rights that was primal in nature. It should have frightened her, or at the very least annoyed her, but all she felt was a hot pulse of tingling delight.
She leaned in to the kiss.
It was all the encouragement he needed. Both hands cupped her head, his fingers threading deep into her hair, and he crushed his lips against hers.
The sweep of his tongue along the seam of her lips demanded her surrender.
Isabail wanted to resist—knew deep down that she should—but her desire for him was shockingly potent.
He made her feel alive . . . and beautiful.
The passion he stirred in her body was like an unrestrained melody, full of thrilling notes and soaring chords that vibrated through her entire being.
Why MacCurran possessed the power to stir her so deeply, she couldn’t fathom.
He was as different from Andrew as two men could be.
And he was her enemy. A cad, a cur, and a scurrilous knave . . . who fed soup to dogs.
Isabail sighed and opened her mouth.
Her hands found their way to his arms, gripping his powerful biceps with clenched fingers. She loved the contradiction—a man capable of ferocious strength but willing, on rare occasions, to cede the moment to gentleness. Like this moment.
He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit. Not hard enough to break the skin, but firmly enough to send a host of tiny sparks coursing through her body. Isabail’s knees went weak and she sagged against his chest.
MacCurran broke off the kiss. He held her close for a long moment, his forehead touching hers, his eyes closed. Twin flags of color graced his cheeks, and his breaths were ragged. The pulse in his neck beat fast and strong. Isabail enjoyed seeing the visible evidence of his desire.
Slowly, he regained control and opened his eyes. “Have your maid fetch your belongings,” he said. “From now on, you’ll sleep here.”
Then he left.
Isabail was tempted to call after him, to complain that she had no belongings to move, but she decided she’d tugged on the lion’s mane enough for one day.