She propped her chin on his chest and gazed at him. “Why is that?”
He quickly rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. “I’d rather it all be a surprise.”
Her agreement was muffled by his mouth, brushing against hers, then lower, planting warm kisses on her chin and neck, before lavishing her breasts with his attention. She arched against him, her hands moving over him gently, careful of his wounds. Lord Irvine had brought with him the best physicians for Stephen, of course, and they had seen to Philip’s burn wounds. A fresh linen bandage was wrapped around his chest, smelling faintly of herbs.
His mouth returned to Isobel’s, kissing her urgently, his knee pressing her thighs apart. He pushed into her, and she gasped and clutched at him, unable to help herself. It did not hurt, but the invasion was still such an exquisite shock, it sent tremors of intense pleasure through her every time. He grunted softly, then rolled onto his back, taking her with him so she was astride him like a horse.
She stared down at him, her lips parted as she panted, her body still spasming around him, not certain what he wanted her to do. He was still hard inside her, and when she shifted slightly, it sent waves of delicious sensation through her so that she did it again, whimpering slightly each time.
“Wait,” he hissed through gritted teeth, then his hands slid to her hips. “Now.” He lifted her, then thrust into her. She gasped, her hand gripping his wrists to anchor herself as he moved into her again and again. She caught his rhythm, and rode him, her palms against the iron muscles of his belly, his hands moving over her breasts, the pleasure swelling inside her.
Her breath came in small, constricted gasps, her musclesdrawing taut as the sensations shivering through her grew sharp. His arms went around her, drawing her down to his chest. The pleasure spilled over her, and the world grew dim around them. There was only his arms around her, his body hot against hers, enveloping her, loving her.
They lay there a long while, Isobel dozing in the circle of his arms. She woke sometime later, sensing that he was awake—that he had not slept at all. All was right in Isobel’s world, but the same was not true for Philip. She leaned up on her elbow and looked down at him in the flickering candlelight.
He raised a questioning eyebrow. The light played over his face, casting part in shadows.
“Something’s troubling you,” Isobel said. “Is it your sister?”
He brought his hand up to toy absently with her hair. “I can accept that I lost her and can never get her back…I think. And I’m ready to go home and take my place—and even to tell Mairi I’ve had enough…” His mouth flattened as he stared at the curling copper-blond hair he’d spread out over his chest. “But I just want to ken why.”
“Why what?”
“Why she refuses to speak to me. Why she denies who she is.”
Isobel gave him a secret smile. “Good thing Fergus managed to snatch my satchel. The benefits of being an executioner, he said—the privilege of rifling through the condemned’s effects.”
“And what’s in your wee satchel?” His fingers trailed over her shoulder, his mind already moving on to other things, she noted by the heat in his gaze.
“Let me show you.” She leaned over him, feeling about on the floor until she felt it, then drew it onto the bed, dropping it ontohis chest.
“Oomph!”
“Sorry,” she said, digging through it.
“What the hell is in that thing?”
“Your gun, your dirk…some other things.” She removed the section of towel she’d cut from Effie’s door. Already she felt things from it. Distress and unease—a deep, alarming fear that caused Isobel to frown at the piece of cloth.
“What’s that?” he asked, dumping her satchel back on the floor.
Isobel told him how she’d gone to Effie’s house looking for him and how his sister had sent her away. “But I did manage to get this. She’d dropped her towel and closed it in the door. So I cut this off.”
Philip pushed himself up on his elbow so they faced each other, his eyes fixed on the towel.
“Damn,” he said softly, then met her eyes, waiting.
Isobel held the towel in both hands and focused on the small pregnant woman on Rose Street.What was she afraid of?She saw Effie, knees pushed back, straining and crying out as a midwife urged her to push. Isobel felt the deep cramping pain about her middle as Effie worked her baby out. Yes, she was afraid of childbirth, but that wasn’t what Isobel was looking for.
Why does the thought of Philip distress you?The image of Effie giving birth was gone, replaced by her bedchamber in Sgor Dubh. Effie was a child, five or six, and Isobel sensed it was a short time before her disappearance. She played with the doll Isobel had held such a short time ago. Mairi came in and began sniffing the air. It led her to Effie, who watched her mother anxiously. Mairi grabbedEffie, jerking her to her feet and snatching up her hands to smell them.
“Fish,” she said, her lips curling. “What have I told you about this?”
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Effie began, but Mairi dragged her to the basin. She poured water in and began scrubbing Effie’s hands savagely. Effie said nothing for a time, but as it went on, she began to cry softly.
“It hurts.”
“Shut up,” Mairi said, absorbed in her task. “My daughter cannot be stinking like a common fishwife. This water just isn’t hot enough. I can still smell it.”
