“Very well.”
“How did you know the key was in the roll?”
Her pulse leapt. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Simple, really. I went to the bakers’, looking for something sweet, and found the baker and his wife searching their shop frantically. I asked questions about what they searched for. From their answers I deduced they’d lost the key to their moneybox in the wee hours of the morning. What does a baker do in the wee hours?”
His mouth curved slightly, dimples denting his cheeks. “Bake.”
“See? It was naught but deductive reasoning.”
His lashes lowered as his gaze traveled over her face. She found she was holding her breath and struggled to breathe normally. She’d never had a man stand so close to her. The last time she was this close to a male, she was fifteen, and that seemed like a lifetime ago. Philip unnerved her. She could smell him, warm and male beneath the lingering fragrance of whisky. She could feel the heat coming off him, warming her.
“But how did you know it was in that particular roll?”
She shrugged. “Lucky guess. They told me those were left over from their first batch. I would have ripped them all apart. If I didn’t find it, I would’ve then advised them to visit each customer who’d bought bread from their earliest batches.”
He considered her, suspicion still in his eyes. She’d known at the time she probably shouldn’t have helped the baker and his wife, but she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes the magic seemed to swell within her, demanding release. She’d known immediately that she could find the key by touching the padlock—and why not? It was simple enough. She’d done it hundreds of times and knew how to make it look like cleverness rather than cunning. So what if it was witchcraft and not deductive reasoning? Who had to know? She thought her story was a very convincing one, and it made her bold. She stared up at him expectantly, daring him to find a hole in her explanation.
“What about your eyes?” he said.
Isobel raised her brows questioningly, wishing for just another inch between their bodies. She felt closed in, surrounded by him. Her thoughts skittered about her mind, unable to stay on his questions, straying instead to his voice, his face, his warm breath wafting against her cheek. A delicious shiver moved slowly through her, from her nape to her heels, making her eyelids heavy. She hoped he didn’t notice.
“My eyes? What do you mean?”
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were recalling something troublesome. “You’re eyes were…odd, as if you were blind.”
Isobel looked away from him, her mind racing. She oftenwasblind when having a vision. And now that he’d brought it up, she remembered that moment. She’d been following the baker in her mind. He’d been carrying a huge tray of rolls to the counter.
“I’m sure you were imagining it. I can see perfectly well—perhaps not like an eagle, but adequate.”
His fingers, bare and warm, touched her chin. She sucked in her breath. He tilted her face up so she was forced to look into his eyes. She was breathing hard—not just frightened, but somethingelse that tingled through her body, making her skin unnaturally sensitive. It seemed as if she could feel the soft touch of his fingers all over her body, burning her to her toes.
“I did not imagine it.”
“Then that’s just the way my eyes look. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
He shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving her face, his thumb stroking the skin of her neck. Her breasts tightened and grew heavy. Her mind was sluggish.
“That is not how your eyes look…it’s dark, and yet I can still see you in your eyes.”
She tried to laugh at his words and tell him he was being foolish, but the sounds died in her throat. And then suddenly his mouth brushed over hers, stealing her breath. She met his gaze, astonished, a strange excitement coursing through her. She wanted him to do it again, but didn’t know how to ask. Perhaps it had been an accident? She stared up at him, her breath shivering between her lips, begging him in her mind to do it again.
His gazed burned over her, lingering on her mouth. She licked her lips, her own gaze falling to his mouth, wide and sensual. It had happened so fast, she wasn’t even certain what his mouth had felt like, and she so wanted to know.
He whispered something to her.Baobh le suil uaine.The Gaelic. It had been years since she’d heard the Highland tongue—longer since she’d spoken it herself.
Before she could dig into her memories for a translation, he leaned into her and this time when his lips touched hers she pressed herself toward him. His hand slid behind her head, holding her still as the pressure of his mouth grew more insistent. She thought fleetingly of her betrothed, Nicholas, but it quicklydissolved in the warmth of Philip’s mouth, the sweetness of it piercing through her.
Her lips parted, and his tongue invaded, stroking against hers, coaxing her body to melt. His taste was potent—of whisky and man. Her arms came around his neck, clinging as if she would be washed away. She’d never been kissed like this. Warmth rippled through her. He pulled her away from the wall and his arms came around her, his mouth fierce and insistent. His hands slid down her back, cupping her bottom.
Isobel whimpered when he pressed her hard against his body, miserable that she couldn’t seem to get any closer. She ached and burned for something she knew he could give her.
Then he thrust her away. She sagged against the wall, staring up at him, panting, her body vibrating with lust. She’d never felt anything like it, only knew that she wanted more. He covered his face with both hands.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, startled by her voice, low and husky.
He dropped his hands, but turned his face away, his jaw rigid. “Forgive me…I—should not have done that. I dinna ken what I was thinking, but it wilna happen again, I vow it.”
Isobel blinked, confused, bereft. She felt so cold, wanted his arms around her again. Why must she forgive him? Shewantedhim to do it again. Then she remembered the earl—her future husband—and her face flooded with shame.
