“Philip, let me help you.”
He shook his head. “I have nothing of hers with me.”
“Kilpatrick lands are but a day’s ride from the MacDonells of Glen Laire. What would one more day matter?” After she said it she thought of her father. The nagging sense of dread had not disappeared, but it had been displaced by a new preoccupation with her protector. Shewasworried about her father and anxious to finally be home. And yet home meant Nicholas Lyon, her betrothed, and saying good-bye to her new friends—friends who in the last few minutes had become precious to her in their acceptance. And most of all she wanted to help Philip—she felt she owed him a great deal. Rather than being afraid of her, or anxious to use her magic for himself, he was more concerned with her health. Even Ceri had not been so thoughtful. If anyone deserved her help, it was Philip. His soul was troubled by the loss of his sister. She wanted to lay his demons to rest. If only he’d let her.
“It’s more than a day’s journey,” he said. “Mayhap two. Three or more if the weather turns.”
“It won’t.”
The dimples in his cheeks deepened as he smiled. “Ye predict the weather now, too? What, did ye touch the sky?”
Isobel smiled back. Of course she could not predict the weather, and he knew it.
His smile faded. “Your father will not be pleased.”
“My father need not know.”
“Why do you wish to do this?”
“Because you’re not afraid of me.”
“I told you, lass, you scare me.”
Isobel’s gaze traveled over him in disbelief, stopping on his impassive face. She could not imagine Philip being afraid of anything. “You don’t look scared.” She pushed one finger against his chest, as if to shove him away, but he was a rock. “You don’t feel scared.”
He raised a brow.
“Or perhaps you’re just rigid with terror,” she teased.
His smile sent a slow burn down to her toes. “That I am—ye’ve no idea.”
Isobel resisted the urge to look down, her cheeks hot. She should walk away, she knew—but couldn’t. She felt as though she were suffocating, looking into his eyes. The knowledge that he wanted her—still—though he knew she was a witch, expanded inside her, warming her, making her bold, and pushing all thoughts of Nicholas Lyon from her mind.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
He shook his head, still smiling slightly. “You’re not listening.”
“Very well. Why are you afraid?”
He reached out a hand, tentative at first, then with purpose, touching a curl that lay against her forehead. His fingers brushed her skin. Isobel’s body tightened, her breath hitching. The backs of his fingers slid down her temple, to her cheek, and under her chin. She resisted the urge to close her eyes and turn her face into his caress—she couldn’t break away when he looked at her in such a manner. His face was fierce with longing, and when he spoke, his voice was rough.
“I want to taste you again. And I know I should not—but…right now, I dinna care. That scares me. I should care. Verra much.”
Isobel’s insides melted, warm and liquid. She swayed closer to him, her palms settling against his chest. “I want you to.”
He lowered his head, his other arm sliding around her waist. Sable lashes fell, as if he were surrendering, and his mouth brushed hers, warm and firm. Isobel’s body sighed into his. His arms went around her, and the pressure of his mouth increased. She yielded, her lips parting. His whiskers abraded her skin, his warm scent enveloped her.
His mouth moved over hers, fierce in its tenderness, and she was drowning, her heart wild. His hand smoothed down her back as he shifted, his thigh pushing between her legs, hands pressing her closer, molding her softness to his hard form. His tongue slid against her lips, hot and urgent, his teeth nibbled and scraped at her. Isobel clung to his shoulders, opening her mouth to gasp for air, and his tongue plunged in. Hunger, sharp and deep, flooded her. She opened wider to him, her tongue brazenly meeting his.
He made a sound in his throat, low and hot and resonating through her. His kiss deepened, arching her neck back, but his hand was there, threading through her hair, cupping her skull.Lost in sensation, her body pulsing with each squeeze of her heart, she could think of nothing butPhilip, Philip.
He tore his mouth away suddenly and buried his face in her neck. His ragged breath blew hot against her skin. She felt dizzy, lights still bursting behind her eyelids, her body aching with want.
She whispered his name, her fingers digging into the leather of his jack, her face turning, searching for his mouth. He stepped away from her, his hands on her shoulders.
“Go inside, Isobel.” His voice was harsh.
“I don’t want to—”
