“It’ll be our secret, aye?” she said, and giggled again.
He just shook his head at her, but he was smiling, and that filled Isobel with happiness.
There were no trees on the island, and the damp air blowing across it was cold. Isobel wished she’d brought her arisaid or cloak. They arrived at a well-tended plot of land, bathed in muted moonlight. Long slabs of stone littered the area, some standing upright, others partly submerged in the earth. Isobel paused before one, barely able to make out a carving of a warrior in a pointed helmet and chain mail, wielding an enormous cross hilt sword. Philip continued on to a stone cross. He held the lantern high. The cross was decorated with a knotwork of braids. Isobel stopped beside him.
“My mother,” he said.
Isobel said nothing, staring down at the overgrown plot.
“I wish I remembered her better.”
“How soon after your mother died did Dougal wed Mairi?”
“It wasna even a year.”
“So she is the only mother you ever knew?”
He nodded.
And Mairi hated him now. She hadn’t always. Stephen had said they got on fine before he’d lost Effie. Isobel didn’t know what to say, so she touched the leather sleeve of his jack.
“I dinna ken why I come here.” He started back for the beach.
Isobel watched him go, troubled. She turned back to the stone cross. She thought of her own mother, buried somewhere near Lochlaire. She didn’t even know where, had never seen her mother’s grave. Everything had happened so quickly after her mother had been burned. Alan MacDonell had sent his best men todeliver his daughters away to different places. Isobel didn’t even know where her sisters were. Hadn’t spoken to Gillian and Rose in twelve years. She remembered Rose’s face as she screamed for her mum and da—arms outstretched and tears dripping from her chin as the big knight had carried her off before him on his horse. Alan had wept, too, and told them all they must be brave. Isobel had not cried, though she’d wanted to. She’d seen how it hurt her father.
She returned to the beach. Philip sat in the sand, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingertips. The lantern flickered near his feet. Isobel sat beside him and took the bottle. After taking a drink, she turned to him. He had placed a palm behind her and leaned toward her, looking at her. Her pulse fluttered and set to racing.
“I want to talk to you about something,” she said.
“Hmm…?”
“It’s about your stepmother.”
“I dinna want to talk about my stepmother.”
“I know, and that’s why we must.”
His dark eyes were on her face, searching it, drinking her in, it seemed. Her mouth had gone dry, and she licked her lips, trying to recall what she’d wanted to say.
“You dinna belong here,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Ye’re too good for this place.”
Isobel didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t look away from his thick-lashed eyes. She found her lips trembling on his name, a whisper. The moment spun out, and Isobel was snared in it, powerless to break away from his heated gaze.
“Will ye forget me when you are a countess?” he asked, his voice low and husky, resonating through her.
Isobel’s breath caught, and she managed to whisper, “I will try.”
He looked away, to the waves washing the shore. Isobel longed to touch him, to stroke the strong line of his jaw, feel the firm, sensual set of his lips against her skin.
She swallowed hard, and said, “But I do not think I will succeed.”
He turned back to her, a feverish light in his eyes, and leaned toward her until his mouth touched hers. He kissed her gently, then murmured against her mouth, “I should not do this.”
Isobel leaned into him, sliding her arms around his neck. “Then I will.” She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, tasting whisky and desire. His arms came around her, crushing her close, his tongue plundering her mouth as he pushed her down into the sand.
His mouth was hot and demanding, and she answered it, pressing her body up against him. Her mind was a fog of desire, but she knew she wanted this, wanted him this way. His hand slid up her waist and ribs, to the laces of her bodice. He worked them free, his mouth never leaving hers. When his hand slid inside, closing over her breast, Isobel gasped and stiffened, shocked at the intimate touch. His hand was warm and his thumb, rubbing over her hardened nipple, sent a nearly painful arrow of lust through her.
He drew back to look at her, his hand sliding up to cup her face. He seemed about to say something, but instead he kissed her again, holding her face so he could explore her mouth with tongue and teeth until she was breathless, clinging to him and whimpering. Though his kisses and touch swept her away, her mind could not forget that this was transient, that it was all she’dever have. It lent an urgency to her, her fingers tracing the strong lines of his face, the dark silky brows, the powerful corded muscles of his neck and shoulders.
