His mouth left hers. He pushed her shift from her shoulders. His mouth scorched her skin, moving downward. She trembled when the cold air blew over her naked breasts. And then his hands and tongue were there, and need, fierce and aching, blossomed inside her, curling deep in her belly.
His hand was beneath her skirts, sliding up her thigh—and his knee was between her legs, pressing them apart. She yielded, consumed with these new sensations, afraid at any moment it would stop, and she would be left alone with this desperate need.
Her hands slid inside his jack and around his back, the long, hard muscles shifting and bunching beneath her fingers. The heat of his mouth on her, the feel of his strength beneath her hands was more potent than the whisky that spilled into the sand beside them. His hand brushed the damp curls between her legs, and she gasped, her legs closing involuntarily. His mouth covered hers again, his kiss wet and drugging, as his open palm stroked her quivering belly. Her limbs went weak from the bold stroke of his tongue and the sharp answer that pooled in her loins.
When his hand returned, cupping her, his fingers stroking deeper each time, ribbons of pleasure rippled through her. She made a sound against his mouth, as exquisite sensation ripped through her, tightening her muscles, shattering her senses.
Philip dragged his mouth away, staring down at the flushed and writhing woman beneath him. Her red-gold hair was spread around her like fire, and the heavy throbbing in his groin increased. He wanted to drive into her—she was ready for him, he’d seen to that, could still feel her body clenching around his fingers with the aftermath of her pleasure. He closed his eyes, trying to force some semblance of control over his whisky-thickened senses.
He withdrew his hand as her long, reddish lashes lifted slowly to gaze at him, her eyes foggy. She smiled, sated and warm, and it sent an answering surge of lust through him. She was all soft, heated skin, fragrant and beautiful, and he wanted to rip open his breeks and to bury himself.
How had this happened? He certainly hadn’t planned it. Why could he not keep his hands off her?
Her bodice and shift gaped, round breasts, rosy from his body pressed against her, from his mouth…He rolled away, his hand coming down in a patch of wet sand. The empty bottle of whisky rolled away, waves washing over it and dragging it out to sea. What the hell was he doing?
“Philip?” she said, her voice soft and sensual, drawing him back.
But one look at her and he averted his gaze. “Cover yourself.”
He could not look at her and not touch her. The hands he scrubbed over his face and into his hair shook. She was still a virgin, he reminded himself—and decided he should be canonized on that point—the evidence of his heroism still strained painfully against his breeks.
When he chanced a look at her she was fumbling with the laces of her bodice, decently covered again. Her hair was wild though, red-blond curls spilling down her shoulders, framing a face flushed red with shame.
He pushed her fingers aside and pulled the laces tight, tying them quickly, but letting her tuck them into the top of her bodice. When she finally looked up and met his gaze, she held it for a long moment.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“I’m not.”
He had to look away, couldn’t bear to look at her when she said such things. Was he mad, bringing her to this island, alone, and plying her with whisky? And now all he could think of was Nicholas Lyon, Earl Kincreag, finishing what he had begun here in the sand. He had awakened the woman in her for someone else, and it made him sick with jealousy.
He saw himself then, as her father might. A man who denied his inheritance and lived like a nomad, tracking villains for money. He could not even find a small child—or protect Isobel from his own base lust. If this didn’t stop, it would cost him his friendship with Alan MacDonell—a man he respected and loved—and he still would not get Isobel. Alan wouldn’t allow it, and Lord Kincreag would never stand for such an insult.
At the thought of Alan, he knew they must delay no more. He should not have brought her here. She should be with her father, spending what little time they had left together.
He heard movement beside him, felt the soft touch of her hand on his sleeve, and felt himself waver, wanting to kiss her again, his hands itching to touch her skin, and wondering what could it possibly matter now? What would one more kiss or fondle matter after what he’d just done? He stiffened himself against this infernal weakness and stood, grabbing the lantern.
“Let’s get back before these clouds turn into rain.”
Chapter 13
The row back to the cave at the base of Sgor Dubh was silent. Torches blazed on the castle walls, lighting their way, even as the damp mist encroached on their small vessel. Isobel tried not to look at Philip, but it was difficult. She imagined the smooth pull of muscle beneath shirt and jack as he rowed, remembering the feel of his body, so much larger and warmer than hers.
He hardly looked away from her the entire time, which was disconcerting, considering what had occurred between them. She wasn’t quite certain exactly whathadoccurred on that beach. Oh, she knew she was a maiden still—she’d seen enough of men and women rutting in her visions to understand he had to put more than his fingers inside her to make a child. But she had never imagined the things they’d done could bring so much pleasure. Her loins still ached from it, warm and liquid.
It had to be wrong. She was promised to another man. Doing these things with Philip was disloyal. Knowing that didn’t banish the dull throb of want every time she looked his way. Still, she didn’t know what it all meant and felt a sliver of apprehension in her blood that she had begun something she could not finish. He had been right. She really didn’t know what she played at. It was so intense, so painfully beautiful, that it frightened her.
It was a relief to finally be back in the cave. Philip tied the boat to a post and stepped out. Isobel scrabbled from the boat before he could help her. They stood in the gloom, the lantern giving them a dim circle of light. He watched her, silent.
She wasn’t sure what he wanted, what he expected. Her own thoughts were scrambled and uncertain. But she latched on to what she knew in her heart. Her father had promised her to Lord Kincreag—to disregard that promise would not only shame her father, but it could harm his relationship with the earl, clearly not a man to be trifled with. It was extraordinary that an earl would deign to wed a mere baron’s daughter. This could mean great things for her father and her clan. Lord Kincreag was the way of her future, and she must stop this flirtation before it went any further. Besides, there was Philip to consider, not just her father and family. Lord Kincreag would not countenance such an insult. He would ruin Philip—and perhaps the Kilpatricks of Colquhoun, or even kill him. And what of herself? If he really had killed his wife for cuckolding him, what would he think of Isobel’s little beach tryst? She shuddered to imagine it.
“Philip,” she finally said, “we must talk.”
He nodded slowly. “Aye.”
He was so quiet, so intent on her she could not stand fast, facing him. So she walked slowly across the cave. A chest was against the wall, the wood warped, but serviceable. She stopped in front of it and took a deep breath.
“This…the, er…we cannot…”
