She released the plaid and it puddled to the floor. Beneath she wore an indecent shift, all lace and lawn, and he could see the weight of her breasts pressing against the material, the dusky thrust of her nipples, and farther down, a dark triangle. He looked back to her face.
She looked fearful, her pale green eyes wide, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“You are beautiful,” he said, nearly choking on the words.
“When I went to the room I’m sharing with my sisters, I found three chests, each full of new clothes. This”—she gestured to the filmy garment she wore—“is for my wedding night. I would wear it for you, before I ever wear it forhim.”
She spat outhimas if it were a dirty word.
Power returned to his limbs and he stood. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes—silver-green eyes that begged him not to send her away. Her hands came up, resting against his chest. She had bathed. Violets and musk drifted from her skin and hair.
“Please don’t send me away…I…I want to be with you tonight.”
“Isobel, do you realize how dangerous this is? What if someone saw you? Or someone finds out?”
“No one saw me—I was careful. And no one will find out. I latched the door behind me.”
When he said nothing, tears welled in her eyes. A fist squeezed at his heart as he watched a single tear track her cheek. There was a tremor in the hand he used to wipe the tear away. He framed her face with both hands. “What happened?”
“I met him tonight. I will never find happiness with him, Philip—I know it in my bones. It’s you I love.” And then she began to weep silently. Tears coursed freely down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could stop them, but they fell anyway.
He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her shuddering body. His mind raced desperately, wondering what he could do to help her, to protect her from this unhappiness. And then he knew, with calm certainty, there was only one thing he could do, only one answer, Alan and Kincreag be damned.
Isobel rubbed her face against his shirt, drying her tears, and gazed up at him. Though he held her and comforted her, he seemed oddly restrained. She feared he didn’t want her here, didn’t want this. She flexed her hands against his shirt and felt that he did desire her, faintly from the linen that lived against his skin. But wanting with your body and wanting with your heart and mind were two separate things, she knew. He was a good and honorable man and would not want to deflower another man’s betrothed, under her father’s own roof. But there was no help for it. She would not leave his room a maiden.
His gaze burned into her, but his hands were still, gently cupping her shoulders. She lowered her gaze to his muscular neck, corded and strained. His pulse beat rapidly in the hollow of his throat, and crisp brown hairs were visible above the white of his shirt. She pulled the top tie, breathless and warm with a shyness she was determined to overcome. She pulled the next, and thenext, until the linen parted, exposing a lightly haired chest, hard with muscle. He was so beautiful and strong. Her hands slid beneath the linen. He tensed, but did not stop her. Skin warm and smooth except for the dusting of coarse hair soothed her palms. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against the pulse that throbbed in his neck.
He groaned and murmured something in Gaelic, a curse perhaps. His hands slid from her shoulders, one to the small of her back, the other tangling into her hair, forcing her head back. His gaze moved over her face possessively, fiercely, until her knees nearly buckled with want. Then he kissed her, his mouth warm and demanding, parting her lips, and plunging inside.
His kiss was long and slow and drugging. His hands moved over her body, stroking her through the thin material of her nightrail. His fingers slid between her thighs and buttocks, brushing against her sex, and desire rent her. She gasped against his mouth.
His chest heaved beneath her hands. She slid them up, sifting the silk of his hair. She could stay like this forever, their bodies pressed close, straining to get closer, hands seeking and stroking, mouths mating hungrily. Then he dropped to his knees before her. He pressed his face against her belly, and she felt his warm damp kisses through her nightrail. Sharp arrows of lust pierced her loins. His hands slid down her thighs until he reached her ankles and circled them, stroking gently upward, beneath her gown. When his caresses slid up between her knees, to her inner thighs, her breath was coming in short gasps, and her eyes fluttered shut. He would feel the dampness there, and though she should be embarrassed, she could not care. She only wanted him to touch her as he had on the beach.
Her nightrail was bunched up at her hips, and he turned his face, nuzzling the curls at the top of her sex as his finger stroked across it, sending a jolt through her. Her hands dropped to his shoulders, curling into the soft linen. He made a deep sound ofmale approval that resonated through her body. Her legs were water, and she could barely support herself, but when she tried to slide to the floor, he held her up, one hand rubbing and stroking her bottom, the other, stroking between her thighs, forcing them farther apart.
And then she felt his mouththere.She tried to back away, surprised—and appalled at the rush of damp warmth that flooded her lower body. “Wh—what do you mean to do?” she stuttered, straining away from him, even as he held her firmly, refusing to allow her retreat.
Whisky brown eyes simmered up at her. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He lowered his head and she felt his tongue there, laving at the sensitive folds, and she could no longer think enough to be appalled or embarrassed. She clutched at his hair and shoulders, her body opening to him as waves of exquisite sensation washed over her, more devastating with each wave. She whimpered from a pleasure so great it was painful. She could not make her limbs work. And when his fingers slid in to join his flicking tongue, she cried out, her body convulsing as it had on the beach, only this time far more intense, shattering her from within.
Her heart hammered loudly in her ears, her blood roared, and her body sagged, blissfully drained from his attentions. She felt more than saw him move and shift, then he swung her into his arms and carried her across the room. Her eyes drifted open, gazing up at him.
The fire was behind him, casting part of his face in shadows, all straight lines and hard angles. His square jaw was set with an odd determination, considering what had just passed. But when she touched the silky hair of his short beard, he looked down at her, and his eyes softened, his mouth curving slightly.
He shouldered the bed curtains aside and deposited her among a froth of furs and sheets, then disappeared, the curtains falling back to close her in. She pushed up on her elbows, then fell backwhen she heard the rustle of fabric as he undressed. The sensual excitement returned, thrumming through her blood as she waited. She tried to not to consider that this was all she would have of him, that she would live the rest of her life with someone else—and he would, too, eventually. She would not think of that tonight.
The curtains parted, and the bed dipped beneath his weight. He looped the curtain around the bedpost and turned to look down at her. She could only stare at his body, sculpted with muscle that slid and shifted beneath honey-tinged skin as he leaned over her, bracing an elbow on one side of her head.
He leaned close, dark eyes intent. He whispered, his lips brushing against her skin, “Did I frighten you? I could not help myself.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, his breath and beard tickling her.
“Shocked…but not frightened.” She held his face between her hands and looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “I could never be frightened of you.”
Philip was undone by the utter trust he saw in her eyes. He vowed to himself he’d never abuse her trust, or let her down. She held his heart in her eyes. In that moment he knew he was no longer ruled by the same passions that had bound him for the past twelve years. Now it was only Isobel and this love she had given him—more precious to him than lands or castles—or even finding his sister.
He kissed her, gathering her close and lifting her off the bed. Her arms went around him. He stopped long enough to pull her shift over her head, then enfolded her in his arms again, reveling in the softness of her, the silkiness of her skin and hair against him, warm and supple. He laid her back on the furs and kissed her neck and breasts, wanting to go slow for her, but his heart strained with the desire to plunge inside her and relieve the burning ache that had plagued him since they’d first met.
She tasted of the violet-scented water she’d bathed in and her own, soft musky flavor. He slid his hand between her legs and found her ready for him. He positioned himself between her legs and took her face between his hands. Her lashes slowly opened and her eyes were dreamy, dazed.
“This will hurt for a moment, love,” he whispered, kissing her chin, licking away the dew of perspiration. “But then it will be over.”
