“I know. Just kiss me, and it will be fine.” She urged him with her hips, seductively sweet and untutored, and he had to grind his teeth, forcing himself to go slow.
He kissed her slowly, his tongue swirling lazily against hers, rubbing himself against the damp curls, caressing her hips and thighs.
She whimpered and tore her mouth away. “Please, Philip, do it now.” She wriggled beneath him, somehow sliding him into position as her thighs tightened on his hips. He was powerless to do aught but her will, and pushed into her, through her barrier. She cried out, but he kissed her, swallowing her pain until she strained against him again, her hips moving. He pinned her hands over her head, tasting the salty sweetness of their sweat on her breasts, and rocked slowly into her, reining in the violent urge to take her fast and hard.
She clung to him, her breath ragged, her hips finding his rhythm and urging him on, faster, and he could not stop himself. He lost himself, thrusting into the tight hot grip of her, their lips clinging, tongues tangling in ardent accord. For him there was only this moment, this woman. He crushed her against him as his climax ripped through him, tearing a cry from him that he muffled in her neck.
He lay there for a long moment, his chest working like a bellows, his mind sluggish and muzzy. Her hands stroked at him,slicking damp hair from his face, even as her hair clung to them both like a web.
He rolled to his back, taking her with him, and held her tightly, his hand petting over the thick mane of curls.
It was done. A great weight seemed to have lifted from him. Everything had changed with this one act, and he was not sorry. She was his now, and no one could change that.
Chapter 18
Isobel was afraid to sleep. This night was all she had, and she wished it wouldn’t end, but knew it must. Dawn would come, and she would sneak back to her room and Philip would leave to find his sister. Life would go on.
Philip wasn’t much interested in sleep, and that was fine with her. He’d shown her things this night that even in her visions of others she’d not seen, and certainly never imagined on her own. With him she was free. He knew she was a witch, and he did not care—he desired her anyway.
They lay quiescent at last, and Isobel felt herself drifting, his arms hard and warm around her. Her gaze strayed to the window. Darkness still held sway. But how far away was the dawn? She must not worry on when it would end, she told herself firmly.
She pushed up on her elbow, refusing to allow herself to sleep away their short time together. His eyes were closed, the thick tangle of lashes lying against his cheeks, but his arm tightened around her, aware of her movement, the corners of his mouth deepening into a self-satisfied smile.
Isobel gazed down at him, wanting to remember him like this. “Only a short time ago I could not imagine myself lying here, naked with a man.”
His eyes opened, one brow arching slightly.
She leaned closer, resting against his chest. “Aye, I vow I thought I’d end up some old witch, living in the woods, telling fortunes and making love philters, never knowing the touch of a man.”
He shook his head slightly, his gaze traveling over her face. “What did the Attmores do to you, Isobel, to make you feel that way?”
“What do you mean? They were good to me…as good as could be expected.”
“ ‘As could be expected’? What does that mean? Considering how much your father paid them, I would expect them to care for you as well as a child of their own. They had you fortwelveyears.”
Isobel shook her head. “No, no—I was clearly not a child of theirs and a bit of an inconvenience at that. They were very good not to send me away.”
He pushed himself up on his elbow and she fell back on the pillow. He frowned down at her. “Why is that?”
She stared at his chest, heavy with muscle, hard and sleek as steel. “Well, they were afraid of me. The villagers were, too—and yet they still sheltered me and protected me. That was good of them, don’t you think?”
When he didn’t respond she met his eyes again. His brows were drawn together in consternation, as if he still didn’t comprehend what she was saying.
She chewed her lip thoughtfully, then said, “The first few years I was with them, I hid my magic well. The Attmores thought I was just very perceptive. I would see things, and if it seemed significant, I would bring the subject around to whateverconcerned me and give advice. Sometimes they took it, sometimes not. But I never saw anything truly hurtful or frightening…until I was fifteen.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw their youngest son’s death. I touched something of Benji’s and saw him struggling against a rush of water—it was a time of heavy rains, and the rivers and streams were swollen and dangerous. It was awful—clogged with dead animals—stinking of rot. Then I saw Benji, floating about beneath the water, his face bloated…the fish feeding on him.”
She closed her eyes, forcing the memory away. They were all part of her; every horrible—and wonderful—thing she’d ever seen was engraved in her memory. She had to work hard to recall only the good.
“I tried to warn them—I had a feeling time was short. They thought me hysterical—and I was. That was the first time I’d seen something like that. I finally told them how I knew. Rather than think me a witch or even heed me, they thought I’d gone mad…at first.”
She looked toward the window, remembering the horror on their faces when they realized she had foreseen their youngest son’s death. When they realized she wasdifferent.They had also wondered, with fear and dread, what else she could do—if she was dangerous.
“I tried to go after him, to find him before it happened, but it was too late. I could not find him, and the river was treacherous. As the days passed, they began to believe that perhaps Ihadseen his death. So they searched the river.”
She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Philip’s hand was on her arm, rubbing. She firmed her mouth, willing herself not to cry over this. It was over, finished, truly behind hernow. When she felt in control again, she said, “And they found him…just like I’d seen. He was almost unrecognizable, except for his clothes.He was only five.They were scared then…they acted as if I’d somehowcausedhis death, that I’d had a hand in it. Some people even said I brought the storms.” She opened her eyes then and shook her head. “I cannot do that kind of magic—call storms and such, I vow it.”
