No trace of the man who had pinned her to the wall and kissed the breath from her.
And yet—the heat of his touch, his kiss, lingered. Tracing a path of desire from her mouth to her belly. Isabel had never felt like this before. Never wanted a man to kiss her so much. Never wanted to feel what it would be like if he pressed the whole length of himself against her.
She had followed her uncle’s orders, coming to the Isle of Skye for safety. Believing that in a short time, she would return to the mainland. To her uncle’s guardianship until she was to be wed.
But as Isabel watched Lachlan standing there—grounded, certain, surrounded by people who trusted him—and her body responded in wicked ways, Isabel realized something she could not ignore.
She did not want to leave. She wanted Lachlan…she wanted more.
And the cost of wanting might be higher than what she was prepared to give.
18
Lachlan had been awake long before the sun’s rays kissed the stones of Dunvegan. Sleep had come in fragments, shallow and restless, slipping away entirely the moment the first fingers of light touched the horizon.
He rose while the castle still lay in shadow and made his way down the narrow path that led toward the sea loch and the small islands that made up his holding. The wind coming off the sea carried a sharp, unrelenting chill, cutting cleanly through the wool of his plaid as though it sought to strip away whatever warmth remained. Below, the tide rolled steadily against the shore, the sound of it rising and falling in a rhythm that should have been calming and yet wasn’t.
Zeus perched on the stone wall beside him, his sable coat sleek and shiny. Stoically he sat, his little whiskers twitching as he surveyed the landscape as though he were the real laird. An image of Zeus with tiny golden rings on each of his fingers suddenly popped into his head and Lachlan had to stop himself from laughing aloud by himself. Or, he guessed, alone with his ferret.
A few small fishing boats had already pushed out from the small harbor of his village, their sails catching the faint light of dawn as they moved across the water. Gulls circled above them, their cries sharp against the morning air as the fishermen cast their nets. The Isle of Skye was waking, piece by piece. The familiarity of everyday living might have steadied him, had he not known what was coming.
He had faced English blades without flinching. He had ridden into battles where the outcome had been uncertain and walked away from them with blood on his hands and victory at his back. War did not unsettle him. Even when he’d nearly died from a blasted spear in his leg.
But Isabel… she unmoored him.
The memory of Isabel in her chamber the night before refused to loosen its hold on him. The feel of her hands gripping his leine, the way she had not pulled away, the certainty in the way she had kissed him back, lingered with a persistence he had not expected, threading through his thoughts in a way that made it impossible to focus on anything else. The heat of her lips, her soft gasp against his mouth.
Lachlan dragged a hand down his face and exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a controlled release that did little to ease the tension in his chest.
He had kissed her as though nothing beyond that moment mattered. As though she were not Robert the Bruce’s niece. As though he were not the man responsible for her safety. As though the world outside that bedchamber did not exist.
And he knew better. Gods, did he know better. And yet, if she were here right now, the way his body burned for her, he’d haul her up against him and kiss her again.
Footsteps sounded behind him, light but deliberate. Lachlan whipped around to see Isabel standing there, wrapped in a plaid cloak, her hair loose around her shoulders blowing in the breeze from the sea. Freckles jumped from her shoulder and joined Zeus on the wall where they chittered as if discussing something important.
“I see I’m no’ the only one with a desire for a morning walk.” Isabel’s voice reached out to him, gripped him around the neck. Her gaze scanned his body, settling on the wooden walking stick at his side and she gave a satisfied nod.
Lachlan swallowed, trying to wrap his head around the idea of her standing a few feet away when he’d just sworn to himself if she was, he’d kiss her. Could he take back that declaration?
Keep your feet planted, lad, he said to himself. Lachlan remained where he was for a moment longer, forcing his gaze to fix on the water below as though it might offer him some answer he had not yet found. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, she stood a few paces away, her cloak drawn tightly around her against the cold, the tips of her pinkening fingers curled around the edges. Summer mornings in Scotland were often chilly. The early light caught in her hair, casting faint threads of gold against the darker strands.
“Ye’re awake early.” Lachlan groaned internally at such a dumb statement.
Isabel smirked. “I could say the same of ye.”
“War teaches a man no’ to sleep too deeply,” he replied, though the words felt inadequate even as he spoke to them, and he was starting to feel like an utter imbecile. Why could he not think of something cleverer to say? Something that would make her smile?
She stepped forward, coming to stand beside him at the edge of the path. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence that settled between them was not uncomfortable, but it was far from easy. It carried awareness. Memory. The unspoken weight of what had passed between them the night before. Lachlan’s limbs sizzled, and he moved the wooden walking stick in front of him, clenching it tight with both of his fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Your land is beautiful,” she said at last, her gaze drifting toward the fishing boats.
“Aye,” he answered, his voice quieter now.
She watched the boats for a moment before asking, “Do the fishermen belong to your clan?”
“They do.”
“And the village?”
