With excruciating slowness, giving her every opportunity to halt him, he lowered his mouth toward hers. A hairbreadth away, he stopped, needing to be certain. Breathing deep of her sweetly feminine scent, he found her hand and placed it upon his chest once more. One push and he would be gone. She had to know that.
To his relief, she did not push. Her hand slipped up and around his neck. It was an invitation he could not refuse—on an indrawn breath, he captured the petal-soft curve of her lips.
Sweet. So unbelievably sweet.
A deep groan rose in his throat as he leaned in to her body. Soft flesh met his hard grind, and it was enough to send his blood searing through his veins in a glorious burn of desire. After all the hours she’d spent in his arms on the long journey to Dunstoras, there was a sense of familiarity—of rightness—that came over him as he gathered her close.
She responded by tipping her head to accept his kisses.
And as swiftly as that, all resentment toward her died. What her brother had done to him was not Isabail’s doing. She might be a tad arrogant and finer than an Englishwoman in her linen smallclothes, but she was also intelligent, persevering, and loyal. Despite all the challenges he’d thrown her way, she’d proven herself a stalwart champion of her maid, her brother, and even herself. She was incredible.
He deepened the kiss, burying his fingers in the silken strands of her blond hair and taking all that she had to offer.
For the moment, the lady was his.
Chapter 6
His kisses were neither sweet nor gentle. They were a fierce attack on Isabail’s senses. Every press of his body against hers sent a thousand tiny tremors racing through her. The fear she’d felt only moments ago was gone—banished by the knowledge that he would stop if she but commanded. In its place lay excitement. And anticipation. And delightful ripples of pleasure.
His hands, which she had once envisioned as brutal, began to wander the curves of her body with the experience of a man born to sin. Kneading, mapping, caressing. Her mind was not so easily won as her body, and for a moment, two images of him warred within her thoughts—one, the dark warrior who had attacked her caravan, brimming with wrath and vengeance; the other, the purposeful leader, warming her toes against his bared chest and greeting his kin with subdued but obvious joy.
Which was the real MacCurran?
She let her eyes drift shut, and immediately one image triumphed over the other.
A shiver of delight ripped through her body as his hand found her breast and squeezed. At this moment she wasn’t sure it mattered. Her body craved his touch, wanton traitor that it was. Four years of loneliness. Four years without a husband to warm her bed. Until this moment, she had not seen those years as hardship—but now she ached for an intimate touch.Hisintimate touch.
Isabail’s hands, one of which had been clutching the blanket around her shoulders, suddenly found themselves roaming the steely expanse of his chest. The blanket slid to the floor at their feet, leaving only the thin barrier of her chemise between his hands and her skin—and even that felt like too much. The fine linen rasped against her eager flesh.
His hands stilled for a moment.
Isabail shuddered under the loss of sweet friction, torn between the urge to recover the blanket and her modesty, or to press herself wantonly against his hands in an effort to recapture the heavenly sensations of moments before.
He took the decision away from her.
A low growl escaped his lips.
Cupping both hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her up his body, slammed her against the stone wall, and stole her breath away.
Despite the roughness of his actions, there was no fear in Isabail’s heart. There was too much restraint and too little brutality in his assault. Aye, it was fierce—but there was also the barest suggestion of a tremble in his arms. The tremble of a muscle primed with raw need but couched by reason.
MacCurran was doing his best to be gentle.
As gentle as a large, sensual marauder could be.
His lips crushed hers, his tongue demanding entry to her mouth. Aware that it was as much a symbolic gesture as one born of need, Isabail gave in to the heated promise and opened herself to him.
Their tongues tangled in a sensual duel.
“Oh!” Muirne’s voice came from the door.
MacCurran broke off the kiss and gently lowered her to the floor. Both of them were breathing hard, their eyes now open. The reality of Isabail’s surroundings slowly sank in.
“Shall I return in a wee moment, my lady?” Muirne asked carefully.
MacCurran’s arms dropped. He stepped back, scooped up her blanket, and handed it to her, all the while keeping her shielded from Muirne’s view. The look in his eyes was unreadable. Was he as disappointed as she? Or relieved by the interruption?
“Nay.” Isabail wrapped the blanket about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed. “Were you able to get the stains from my gown?”
