Page 31 of Devil Black

She laughed, and the sound further enflamed him. He glanced at the big case clock in the corner. Barely eight of the evening, and too soon to retire, he supposed. But by the devil’s own flail, she made him eager for it.

Her eyes met his and, almost as if she could read his mind, she said, “You have had a long and wearisome day, Husband. Do you think our guests would mind if we withdraw soon?”

“The devil take what they mind,” Dougal replied, and meant it.

Chapter Fourteen

“So, I am nothing more than a weapon to you, am I?” Isobel murmured. “Something to be used cruelly and then put aside again?”

Her husband made no answer. He slept deeply, like a man struck between the eyes with a length of cold iron—as he should, following his exertions. Isobel, herself, felt weary to her bones, yet her tangled emotions kept her awake.

There was much her new husband did not yet know about her—they had so far been intimate in every possible physical way, but he remained largely unacquainted with the woman she was. Over the years in her father’s house she had become adept at hiding and pretending, producing smiles to protect herself from her father’s disapproval, and sometimes to cover Catherine’s misdeeds.

Tonight at dinner, she had pretended that Dougal’s words, earlier, had not hurt her, that his casual dismissal of her importance had not cut deep. He told her he was an honest man, which only made it worse. For he’d spent two nights making generous, wild, and demanding love to her—three nights, now—only to admit she meant nothing to him beyond a weapon to use against his enemy, MacNab.

It stung. Her careless, slightly naughty demeanor at dinner had been difficult to maintain, and when they were alone in the bedchamber, her promises still fresh in his ears, she had expected to feel some lingering resentment.

But all that flew from her when he touched her, stripped her clothing away gently, and lifted her onto the bed. There a kind of madness ensued, from which she only now surfaced, while he slept.

And even now all she wished was to look at him in the dying light of the fire. She should be exhausted and hurt, she should feel used, yet she knew only this desire to drink him in.

What sort of man had she married? Angry, clever, intent, devious, honest, incredibly talented with his hands and other parts of his body, and carrying some secret burden that virtually obsessed him. All these things contributed to Devil Black MacRae. He had taken her to wife in order to further some agenda of his own; she could not expect his consideration or concern. The attraction, she supposed, was a side benefit he would not allow to affect his plans.

He wanted to harm MacNab; it was the only reason Isobel found herself here with him.

And that hurt. The woman in her, the part of her he brought so successfully to the fore, wanted him to want her for herself. Her grasp of reality argued that would not happen.

While he rode out, today, with the other searchers, she had toyed with the idea of refusing him when he came back to her bed, of seeking to punish him the only way she had. She told herself to be cleverer than that, though. Her physical hold on him was the only one she possessed. She needed to further that, not curtail it.

Never mind the sheer pleasure of doing so—the way her fingers craved touching his hot, naked flesh and her innermost senses cried out for the taste of him. She reminded herself it was all a game, one he had set, at which two could play.

Still, he made a glorious sight lying there in sleep with his black hair streaming across the pillow, one naked arm flung out toward her, and a half smile curving his lips—oh, those clever lips! Portions of her body still tingled from their touch. She did not doubt him the devil he claimed to be. Only a devil could prompt her to such excesses. Only a devil could be so beautiful. Surely only a devil would possess mist-grey eyes in which she wanted to lose herself, and black lashes longer than her own.

And one did not fall in love with a devil, not if one had a scrap of self-preservation. Isobel, a survivor from way back, had more than a scrap. She had wed him in order to survive. She would find a way, in this madhouse, to make circumstances work for her. If he used her, then, yes, she could use him as well. And pleasure might be a side benefit for her also. But she must guard herself fiercely.

He stirred then, his eyes came open, and he caught her looking at him. The lazy smile on his lips deepened, and he reached for her.

“Come here, Wife.”

Isobel did not move. Her entire body responded to the temptation, yet she remained where she was, propped on one elbow.

“The hour is late, Husband, and surely you are weary.”

“I begin to think weariness loses all meaning in your presence.” He paused, reading her expression with those quick, clever eyes. “Never say you are sated with me?”

She was not, but now made as good a time as any to pretend. “And if I am? Have you, sir, only the one use for your wife?”

No fool, he. He withdrew his hand, and she could almost see him thinking over all that had passed between them.

“Have I implied it?” he asked then, diffidently.

“Do you not know?”

“Ah.” The grey eyes darkened with caution. “You are upset with me. And, like any woman, you decide to withhold pleasure.”

“Withhold it?” Isobel could not keep back an incredulous stare. “Do you forget what happened before you slept, and before that?”

“I could forget naught of what happens when you touch me.”