Page 45 of Devil Black

And what would this day bring? She dreaded to think. She dreaded the possibility of anything coming between them.

The thought made her reach out and touch his hand, which lay upon her pillow. It, like much of the rest of him, was scarred, and once again she wondered about the origin of those wounds.

His fingers clasped hers strongly in his sleep. But no—he slept not; his eyes came open and stared deeply into her own.

“Wife,” he said groggily, and drew her closer. Though, she acknowledged, she could hardly get much closer. As he pulled her against him, her traitorous heart began to pound out a dangerous rhythm.

She wondered what would happen if she confessed to him all of what she felt—the confusion, the wonder—if she employed honesty and risked her sanity and made herself completely vulnerable. Perhaps he knew how to identify love.

But if he did, if he knew, it was because he loved Aisla still. Aisla, never Isobel.

She should get up out of the bed, walk away from him, try to save herself. She should welcome the possibility of rescue by her father. Instead, she found herself pressing her naked body against his and feeling the liquid fire begin to pour through her veins again.

At least they had this.

And she knew he desired her, believed that without doubt. She saw the flames in his eyes, felt his body quicken, and wondered what form the delight would take this time.

His long-fingered, clever hand, with the rough palm, skimmed over her body and slid downward until it reached the juncture of her thighs and parted them.

“Ah, Wife, will you have me again?”

“I will,” Isobel breathed raggedly.

“I am surprised you did not have enough of me last night.”

“I seem to be insatiable,” Isobel admitted, supposing it fruitless to try to hide the obvious. At this moment, could she hide anything?

“I can feel that,” he said, those long fingers doing things that made Isobel’s mouth go dry. He kissed her lips softly and ran the tip of his tongue across them. “How will it be? How will you have me, bonny Isobel?”

She wanted it all: the heat and strength of him bearing down upon her, the wild abandon when she rode him like some half-broken stallion, the raw taste of him on her tongue. She whispered helplessly, “I cannot choose. Dougal, I—”

Fortunately, he kissed her again, stopping the traitorous words that might have slipped out, her confession of love. For he did not want to hear it, did he? And she, who had already exposed every part of herself to him, need not expose, also, the innermost regions of her soul.

Because he loves Aisla still, she reminded herself yet again, even as he came to her. Never, never me.

Tears blurred her vision then, despite the tenderness with which Dougal treated her. They burned and stung and trickled from the corners of her eyes even as she held him to her. She did not expect him, in the throes of passion, to notice, but she should have known this man noticed everything.

His hand came up. He used his thumb to wipe the outer corner of her eye. “Isobel? Did I hurt you, lass?”

“No.”

“Then, why do you weep?”

Isobel, unwilling to answer, was spared when a thunderous pounding erupted at the chamber door. Dougal swore and, moving like a panther, leaped from the bed almost before she could draw a breath.

He stalked, naked, to the door and hauled it open. She heard muffled conversation and sat up in the bed, clutching the blanket to cover herself.

“What is it?” she asked when Dougal turned back from the door, his face gone hard as stone.

“Soldiers at the gate.”

“Soldiers?”

He dressed hurriedly and without looking at her, throwing himself into his clothing and, lastly, strapping on his sword. “’Tis a party of the King’s men accompanied by MacNab and a band of his warriors.”

“The King!” Horror touched Isobel and she slid from the bed, dragging the blanket with her. “Have they come to take me? Can they take me from you?”

He shot her a look across the chamber, hard and level, that had the impact of a touch. “They may well try.”