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“Hmm. Is something amiss?”
“No, no.” Naughty Lady Gwen.
“I hope there were other warm fripperies in there?”
“Yes, indeed there were.”
They stood for a while, staring at one another, and Isabelle vainly struggled to cool the rise in temperature that his intense obsidian gaze was causing.
“I should not be here, Isabelle…” That intense gaze slid to the ceiling. “For when I am in your presence, I become overwhelmed with…” His bared throat swallowed, fingers clenching.
“Tell…” Isabelle moistened her dry lips. “Tell me?” she whispered, mindful of where her words may lead.
Never, in all her years, had she tendered such a request, but tonight, dressed in the lace finery of a lady, a recklessness drove her, that earlier bout of temper having given way to a languid, fearless Isabelle.
Through a tempestuous storm, this duke had come for her, and furthermore, for tonight at least, she was no governess…but a fugitive from jail.
It caused one to feel rather bold.
Rain slammed against the shutters, wind rattling the hinges, and the pure energy of the elemental storm seared through her.
Stepping closer, she claimed the bottle from his broad hand. It was already uncorked, and she turned her back, put some sway to her walk and poured two glasses.
She twisted again. And he was there, his footfall silent for such an imposing man.
“I want you,” he said roughly, accepting the glass. “I want all of you, Isabelle. I want you naked beneath me the night through.”
“I…Your Gr… Dare…er…” She gulped her claret.
His mouth curved. “You dare me what? To kiss you?”
Isabelle’s breath caught as he stooped and took that dare, pressing the mildest kiss to her lips, velvety and tasting of rich claret. “Rhys…”
His eyes darkened, but then he drew back a little and sighed.
“I came here not to seduce, I want you to know, but to reassure myself that you were well and not afeared. To listen to what happened and mayhap share a glass of wine.” He ran a hand through his tousled damp hair. “But I see you and all I wish to do is remove that robe, taste your skin that gleams like the finest satin…” His fingers reached out and brushed from shoulder to wrist. “To pleasure you until this day has been erased from your mind forever.” His ink-black eyes bored into hers. “So, if you do not wish that to happen, tell me now. Tell me to go. Tell me you don’t want me.”
Isabelle could no more say that Byrne was an incompetent poet or that dragons were akin to pugs. Even the virtuous angel on her shoulder remained silent, eyes averted, assured that Isabelle was within safe hands tonight.
A frisson of both excitement and fear sped down her spine, to know the thrill and weight of this man, to feel what she’d purely read of.
“Stay,” she merely said, palm creeping to his chest, to his rudely beating heart. “Stay with me.”
