Page 17

Tying Francois to a willow that grew near a boggy stretch of moor, Gilmour entered the woods and found Isobel easily.

Bending forward from the waist, she was apparently gathering mushrooms, but it was difficult to tell, for in that position, the high pale tops of her breasts were just visible, and suddenly he found it absolutely necessary to concentrate on breathing.

Sensing his nearness, she raised her gaze.

Gilmour shifted his attention and cleared his throat. "All this way for mushrooms?"

"The baron favors pigeon pie."

He knew that, of course, and yet he felt tension creep up his spine at her words. "And you favor the baron?" he asked.

"Laird Grier is quite generous."

Gilmour's little finger twitched once, but he crossed his arms casually and leaned back against a lone maple. "In exchange for what?"

She widened her eyes and gave him a pinched smile. "For whatever he wishes."

Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, did not feel jealousy, so what was it that ate at his gut? He didn't know, but he didn't like it, and pushed it aside as he turned the subject. "You should not come out here alone, Bel."

"Oh? And why is that?" she asked as she shifted around a moldering log for more mushrooms. The sunlight, bright in its early morning glow, fell through the branches and illumined her in a circle of golden light.

Her hair glimmered like a thousand candles and her skin looked as pure and perfect as a blessed child's. Of course, he couldn't see "the scar."

"Surely you know what some unscrupulous knaves might do if they found you here alone."

"I'm certain you could tell me."

He tilted his head in concession to the insult.

"Unless you are offering, you should be more careful," he said.

"Unless I am offering what?" she asked and batted her ridiculously slanted eyes at him.

"I think you know what I speak of, lass."

"Men?" she guessed, "and how they can't be trusted?"

"Just so."

"Mayhap you are simply judging them by your own behavior."

"Nay," he argued. "I assure you, I know what they are thinking when they look at you."

"Truly?" She turned toward him so that he could see the delicate curves of her breasts, the more dramatic sweep of her waist, and the delectable flare of her hips. "And pray, what are they thinking?"

His nostrils flared, his finger twitched, and his desire pulsed to attention. "They are thinking they would like to have you," he said.

"As in own me?" she asked.

"As in, have their way with you," he said, and found that his tone was harsher than he had planned.

She stared at him for a moment then turned rapidly away. "And they are different than you, MacGowan?"

His erection nudged against his plaid. Whoever thought a Scotsman should spend his days in coarse wool with no undergarments had not spent time with Isobel Fraser.

"Aye, I am different," he said and tried to will away his desire.

It had never worked before and it didn't work now, so he rethought the idea of wearing his sporran around his waist instead of slanted across his chest. But then, 'twas surely a sin to hide one's light under a bushel.

"I fear you shall never know the difference, Bel, for I only wish to keep you safe. "

"Then go home, MacGowan, and I am certain I will be perfectly safe."

"You think me a threat?"

A glimmer of confusion crossed her face, but it was replaced so quickly with an expression of confidence that it seemed almost to never have been. "I think you are bored and you are wealthy, MacGowan, and in me own experience those attributes can cause naught but trouble."

“Truly?"

"Aye." She shrugged. "You want what you cannot have."

"And what might that be?" he asked and stepped closer.

She looked directly into his eyes, her own as steady as the earth. "Me."

Something flipped in his chest, but he calmed it. "But the baron can?"

"If I say he can."

"So you give yourself to that dull..." He smoothed his tone, took a careful breath and tried again. "So the laird of Winbourne is your lover?"

"Truly, MacGowan, 'tis none of your concern."

"You are me kinswoman, and therefore 'tis me responsibility to see that you are treated well."

"And you think he does not treat me well enough?"

Sweet heaven! Had she truly slept with the man? Something knotted in his stomach, but he kept his tone neutral and his expression calm. "He is only the fourth son of an aging drunkard, but methinks he could do better than allowing you to work like a slave in yonder inn."

"I shall keep that in mind," she said and turned away, but something gnawed at his soul, making him push up behind her.

"Then you have done it?"

"Done what?" she asked, as if not quite able to focus on his question.

He struggled for calm, but his hand reached out of its own accord and swung her toward him. "Have you given yourself to him or nay?" he asked, his voice low.

"In truth, I do not think I should divulge such delicate information. For despite what you say, I think you are jealous, MacGowan, and I have no wish to endure your wrath should me answer displease you."

Surprise made him loosen his grip a mite. "You think I would harm you?"

"You are vain and spoiled, and little have you desired that was denied you." She nodded, still holding his gaze. "Aye, if you were thwarted you would retaliate with vengeance."

He stepped up close, not because he meant to, but because he was drawn against his will. "What do you think I would do to you, lass?"

She had to raise her chin to look into his face now, but she did so, though she didn't answer for a moment.

"Do you fear that I would take you against your will?" he asked, and pressed closer, so close, in fact, that he could feel the heat of her willowy body against his. "Tell me, Isobel, what do you fear?"

Still she did not answer, and so, with aching slowness, he cupped her cheek in his palm. "Do you fear me touch?" he asked.

Her eyes were wide and intense, her mouth pursed in silence and though he told himself to pull away, he did not.

Instead, against his better judgment, he skimmed his thumb with slow deliberation across her ruby bright lips.

He felt the impact of that simple movement sizzle down his spine like summer lightning.

Pull back, his mind commanded, but his body was on another course entirely.

"Or is it this?" he asked, and bending forward, touched his lips to hers.

Her mouth was soft and full beneath his. Fire smote him, burning on contact. He slipped his fingers into her hair, and when she did not pull away, he opened his mouth and tasted her with a slow touch of his tongue.

For an instant he felt her quiver, and then she pulled away.

"Leave me be, MacGowan." Her eyes were cool and steady, her voice perfectly modulated, unruffled.

“Twas a sad thing, really, because he was quite certain that if he dared speak, his own voice would come forth in naught but a mewling whine. So he took a moment, watching her in silence and waiting for his desire to abate enough to allow him some semblance of pride.

"I wish you no harm, Isobel," he said finally. Truth be told, he suddenly felt she was the one with the power. Power to punish, and power to please.

"Don't you?"

"Nay," he said, and though he told himself to leave off, he could not seem to keep from stepping forward.

When he slipped his arm around her waist she felt as slim and willowy as the trees that graced the moor.

His hand slid over the curve of her hip, and with that simple movement, he felt his composure crack a smidgen more.

"I may pleasure you," he whispered, "but I shall never harm you. "

Her head was tilted back, her eyes half closed. "Do I have your vow?" she whispered. Her lips were parted the barest amount. He felt her breath on his cheek and perhaps that was the most erotic touch of all.

"Where I am, you are safe," he promised.

"Good. Then you will not object when I take the baron to me bed," she said, and pressing her palm against his chest, pushed herself away.