Page 19

His expression was solemn, his eyes intent, and in the flickering dimness he looked not like the pampered son of a wealthy laird but like an ancient warrior sent to do battle. But battle with what? Good? Or evil?

A dozen possibilities flooded her head. "Was it you?" she asked.

"Do you ask if I attacked you?"

She nodded once.

"If I'd meant to harm you, would I then save you?"

"Mayhap you had no intention of saving me, but heard the warrior's approach and pretended you meant me no harm."

He nodded as if in concession. "And what vile crime do you think I planned against you, Bel?"

She shrugged. The pain in her head was receding, and in the flare of the lantern's light he looked like a golden god of war, with his hair bound in its usual braid, and the blessed wren's feather at ease against the masculine slant of his jaw.

Perhaps it was there for luck, to keep him safe from drowning, as some fools believed, but at this moment he didn't look as if he needed any safekeeping, for he seemed suddenly to be a man who could fight the demons of hell for naught more than the satisfaction of the battle.

"How would I know your intent?" she asked, pulling her mind back to his words.

"You seem to have a sprightly imagination."

"Are you saying you were not the brigand?"

"I am asking what kind of crime you imagined I planned." His tone was noncommittal, but his gaze was deadly steady and she shrugged, made nervous under his uncommon sobriety.

"Mayhap you hoped to be rid of me."

"Murder?" He raised his brows as if surprised. "Any idea why?"

"Not out of hand, but me head hurts."

"Else you would have the answer."

"Aye," she said, but her voice sounded uncertain even to herself.

"Then let us assume that was not me plan. Do any other possibilities present themselves?"

She winced, perhaps more from his sardonic tone than the pain, although her ankles hurt where they had been twisted in someone's hard grasp. "Theft?"

"I believe you yourself said I was wealthy, Isobel.

Were you carrying something that might be worth me time?

" He tilted his head and even now at this darkest of times, she saw his lips tilt ever so slightly into that notorious grin.

'Twas perhaps that expression more than anything else that made him irresistible to women. But she was not so easily manipulated.

"Mayhap your plans were even more hideous then," she said.

He stared at her, and to her satisfaction, she saw that his grin was gone, replaced by an expression of interest and more.

"Rape," he said finally. She didn't respond, and he stepped closer so that his nearness filled her in a flood of feelings.

He was not a huge man, but beneath his well-groomed elegance there was something in his carriage that suggested he was made of sterner stuff than she had formerly believed.

Every line of him seemed taut just now. Aye, it might well be that he would be a demon in a battle if he chose to fight.

But how much more dangerous would he be in bed!

Every movement he made, every word he uttered, seemed to elicit feelings best left unawakened.

"And tell me, wee Bel," he said, approaching her with the smooth strides of a wild cat. "Do I seem like the sort to have to force meself on a woman?"

Taking the last few steps between them, he sat upon the bed beside her. Their arms brushed as light as a whispered promise. Anticipation shivered up her spine, shaking both her confidence and her hands, but she dare not acknowledge such weakness.

Still, she could find no answer. Indeed, she couldn't find her voice atall, and in a moment he raised his fingers to the spot where a fist had struck her cheek.

His touch was feather light against her skin, and without thinking, she let her eyes fall closed.

He skimmed his fingers over the bruise, but there was no pain in the soothing touch.

"What happened here?" he asked and let his thumb play along the edge of her jaw.

She was held strangely immobile, and his fingers slipped lower, following the course of his thumb before spreading across the width of her throat.

For a moment she remembered the fear of being unable to breathe, of being held powerless in another's grasp, but soon his hand moved.

As if he could read her thoughts, he slipped his fingers beneath her hair, caressing gently.

"Did you fall?" he asked and massaged softly, waiting for her answer as he eased his magical hand onto her shoulder.

The tension there gave way like dry sand beneath his touch.

Still, she tried to marshal her senses, to hold firm to her memories.

Despite everything, it still might have been MacGowan who had attacked her.

"I tried to escape," she said, and found that her voice was wonderfully cool.

"They struck you?" he asked, and she opened her eyes in an effort to ascertain his emotions, for his tone was as dark as the night, filled with a depth and intensity that she was certain he did not possess.

"And you believe I was involved?" he asked.

Their gazes held. "Why are you here?" she whispered.

"Not to hurt you," he murmured, and touched her cheek again, but with his other hand now, so that it seemed she was surrounded by him.

"The sight of you wounded..." His words stopped as though he couldn't go on.

Was he angry on her behalf? Was he merely acting?

A dozen possibilities sped through her mind, but in a moment each one was swept away, for he kissed her not on the mouth, but on her cheek where she had been struck, and then lower, at the corner of her lips.

She swallowed hard knowing she should move away, yet not moving at all, only closing her eyes again to the piquant feelings.

"You did not recognize your assailants?" The words whispered against her cheek.

"Nay."

He kissed her top lip. "How many were there?"

She realized somewhat belatedly that she was breathing through her parted lips, and heavily, as if she'd been running for some time. Still, she tried to remain lucid, to catch her wind. "Two. There were two."

He kissed the left corner of her mouth and then her jaw, but in a moment he moved lower, forcing her to drop her head back against the pillow. "Did they speak?"

He kissed her neck, down the length of it, and then in the tiny dell at the base of her throat. "Isobel," he murmured.

"What?" Things seemed strangely foggy.

"Did you recognize a voice?" he asked, but in that instant she felt the warm lap of his tongue in the hollow of her throat and shivered at the contact.

Sensations flowed through her like well-mulled wine.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that she could not trust him, yet her body did not seem to care in the least.

"Bel," he said, massaging her shoulder and lifting his head slightly to look into her eyes.

She opened her own. "Nay," she said. "Nay. I did not know the voices."

"And yet you assumed it was me." His left hand was stroking her hair back from her face, absently skimming her ear as he did so, while his lips, as tempting as fine wine, were the merest breath from her face.

"Why do you distrust me so?" he whispered, and leaning slowly down, kissed the pulse in her throat.

Her heart raced, bumping against the warmth of his lips, and begging her, nay, commanding her to wrap her arms about him and draw him close. She resisted with all her might.

"Bel," he said, and she realized distractedly that he was watching her again. "What have I done to make you distrust me?"

"This." The word escaped of its own accord, stopping his fingers against her skin.

"What?"

She exhaled softly, knowing she shouldn't have spoken. "Life is too easy for you, MacGowan."

"Is it?" he asked, and for a moment the corner of his mouth lifted in that devilish hint of a smile.

She watched the expression and found that try as she might, she couldn't breathe, not until he leaned down to kiss the corner of her mouth again.

And then she exhaled in a small sigh of sound. "And why is that, wee Isobel?"

"Because you are spoiled."

He kissed her nose.

"And wealthy."

He kissed the corner of her eye.

"And privileged."

"Am I?"

Without looking she could sense his smile, and then he skimmed his tongue soft as a butterfly's passing along the curl of her ear. She trembled and wished she hadn't.

"Aye."

"Because I get what I want?" He whispered the words against her lobe, sending the shiver deep into her soul.

"Aye." She could barely force out the word.

"But I want you, Isobel," he said, finding her eyes with his own. "Right now. This very minute."

He was leaning over her, ungodly close, pinning her to the bed, yet she had no desire to escape.

His thumb caressed her lips. His kiss followed, slow and hot, steaming her thoughts to nothingness.

"But I would not take you against your will.

On that you can depend. Indeed, I would mend the wounds caused by others if I could.

" He kissed her again, just as slowly, just as hot until she ached with an odd longing that she could neither explain or defend.

"I would take the wounds and let you fall unencumbered into sleep. Where do you hurt, Bel?"

She panted for air, trying to think, but it was no use.

"Here?" he asked, and kissed her bruised lips with careful, aching tenderness. "Here?" he asked, and rising slightly, kissed the bruise on her skull. She had no idea how he knew of its existence, and yet he did, and with that light contact the ache diminished a hundredfold.

"Where did they touch you?" he whispered.

She opened her mouth to answer, though in truth she had no idea what she planned to say, but he kissed her to silence.