Page 22

"You deserve more than girlie hands." He grinned as he leaned so close to her that she could see the dazzling curve of each dimple. An errant wisp of breeze sent his wren feather in a light caress against her cheek with the gentleness of his fingertips.

She felt the air leave her lungs as memories assailed her, but she struggled to keep her head. "And what is it you think I deserve, MacGowan?" she breathed.

He watched her for a moment, then, "Pleasure," he said.

Hot sensations tingled low in her gut. "I'm afraid I have no need for your kind of pleasure."

"Truly?"

Dear God, he had the devil's own smile. It steamed at her through the darkness.

"That did not seem to be the way of it last night."

Memories smote her again, but she struck back, driving them from her mind. "Regardless of how it seemed, I have no need of your..." What didn't she need? "Company."

"And what of me hands?" he asked, the devilish grin still in place.

"Nay." She choked out the word. "Not them, either." She was nearly to her cottage, nearly safe from his ungodly allure. She reached the rocky pathway and turned like a cornered hare near her door, but he blocked her escape with one arm across the entrance.

"And what of me mouth, wee Isobel?" He leaned in.

There was a scent to him, something smoky and raw.

She could only assume it was how a satyr would smell.

His fingers touched her cheek and suddenly her neck felt strangely unable to support her head.

His lips caressed the corner of her mouth. "Can you live without that?"

"Aye." Her voice shook, actually shook, like a damned leaf in a gale.

His tongue touched the crease of her lips with the softness of a dream. "But do you want to?" he murmured.

"MacGowan, I—" she began, but in that moment he kissed her, full force with all the power of a dream and all the mind numbing appeal of a god.

Her knees went weak, so that he braced an arm across her back, keeping her upright.

Desire roared in her ears. Her head spun and her nether parts insisted that she act now before it was too late and she deny them the heaven they surely deserved.

But suddenly the kiss ceased, and she opened her eyes to find his, so close she could feel the steam rising from his soul.

"Well, love?" he whispered. "What were you saying?"

She had no idea. Not a clue, but in that instant his fingers touched hers. Energy sparked through her, jolting her upright with the horrid knowledge that the simple touch of his hand could scatter her wits.

She would not have it. Could not afford it. Bracing her legs against the storm, she licked her lips and gathered her wits like tiny bits of wool on the wind.

"I am sure you are much coveted as a lover, MacGowan." Her knees trembled. She locked them hard and continued. "But I have... other plans." What those plans were she could not imagine, but they did not include this man. Of that she was certain.

"Oh?" His tone was perfectly level, as if the kiss had never happened, as if it mattered not at all.

"Aye," she said. "And I feel it would be best if you left Henshaw and did not return."

He was silent for a moment as his fingers played across her wrist, like a master upon a lute. Her very tendons strummed beneath his touch. "You would not miss me?"

"Nay." Too high, too squeaky, too great a lie! She cleared her throat to try something a tad more believable.

"Tell me, Isobel," he said and skimmed his fingers over the crease of her elbow. "Is there another you have set your sights on?"

Her knees wobbled. "Another what?"

He chuckled and she tightened every muscle and pushed away from him.

"Aye!" she said, taking charge of her wits with a vengeance. "There is."

He was silent for a moment. "Is it the good baron?"

She almost asked what baron he referred to, but clarity rang in her head for a moment and she nodded. "Aye. 'Tis Laird Grier."

Nothing seemed to move in the entire universe. She held her breath.

"Does he pleasure you?"

"What?"

"In bed."

She could barely hear him, but she dared not lean closer, lest the maelstrom of his charisma drag her under.

"Have you taken him to your bed?"

Her head swam. She had to be rid of him before it was too late. Be rid. Be gone. Be safe. "Aye. I have."

"And did you find pleasure there?"

"Of... of course."

"And yet last night you responded to me touch like a virgin."

"Well, I am not one of those virtuous few whom you delight in—"

"I think you are," he said and slipped his arm about her waist. His eyes were like midnight stars, boring into hers.

"In your soul. For you had not felt such feelings before.

" His lips drew nearer. Her heart stopped.

His mouth touched the hollow at the base of her throat and then all hell broke loose.

He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, swiping his tongue with liquid slowness across hers.

"MacGowan!" She pushed with all her might against his chest. It was as hard as an oaken table, and he moved not a smidgen. "I must not."

"Because of the baron?"

"Aye." Lord save her! She was breathing like a running mule. "Laird..." What the hell was his name? "Grier... is very jealous."

"But he does not make you tremble," he said, and skimmed his lingers beneath the weight of her hair.

Her body jerked in concert, and he grinned.

She pushed again at his chest. "I do not want you, MacGowan! Not this night. Not ever."

The world went silent. He watched her.

"You are certain, Isobel?"

"Aye," she said and her body screamed in silent protest. "I do not want you."

"If I leave now, I leave for good, Bel."

"Go."

"I fear you will regret the results."

"Nay," she panted. "I will not."

"Very well then," he said and kissed her hard. Passion seared her, melting her will and whetting her appetite, but he stepped back.

Her knees threatened to spill her face first unto the earth, but she locked them tight and watched him turn away. Something inside her screamed his name, but she remained silent. 'Twas best he leave, of course. 'Twas good.

She turned toward her door, but in an instant she heard a sound behind her. Her heart stopped, awaiting him, and against her better judgment, she turned with a breathless smile.

For the briefest second she saw a shadow, a movement, a lift of something, and then, without warning, pain exploded in her head and darkness descended.