Page 33

"Give me the cloth," she said, and though every ounce of good sense screamed in protest, she sunk to her knees beside the tub.

He handed over the rag then retrieved the soap from the depths. She reached for it. Their fingers brushed. Lightning sizzled from tip to tip, but she refused to feel it.

"Your forehead is dirty."

"Is it?"

"Aye," she said and wringing out the cloth, washed away the grime.

"Better?"

She nodded jerkily. "Your hair needs washing."

" 'Twould not surprise me."

"There's..." She reached out to touch his wound, but drew carefully back in an instant. "Dried blood."

"They were not nice fellows, those men you traveled with."

She turned her mind away from the memories, away from the idea that she may well be dead now if he had not appeared. "I would have to remove your feather." She kept her tone firm, but found it oddly difficult to meet his gaze. "Why do you wear it?"

"Do you not know?" he asked. " 'Tis to keep me safe from drowning. But you may have had a hand in that, as well," he said and grinned.

Isobel swallowed hard but kept her mind on her task.

A narrow strip of leather held the feather in place, and in a moment she realized that a hole had been made in the plume's narrow shaft.

She untied it and laid it aside before setting unsteady fingers to his braid.

Her hand brushed the curl of his ear, the hard slope of his jaw, and still he watched her.

His nostrils, she noticed, were slightly flared, and he was no longer smiling.

In fact, there seemed to be a decided lack of air in the room.

She fumbled with his hair for a moment then loosened the braid before smoothing it beside its straighter fellows, along his cheek and onto the corded strength of his throat.

He dropped his head back against the towel behind him, but she found, when she dared a glance, that he still watched her.

Even under his gaze, it seemed impossible to keep from skimming her fingers along one taut tendon and onto his collarbone.

A smudge of dirt was nestled in the dell beside it, and she lifted the cloth to wipe away the soil.

It was only natural, then, to slip the rag lower over the swell of muscle that was his chest. His nipple was dark and small, erect and firm.

She eased the rag over it, continued to breathe, and washed the other side.

It seemed only right that she wash the cloth down his shoulder, carefully cleansing his wound before moving downward.

Veins, raised beneath the sun- darkened skin of his forearms, ran rampant at his wrist. She felt the pulse beneath her fingertips and silently marveled at the strength that was him.

His hand lay palm up in hers, relaxed and open, and the sight of it brought back a warm flood of memories—of his kiss against her palm, her wrist, her. ..

She brought her mind sternly back to the task at hand, and bringing forth the scented soap, lathered him from nails to wrist. Then, abandoning the soap, she smoothed her thumbs from the hollow of his palm outward.

It was fascinating somehow to see the soap spread away from the pressure, and when she turned his hand over, there was no doubt that every finger needed her ministrations.

She washed each one with mind numbing dedication, fascinated by every joint, every turn; every movement until he grasped her hand in his own.

She glanced up, surprised from the absorption of her task.

"Isobel." Her name was no more than a whisper on his lips. "Join me."

"Nay," she breathed, and yet she had no idea how she found even that much strength, for she realized, to her abject amazement, that there was nothing she wanted more than to do exactly what he asked.

"Why?" he murmured.

His thumb was strumming her wrist again, causing her blood to course faster through her veins. "Do you not know the consequences of such acts, MacGowan?"

"Consequences?" He slipped his fingertips up her arm, and she shivered as a track of water was laid along her vein.

"Mayhap not for you," she said. He leaned forward, touching her cheek and inadvertently brushing the bare strength of his chest against her fingers. She swallowed. "But surely for the women who are left with your bairns."

"Bairns?" He moved back slightly. "Lass, surely you know how bairns are made."

She refused to blush, but if the truth were known, it could well be that her entire body was already flushed, for her blood felt as hot as a witch's cauldron. "Aye, MacGowan, I know."

He smiled a little. "Then you are thinking of other things than I suggested, Bel, for I only asked you to join me. Surely you know that one can taste the bounty without consuming the feast."

She laughed softly, unable to move away.

"Something amuses you?"

"Aye." Very well, she could admit the truth.

He was beautiful as no man should be beautiful, and every weak fiber in her trembled with longing at the very sight of him.

But when he was gone, she would still have to make her way in the world, and she was not such a fool as to make that way more difficult by the time they'd spent together.

" 'Tis amusing that you think I would trust you to restrain yourself. "

"Do you say that after all we have been through together, you still distrust me, Isobel?"

"Aye." She found the strength to nod. "That is exactly what I am saying, MacGowan."

He remained silent for a moment, watching her as he slipped his thumb over her lips. "And if I give you me vow?"

"Your vow?" Her mouth quivered over the words.

"Not to take you." He leaned closer, and in a moment she felt his lips touch hers. She closed her eyes and let the feelings shiver through her. "No matter how you beg."

It was somehow difficult to open her eyes, but she managed it. "You are vain beyond words, MacGowan," she said and he smiled.

"Am I, lass?"

"Aye."

"Then you can withstand the temptation?" he asked.

"There is no..." He kissed the corner of her mouth. Her hands shook, but she braced them against the rim of the tub. “Temptation. I have no desire to join the host of fools before me."

"A host is it, now?" he asked and kissed her throat.

"I've no way of knowing the exact number, for you refuse to tell me."

"Then let us make a wager," he said. "If you join me here and do not beg for me to take you, I will tell the number."

She laughed, but the sound was breathy. "Then either way you win, for if I beg you will oblige, and if I do not you will coerce."

"I will not couple with you this day," he said, "no matter what the circumstances. This I vow."

Say no, her good sense insisted, and while her body thrummed the opposite response, a tiny, conniving part of her brain whispered, Why not do it?

Why not do it and test his mettle? After all, if the rogue of the rogues could resist a woman naked in his arms, surely he could be trusted in other things.

And she must learn the truth about his intentions, after all, before it was too late and tragedy struck where she could not bear to see it.

His fingers skimmed beneath her hair. Her eyes fell closed.

Say no! logic screamed.

Say yes, her body shrieked.

She remained as she was, torn in every direction as his fingers massaged her scalp.

His lips touched her. Heat stroked her, searing her to her fingertips.

Aye, that's it, murmured her conniving mind. Test him. 'Tis for your sister's sake and not your own.

You're a fool, wailed logic.

"Bel?" Gilmour whispered. "What say you?"

"Aye," Isobel breathed.

Her body sighed. It's about bloody time.