Page 5

A second tear followed its mate's course, slipping more rapidly down her cheek to fall past the point of her peaked chin and onto the high rise of her breast. Gone was the modest gown she had worn below-stairs, replaced by this garment of white linen.

Strange that he hadn't noticed that earlier, he thought, for now he couldn't take his eyes off her—her loveliness, her loneliness, her breasts, so pale and full and tempting, with that single tear slipping down the dramatic curve into darkness—soft, tantalizing darkness.

"You know how I feel, then," she said.

"Aye, lass," he agreed and still remained unmoving, though it was difficult to raise his gaze from the tear's descent. " 'Tis only natural that you would miss the only one with whom you share blood."

"So you would miss your brothers?"

"Nay." He grinned. "But I would miss your sister."

She laughed, but the sound was unnatural, hiccup- ing slightly at the end before she raised her hands to her face.

"I am sorry," she murmured. " 'Tis simply that I.

.. I..." All other words were lost. There was nothing Gilmour could do but go to her.

No choice but to slip his arms gently about her minuscule waist.

No corset stiffened her torso. Beneath her simple, virginal garment there was nothing but flesh—soft, lovely flesh.

"There now, sweet lass," he said, calming his breathing. "There be no need to cry, for you can return to Evermyst on the morrow, if you wish."

She shook her head, but even as she did so, she slid her arms hungrily about his neck as if starved for his strength, his compassion. " 'Tis not true." She whispered the words, brushing the sound with tender sweetness against his ear lobe. It shivered titilatingly down his neck.

"Aye, lass. I will take you there on me own steed in the morn, if you like."

"You do not understand."

Her hair felt like satin beneath his fingertips.

He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, a heady mix of sweet herbs and something deeper, something that was only Isobel.

He remembered smelling it before, catching a whiff of it when she passed him at Evermyst. Smelling that sweet, unique aroma and feeling himself harden with the scent.

Aye, he had forever wanted her, ever since the very first.

"I cannot go back," she whispered. The sliver of sound quivered over his bare shoulder, and against his chest her breasts felt as soft and enticing as heaven. "For I cannot bear the truth."

He stroked her hair again, feeling her emotion in his very soul. "And what truth is that, lassie?"

"You do not know what it was like, for you have always..." She paused, clearing her throat and laughing a little. "You have always been adored. But I had no one. Not until Nora. And then 'twas as if the world blossomed. I was everything to her, and she to me. 'Twas as if we shared one mind."

Her body felt as firm and supple as a bending reed in his arms with her hips pressed against his and her thighs, so sweet and strong, spread ever so slightly to encompass one of his own.

"Do not be sad, lass," he whispered, finding it suddenly hard to speak for the need that rushed through him. "Me earlier words were cruel. I am certain your sister misses you as surely as you miss her."

She whimpered softly against his neck as if such a thought evoked too much emotion to contain. "Do you think so?" she asked, lifting her face a bit to look into his eyes.

He smiled, for truly, her beauty was unsurpassed, with her heaven-wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Aye, lass, I know it. Her love for me brother has not diminished her adoration for you."

"You think not?"

"Nay," he said and swept her hair gently from her face. Dampened by her tears, it curled intimately about his fingers. "Come back with me and judge for yourself."

She managed a tremulous smile, but shook her head at the same time. "I cannot. Evermyst is not me place in the world."

"Where then do you belong, Bel?"

She shrugged. The movement caused her breasts to lift lovingly against his naked chest. A thousand wanton desires sprinted like devils through his overheated system, but she was lonely and hurting, and he would not take advantage of those raw feelings.

Never let it be said that Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, could not tempt a maid without such emotions to aid his cause.

"Mayhap this be me place," she whispered.

"Here?" His heart pounded against her bosom. "In me arms?"

She smiled and lowered her eyes. "In Henshaw," she said. "At the Red Lion."

His desire throbbed insistently, and he could not help but wonder if she felt it. "Surely not, lass, for you were gently born."

Looking down at her delicate face, he could just see the slight tilt of her lips as she smiled sadly. "Gently born, mayhap, but not gently reared. Do you forget? I am naught but a commoner."

" 'Tis not true. You are the daughter of the laird and lady of Evermyst and therefore it is only proper that you have all that the title entails."

"Nay," she said. "Me mother was right to send me away at birth, for there are many who would pit one sister against the other for the sake of her inheritance, and even more who would believe that both siblings are evil for the circumstances of their birth."

"Thus you would spend your life as a commoner, even though you know 'tis not true?"

"In truth, I am far more comfortable with the bare feet of a laborer than with the satin slippers of a lady."

"But surely you cannot plan to go on like this, lass, for you are far too delicate to spend your days in hard labor."

"Delicate?" She laughed a little and canted her head so that her gaze rested with feline softness on him and her hips pressed ever so gently against his. Gilmour tightened his jaw against the delectable onslaught. "Mayhap you do not know me so well as you think, MacGowan," she whispered.

He remained unmoving against her, lest the slightest motion send him over the edge of desire.

"Do not fear, lass, me brother Ramsay will.

.." he began, but just then her lips touched his neck.

A thousand errant sensations sizzled through him like living sparks.

"Will..." He tried to catch the lashing tail of his displaced thoughts, but they had been burnt beyond recognition.

"Will what?" Her whisper shivered against his throat.

"Will find you a suitable husband," he said, but she had tilted her head downward now and kissed his collarbone. His head fell back of its own accord.

"And what if I do not want some stodgy but suitable husband?" she asked.

Her hand slid with slow warmth down his arm. He should stop her now, but somehow his muscles failed to do so, for her touch was like magic, unreal, beyond hope, and as it slid from his arm to his belly, he felt the flames of desire dance like demons in his aching nether parts.

"What if I want a lover instead?" she whispered, and suddenly her hand dipped beneath the weight of his plaid. The tartan unfurled like spring bracken, falling hopelessly to the floor at their feet. "What if I want you?"

"Lass..." It was difficult to breathe, impossible to move. "I do not think—"

" 'Tis best. Do not think," she murmured and slipped her hand lower. It closed with velvet warmth around him and suddenly all thought was gone, burned to ashes by the satin strength of her touch.

Inhibition was laid waste. Good sense flew like autumn leaves.

There was nothing he could do but lift her into his arms. Nothing to do but bear her to the bed behind her and there he laid her upon the mattress.

She did not resist, did not hesitate. Instead, she curved her slim fingers about his neck and drew him closer.

Their lips touched like a dream, but she was impatient, eager—nay, hot for him—and suddenly he could not wait another moment to gaze at her beauty.

He pressed her gown upward, revealing the ivory smoothness of her thighs, but he could not rush here where perfection lay.

He dropped to his knees beside the mattress.

Sliding his hands up one delicate calf, he kissed the inner curve of her knee.

She gasped and he smiled against her flesh, loving her reaction and then kissing higher, over the sweet length of her thigh, drawing ever nearer Utopia.

"Mour!" He heard her gasp of pleasure, but refused to be rushed, for he had waited long for such a moment.

Thus he slid his fingers over the arch of her hip and upward, feeling the luscious curve of her waist, loving every intimate detail of her and kissing each one in turn, her hip, her belly, her navel.

She jerked at the sensation and he lingered there a moment, sliding both palms beneath her buttocks to lift her upward and lave his tongue across the dent of her birthing scar.

"MacGowan!" Her fingers tangled in his hair with some force.

"Aye, me love?" he whispered, lifting his head enough to gaze into her frantic face. "What is it you would have me do?"

Her body was taut with desire, her knees bent in a supplication of unhidden need. 'Touch me," she whispered.

They were the sweetest words ever spoken, so sweet, in fact, that he longed to hear them again.

"What's that you say, lass?" he asked.

But suddenly the dulcet melody of her voice roughened into an ungodly deep timbre. "I said, touch me again and I'll kill you here and now!"

Gilmour wrenched his eyes open even as he jerked backward. Sleep fled like frightened lambkins, leaving him to stare dumbfounded into the narrowed eyes of Innes Munro.