Page 16 of Devil Black

“Because even an Englishwoman deserves better.”

“So,” Isobel struggled to keep from revealing her despair, “what is to be done?”

He approached her where she sat on the edge of the settle. The force of his presence preceded him like the front of a storm—intimidation coupled with a strain of male attractiveness such as Isobel had never before encountered. It felt dangerous as a bog of quicksand and sharp as an axe blade. Instinctively she caught her breath.

Softly, he said, “I believe I shall have to marry you myself.”

Chapter Eight

“You are a madman!”

Dougal watched the emotions leap like firelight in his captive’s eyes—beautiful eyes, deep blue as the sea at sunset and, he did not doubt, nearly as treacherous. The sea lured men to their deaths; this beauty might lure him to depths he could not fathom.

He had known—and plundered—his share of maidens, but never one like this, with intelligence that fairly shone from her, and courage to match. She fired his blood like whisky, so he had trouble concentrating.

Aye, she thought him mad, and evil, and any number of despicable things. He could see as much in those eyes. But he might tame her like a headstrong pony and revel in the doing.

“Folk hereabouts have long speculated as to my sanity,” he conceded. “I assure you, I am quite rational.”

She laughed incredulously, and he found himself further inflamed by the sound. He wanted to hear it in his ear whilst he held her down on a bed and entered her, wanted her passion to meet his own—quick and savage. He wanted to lose himself in her eyes, tangle his naked flesh in those wild, red tresses, and make her weep for him.

Could she tell how hard he was? But no—her eyes clung to his, as if she searched his soul.

“I have decided you must wed with me.” The words, repeated, sounded almost brutal, and her eyes widened. Dougal had not meant to speak them that way; he wanted her to want him.

She sprang to her feet. Tall for a woman, the top of her head reached his eyes, which put their bodies nearly heart to heart. He could smell a fragrance coming off her skin—that of pure woman.

He heard the breath rush into her lungs. “No! Your one course of action, if you would keep your head, is to release me unharmed.”

“My one course of action is to forge you to me, so you cannot speak against me.” Giving in to temptation, he reached out and seized her arm. “I can avail myself of a priest. It shall be done this night.”

“Against my will?” Her head came up and her nostrils flared. “You would force me? So, you are a bully as well as a bandit.”

“There will be no forcing, lady. When I get you in my bed, you will want what I have to give.”

He pulled her hard against him, into his arms. His mouth plundered hers, battered it open, and he felt her terror spike. Yet it subsided as swiftly as did his desire to handle her roughly. Sweetness met passion and broke over them both like a shower of fire. He felt her hesitate, and his lips softened, began to woo hers, coax and persuade them further apart. Greed washed through him in a staggering tide that left him feeling all at once weak and powerful. Surely he would sell his soul for the taste of her.

She raised both her hands and planted them flat against his chest. He expected to feel her push him away; instead her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic and pulled him closer.

The motion went straight to his head. He contemplated pushing her down there before the hearth but dismissed the notion. Not before they saw the priest. He would stand accused of raping no woman.

He broke the kiss, and a sound came from her throat, a sigh of protest. They gazed deeply into one another’s eyes, and Dougal’s heart began to pound the way it did before a battle, when his sword cried for blood.

She still had her fingers fastened in his tunic, and they stood barely a breath apart. Every inch of him could feel every inch of her—some more than others.

“So, lady,” he said, allowing one corner of his mouth to turn up, “will you wed wi’ me?”

****

Isobel fought to retain the few shreds of reason which she assumed must still lurk somewhere in her mind. She did not know what this man might be—monster, villain—but her attraction to him was prodigious. Just touching him had the power to suspend her common sense and native caution, both.

She forced her fingers to release him and then drew back one hand deliberately, intending to slap his face. He caught her wrist before she completed the motion.

“No,” he said, the passion flaring in his eyes again, “you will not! You were a willing participant in that. Do not lie to yourself.”

Heat rushed to Isobel’s face. She wanted to evade the brutal honesty in his eyes but could not. She struggled for breath.

“Very well,” she said then. “I participated. What of it?”