Page 18 of Devil Black

MacRae drank from his cup, and Isobel watched him closely. Those lips of his—they would taste like whisky now. A part of her—a wicked part—focused intently on the pleasures and possibilities of sampling them.

Almost carelessly, he said, “Yet I have already sent for the priest.”

“That is easily undone.” Isobel leaned toward him. “All this is easily solved. It is a mad blunder from which we can agree to extricate ourselves.”

“I must confess, lady, you are no’ what I expected to be delivered to Bertram MacNab, and far too good for him, I am thinking. Randal MacNab is a clever man. His mother was a Campbell and bequeathed him a crooked, scheming mind. He always covers his back, is in well with the King, curse him, and he will do aught he must to keep the world from discovering his true nature. His son, Bertram, has inherited that nature in full. What do you know of him?”

Isobel shrugged. “Very little. Randal MacNab and my father are old friends—I am not sure how that relationship originated. Both Randal and Bertram came to England for my mother’s funeral service. That is the only time I met them.”

“Aye? And how long ago was this?”

“Ten years.”

He studied her moodily and tossed back the contents of his cup. In what looked like an unconscious gesture, he lifted his hand and rubbed at the small scar that disfigured his left cheek, just below the eye.

“You ask me to play at having rescued you, lady, and I say I have already done so in truth. You know me not, and have no reason in the world to trust me, but believe it when I say you have had a narrow escape. You would no’ wish to find yourself in Bertram MacNab’s hands, nor in his bed.”

“Fine, then.” A surge of desperation raced through Isobel. “You have rescued me, now send me home.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I regret, but I have told you I cannot. I will not take the chance on losing you to MacNab, anon.”

“I am no bone to be fought for among hounds.”

“Are you not? Yet so many women find they are exactly that. No wonder some of them fight back.” His gaze seemed to caress her. “I do not see you submitting meekly to MacNab, with his twisted desires.”

“Nor to you!” Isobel flared.

“Ah, but the thing is, lady, that I am able to imagine.” He leaned toward her and his eyes kindled until flame leaped within their grey mist. “Need I prove it to you again?”

God help her, Isobel wanted him to. A wanton part of her wished to ravage that mouth of his, throw herself, shameless, into his arms, expose the side she had kept strictly in check ever since she had been deflowered. Ah, what would it be to find herself in this man’s bed this very night?

A shiver traveled down her spine. She could have this, she could claim it—the danger, the risk, the immediate pleasure. For she knew, in every part of her, there would be pleasure in abundance. What he offered, in his backhanded fashion, provided escape from MacNab, escape from living beneath her father’s roof and under his dictates, and perhaps even escape from the mistakes of her past.

And entrance into a far greater blunder?

She had made a dire mistake once—she could not allow another. She knew that with every practical thought in her mind.

Yet rather than give the man a denial, she heard herself say, “Well, so long as you have summoned the priest, I suppose we should be wed.”

Chapter Nine

“I shall summon the witnesses.”

Dougal MacRae did not know when he had felt so enflamed. Certainly, he had never lived the life of a monk. He enjoyed the act of coupling. Even more did he revel in his ability to bring a woman pleasure. He gloried in the power of it, the control, and having a woman quite literally in the palm of his hand.

In his experience women—most women—liked to pretend themselves immune to arousal, a product of how they were raised, he supposed. But once he got his hand up a skirt or down a bodice, his efforts were well repaid.

This woman, he sensed, would need little such coaxing. Her veneer of modesty lay very thin over a momentous fire. And it kept him so hard, he somewhat doubted he could wait for the priest.

He smiled wryly to himself as he returned to the door and bellowed for another servant. He always kept control, even in the direst circumstances. Indeed, he prided himself on his steely composure. How could he falter now?

He stole a look over his shoulder at his captive. There she sat with her auburn hair fallen, loose about her shoulders, and that look in her eyes—half knowing and half speculation—that drove him wild. He must have her this night, witnesses or no.

When Ranald—another of his guards—appeared, Dougal told him, “Go fetch Lachlan.

“That is one witness accounted for,” he said, turning back to his captive, once the man had gone. “The hour being what it is, I suppose my sister will have to serve after all.” Because he could not wait.

“Who is Lachlan?”