Page 60 of Devil Black

Isobel thought of Catherine, for whom she had been willing to sacrifice so much, and understood. She wondered where her sister was right now. Was she wife to her Thomas, settled in happiness and security? Her heart ached over the long years stretching ahead before she might hope to see her sister again. Yet she had that hope, however faint, that Meg had not.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “But I wish you would consider forgiving your brother. It is no way to live, in bitterness and grief.”

Meg made no answer other than to stiffen her spine and take herself from the room, leaving a deep chill in her wake.

Later that night, when the keep lay eerily quiet, Isobel got up and crept from her chamber, down the stairs to the great hall. Cold scuttled across the stone floors, and the silence seemed a living entity that accompanied her.

Even the wind had died.

The great hall lay steeped in gloom. The fire burned low and the shadows were so thick at first she saw no inhabitants. Yet there were two; with a leap of the heart she saw her husband sitting with one booted foot propped on the hob, and Lachlan beside him, both unmoving.

The silence seemed to ripple as she stole in on careful feet. Quiet as she was, Dougal heard her and turned his head, his narrowed eyes gleaming at her.

What did he see when he looked at her? A wraith with wild, tumbled hair? A woman driven to desperation? His expression, hard and set, did not change nor did he move but sat like a master hunter luring prey.

Isobel would not let herself hesitate over what he might think. Never had she felt this kind of hunger, this consuming need.

And by heaven, he made a beautiful devil with his long limbs poised and graceful, the black hair streaming over his shoulders, the shirt beneath his vest torn open, revealing flesh turned to amber by the firelight. She now knew every inch of that flesh—the feel and taste of it—and seeing him so made her mouth go dry.

And Lachlan—with relief she saw that Lachlan slept, his head canted to one side, his chest rising and falling slowly.

“Husband!” She did not intend the word, spoken softly, to make a claim upon him, yet it did. She reached out and caught his hand where it rested on his knee, drew it to her breast. “Husband, please—will you not come with me?”

He rose without a word, his long fingers twining with hers. They climbed the stairs like shadows and entered her chamber, where Isobel shut the door and leaned against it, heart pounding and breath quick.

“Isobel…” he began then.

“No.” She shook her head. “Please. I need you with me.”

His face inscrutable, he stood insubstantial as a shadow. He wetted his lips before he said, “I cannot give you what you want.”

“You can.” She untied the laces at the front of her sleeping rail and let the garment drop to form a pool around her feet.

What cared she now for modesty? What was politeness, to a starving woman?

His gaze caressed her, lingered long on her breasts before it dropped lower. Yet he shook his head. “I cannot. My heart is mangled, a dark and useless thing. It comes to me, you deserve far better.”

Slowly, Isobel approached him. “I do not care, tonight, for what I deserve. In the morning, I may again. But not now.”

He drew an unsteady breath that expanded his chest. “You reproach me, Wife, for using you as a weapon in my private war. These past days, riding my borders, being brutally honest with myself, it comes to me you are right. I have, aye, taken my pleasure in your bed, but my motives had little enough to do with you.”

Isobel stepped closer. He need only reach out, now, to touch her naked flesh.

She whispered, “If you have, indeed, taken your pleasure in my bed, then I beg you please, do so again this night.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “Isobel, I am trying to deal fairly with you—”

“I know, and I am grateful. Yet, is life fair? If you cannot give me your heart, mangled as you say it is, can you not at least give me that for which my body aches?” One step more and she stood virtually within his arms.

He opened his eyes and she fell into them, consumed by grey mist, the contact so strong she barely noticed after all when his hand cupped her breast.

“Come to me,” she begged, “and we shall worry about the world come the morrow.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“The world is a mad place,” Lachlan said judiciously, and tipped a mug of ale to his lips: liquid breakfast. Dim light crept round the stones of the keep, and a chill pervaded the air. After enjoying the warmth of Isobel’s bed last night, Dougal felt the cold intensely, like a blight of frost in his bones. And aye, her bed had been warm, her kisses sweet, and her passion strong enough to heat him through, repeatedly.

The memory of his wife’s soft flesh clinging to him distracted him so completely he barely heard Lachlan blather on.