Page 39 of Lord of Loyalty

He reached for her hand. “You were truly worried, weren’t you, sweeting?”

She entwined her fingers with his, loving the warmth of his hand, hating the torn skin where he’d grazed his knuckles on his opponents. Having him back was so precious, such a blessing, she wanted this moment to last forever, just the two of them, in the heated, muffled summer night, gilded by candlelight.

There was a clink.

“Why did you bring a jug with you, Isobel?”

She’d forgotten the jug. Just as well it was empty—it was dangling from her hand, knocking against the wooden bed frame. Setting it down carefully, she replied, “I thought you might be thirsty.”

He chuckled, then winced. “Oh, don’t make me laugh, I beg of you. My ribs are too sore. You’re a poor liar, my darling girl. In the future, should you want a weapon when traversing the corridors in the middle of the night, I’d advise a poker. Far easier to wield than a pitcher.”

Her chin went up. “Mayhap you shouldn’t be talking, if your ribs hurt.”

“Mayhap I shouldn’t.” He pushed his free hand through his hair. “Did I wake you with my foolish dream?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He looked so handsome, lying there relaxed in his voluminous bed, his hair tousled, his nightshirt open at the neck, revealing the shadowy muscle of his chest. If only…

“You must use my bed.”

“I beg your pardon?” Had he divined her thoughts?

“I mean, you must have this room. Now ’tis known you are no servant, I can’t have you bundled up in that tiny cot in the attic. I’ll move into the adjacent chamber—once Maybury’s gone—and you shall have this room, the finest in the house. I’ll send for a dressmaker, too, so you have gowns befitting your status.”

Nay—that way madness lay. It was distracting enough sleeping above him, but to have the width of just one wall between them—how could she cope with the temptation? But it was not her place to set her cap at Sir William Cavendish. She was no Paulina Mathieson, determined to get her man, however low she must stoop to win him. And since when had she given him her heart? Love was a stealthy companion—it had twined around her soul like a bryony stem, and she knew not how she could ever become disentangled.

“Isobel.” Will’s voice was soft and sent delicious tingles down her back. “I thought, for one bitter moment on that highway, I might never see your lovely face again.”

“Fie, sir. You’re a soldier. You would never give up hope.”

“I never will—not now. Not ever. Kiss me, Isobel. I need to know if you’re real, or merely a sprite sent to taunt me in my sleep.”

“If I kiss you, you’d best think me a sprite, for otherwise, ’twould be most improper.”

“A pox on propriety.” His hand tightened on hers, and he pulled her inexorably closer as he leaned to crush her lips with his.

Mayhap she, too, was in a dream, for the touch of his mouth was beyond words, the delight of his kiss beyond imagining. As Will’s tongue drove into her mouth, claiming her, she cradled his cheek, stroking it as if it were the most precious thing she’d ever touched. When he released her captive hand, she cupped his face, drinking from his lips, comparing their taste to the sweetest nectar.

He moved, found a position that fitted her against him, cradling her in the crook of one arm while he brushed her hair back from her forehead. Like a mirror to her action, he caressed her cheek, sculpting the lines of her face with his fingers, gazing into her eyes, to the very depths of her soul.

Could he see that new-fledged love? Was it evident in her expression, in the way she responded to his touch? Did he want that love, or was it only the fulfillment of his body’s demands that mattered? Heat flooded her cheeks—what if she was no better than poor, besotted Paulina Mathieson? Will couldn’t possibly respect a woman who responded so greedily to his caresses. Even though he’d asked for the kiss in the first place.

He gave her no time for doubt. Pushing his hand into her hair, he pulled her head against his, demanded her mouth once again, and kissed her thoroughly. Her mind clouded, as dazzling darts of desire shot through her body, and she tilted her head back for him, offering her surrender.

His hand bared her shoulder, and he traced the line of her collarbone. This subtle love-making was more powerful than any drug—she only wished she knew how she should respond, what she might do to please him.

As if in fulfillment of a dream, she felt Will tug her nightgown down, exposing the tops of her breasts. He broke the kiss then, and applied his lips to her neck and breastbone, then taunted her flesh with little flicks of his tongue. Like an opening flower, she gave herself up to him as her own desire met his burgeoning need. Thrilled, she reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair, letting the tawny gold run through her fingers. Now, she understood about possession—she’d had a taste of Will, and now she wanted all of him.

But what would become of her then? She was behaving no better than a common harlot.

She scuttled backwards off the bed, tugging the neck of her nightgown up. “I’m so sorry. Whatever must you think of me?”

“Isobel, wait!” He leapt from the bed, then pressed a hand to his side as a look of pain seared his face. “Please, don’t go.”

She grappled with the door, hurtled out, jumped over the sleeping Manners’ legs, and flew back upstairs to her chamber.

He wouldn’t follow her there, would he? She was so ashamed. How could she have lost control so easily? Oh, but he’d been right when saying she needed a chaperone—had her time spent in the half-light of madness tainted her soul? Mistress Isobel Marston, of Marston House, Holborn, would never have behaved like that, no matter how strongly she felt for a man.

How was she ever to face Will again after offering herself so wantonly?