Page 45 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Four

Will gazed down at the green-eyed beauty. She’d put a spell on him, surely—he was no longer himself. He wanted to rail at her, fight with her, kiss her, and entwine himself around her—body and soul—until they ceased to be two and became one.

He should have been more circumspect in his drinking tonight—at this moment, anything seemed possible, even the most sinful, most forbidden deeds.

Shaking his head, he attempted to dislodge his wayward thoughts. “With regard to this morning, I’d prefer you to tell me what’s in your mind if you have a plan, so I may go along with it. Or dissuade you, if I think your idea is folly.”

He fanned his fingers across her shoulders, feeling the feminine warmth of her, remembering the silk of her skin when he’d traced his tongue over it last night. The wicked excitement in his belly refused to be banished. Isobel should choose a book and go back to bed. He should choose one for her if it sped up the process—he was so close to forgetting himself and doing something completely reprehensible.

“Let us speak no more of what happened earlier—we have both proved ourselves fallible. Will you forgive my behavior?”

For a moment, he didn’t know if he was asking for absolution for his earlier churlishness, or for what he feared he was about to do. Kiss her senseless, then carry her up the stairs and share his great canopied bed with her.

“Isobel, you are so beautiful.”

She searched his face. “What? Why would you say that? I look like a stray dog you’ve picked up from the gutter. After it’s been trampled by a flock of sheep. You have never yet seen me at my best.”

His heart lurched, and he found himself grinning like an idiot. “Foolish wench. Come.” Collecting a candle in one hand, he steered her into the hallway, then put his light in the sconce beside his Venetian mirror. Placing her in front of him, he slid an arm around her waist and stood her squarely in front of the mirror.

“Look.”

“What am I looking at?”

Ah, but it felt so good, holding her against him. He nudged her face around with his spare hand, so she was looking directly at her reflection. “How can you say you look like a stray dog?”

She tried to turn away, but he slipped his fingers into her hair and trapped her there. An impatient huff escaped her. “I’m not fishing for compliments, Will. I have not the coloring nor the curves of Paulina Mathieson, for a start.”

He rolled his eyes and lowered his mouth so it was level with her ear. Close enough for her hair to brush his cheek, for him to revel in the sweet scent of her.

“Look at yourself. You are beautiful. Those eyes are captivating, and your face is a perfect oval and full of character. Your mouth is soft, vulnerable, and deliciously tempting to any man who sees it. Paulina is like a doll compared to you—a creature of artifice, not flesh and blood. You must already realize the hold you have over me, whether I would have it so or not.”

He watched her reflection swallow a gulp of air and felt her tremble. His body tensed, waiting for her reaction, searching her face in the mirror for a betraying response, any sign of what was passing behind those sea-green eyes.

Aye, he had definitely quaffed too much Canary wine—it had loosened his tongue. He was saying far more than was seemly, but it was all so blindingly, obviously true, and had been for a long time. So why deny it any longer?

Tonight, Isobel looked more entrancing than ever. Her dark hair hung like a swathe of midnight over her modest white nightgown, and the flickering candlelight produced tantalizing shadows where her feminine curves pushed against the clinging linen. His eyes fastened on the reflection of his hand, still resting gently over her abdomen. One handspan higher, and he could stroke the luscious softness of her breast. But if he did, he would be truly lost.

Cursing roughly beneath his breath, he spun her around, trapping her face between his hands. “Go.” His voice was hoarse. “Go, before I do something we’ll both regret.”

She was frozen in his grasp, neither welcoming nor rejecting him. She certainly wasn’t obeying. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she raised her hands to stroke his face.

“Oh, Isobel.” He pressed her hand against his cheek before turning his face to kiss her palm, then ran his thumb over her mouth. This felt like a dream—it was no longer Sir William Cavendish who commanded his actions, but some other self—some untamed, primordial self that responded to the temptation of her body. Without further thought, he dragged her against him, crushing his mouth punishingly against hers.

She whimpered, and he forced himself to retreat. His breathing went shallow as he waited for her response. Then—oh, miracle of miracles—her hands reached for his shoulders, drawing him more deeply into the kiss. Desire flamed hot in his belly, and he murmured meaningless promises as his lips left hers to plunder the ivory skin of her neck and brush softly over the raven sheen of her hair.

Slowly, he brought her closer, until their thighs were touching and he could feel the pressure of her firm breasts against his chest. Soon, she’d be able to feel exactly how she was affecting him. What did he intend to do about it? How far dare he take this?

Lifting his head to rub his cheek against her hair, Will caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was drunk with desire, his eyes half-closed, his lips pulled back from his teeth like a stag in rut. With a violent stab of self-disgust, he pulled away from Isobel.

“Why are you still here?” His question was a rough demand. “I told you to go.”

He read the distress in her eyes and wondered how he had become so cruel. But honor must persist over nature—he’d made a promise, and was not about to break it by seducing the woman he was meant to be protecting.

When she didn’t move, he growled at her. “Go to your chamber, Isobel. Now!”

This time, she went, her feet flying up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were after her.

A thousand curses on Hubert Pike for preventing him fetching a female companion for Isobel! Now, there was no choice. Only one thing would make their situation bearable—they must marry.

He would ask her on the morrow. Well, make his apologies first, for being a brute this evening—and then ask her.

He had no idea what he’d do if she refused him. She simply had to say “yes”.