Page 92

“None of it was yer fault,” she said softly. “Nae yer parent’s death. Nae Catherine’s.”

He looked up at her, breathing heavily. He had been carrying all that pain for eight years, and this woman was lifting it off him.

“If I had lost ye…” He couldn’t finish.

“Ye wouldnae,” Isla said, caressing his face. “I kent ye would come for me. It was the only thing that kept me going.”

He turned his head and kissed her palm, grateful to have a chance perhaps he didn’t deserve but was not going to spoil. Then he rose to his feet and scooped her up, setting her gently on her feet before him.

Slowly, he started to undress her. Her soiled clothes fell off her with a sigh, his fingers grazing her hip over her shift. There was a tender reverence in his touch, as if he needed to believe that she was there, that she was safe.

His hands shook as he replayed that moment: Gavin holding her like a shield before him, his dirk pressing against her ribs. He curled his hands into fists. He had almost lost her.

“Ye ken,” Isla murmured, “I am very cross with ye.”

His eyes flicked up to hers in surprise.

“Nae even one good job, Isla. I’d say I deserve at least that,” she continued, her lips twitching.

Alisdair drank her in. The linen of her shift teased her curves, and the candlelight traced the shape of her beneath it. For a moment, all other thoughts flew out of his head as desire flared through him.

“So, ye are angry at me, wife?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Aye.” She smiled.

He moved closer, his intent shifting from tender care to something far deeper.

“Tell me, then,” he said, trailing a hand up her arm. “What did I do to make ye so angry?”

“Ye have to admit,” she murmured, unclasping the brooch that held his plaid over his shoulder, “that I was exceptional.”

Alisdair chuckled as the fabric fell off. He should have known that his little rebel wouldn’t break that easily. She was a fighter. She had fought hard to get to him, to stay with him.

“Is that so?” His hand slid over her shoulder and up to her neck.

“Mm.” She nodded, unbuttoning his bloodied shirt. “I find that usin’ the nail was simply brilliant.”

Alisdair felt another pang as he was reminded of that moment. But then Isla tugged the shirt off him and ran her fingers over his collarbone, and his mind emptied once more.

“It was, indeed,” he purred, nudging her shift off one shoulder.

“So, will ye say it?” she breathed against his lips.

“Ye did,” he growled deep in his chest, “a very good job, Isla.”

He looked down into her eyes, getting lost in that mesmerizing blue, before his eyes drifted lower. Isla trailed her hand down to his naked chest, just as her shift slipped off her and pooled around her feet.

“Damn, Isla,” he rasped.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and luminous in the candlelight. Her lips parted, and he could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. His hands went to her waist and pulled her closer. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he hissed at the feel.

He leaned in and claimed her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his fear and relief into it. Her hands curled against his chest as she melted into the kiss, meeting his tongue, licking, stroking, tasting. Their breath mingled, and he cupped her face to tilt her head at the angle he wanted so he could taste her better. His tongue dueled with hers, slow and languid.

Her knees buckled, but he caught her. Easily, he picked her up and placed her on the edge of the bed, still devouring her mouth.

He stopped before he lost all control and rested his forehead against hers. He sat beside her and dipped the cloth in the water, before bringing it to her face. Gently, he wiped the dirt from her face, her forehead, her cheeks.

Isla watched him take care of her, occasionally stealing glances at his naked torso and biting her lip. He chuckled as he ran the cloth down her neck. A single drop trickled down, pooling at the base of her throat, and he ached to lick it off her skin.