Maiden in Manhattan

by Abbie Zanders

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, proposing to Isobeille, of course.”

  * * *

  “Isobeille, are you alright?”

  Ian finally noticed that Isobeille was looking a little pale. He swapped her hot chocolate for a small decanter of brandy and told her to drink.

  “Aye. ‘Tis just a wee bit of a shock.”

  Ian waited until she had taken a couple of sips and the color began to return to her face. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I got so caught up in things that I neglected to think about how all of this would affect you. I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

  “Weel,” she said with a little smile, “A wee bit shocked, aye, but also verra grateful.”

  “How so?”

  “Of all those who I might have encountered, I am verra fortunate te have been found by such kind and caring folk as Nick and yerself.” She smiled. “And I would be honored te share with ye all that ye wish. For a price, of course,” she added mischievously.

  “Name it.”

  “I wish for some more of that hot chocolate with the wee marshmallows.”

  “I can do you one better than that,” Ian said, his eyes lit with excitement. “I could really use a personal assistant. One who knows the ins and outs of medieval Scottish life, of course. She’d have to be intelligent, curious, and hard-working, as well as be able to sit through meetings and dinners and occasional travel with me as a companion. Do you know anyone who might be interested?”

  For several moments, Isobeille could not breathe. “Ye... ye wish te offer me employment?”

  Ian smiled and nodded. “I can’t think of anyone more qualified. It would pay a decent wage, but it would involve a lot of time and research on your part. Of course, I’m willing to negotiate the details...”

  A job! Ian was offering her a job! She would earn a wage, be able to make a life for herself. “I accept,” she said quickly, cutting off whatever else he was going to say.

  “But I haven’t even told you the terms of employment yet, or offered a salary.”

  “Doesnae matter. I accept.”

  Ian laughed at her enthusiasm. “We must work on your negotiating skills, Isobeille, but rest assured, I will see that you are well-compensated.”

  * * *

  Nick had to keep himself from running to the door when he heard the key turning in the lock. He inhaled deeply, then checked his breath for freshness, smoothed his shirt, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. A quick tap of his pocket assured him that his gift was still there.

  “Isobeille,” he said, breathing out her name in a whoosh of air. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered.

  “Nick,” she said cautiously, peering around. “Are ye alone?”

  A pang of guilt ran through him. “Yeah. Did you have a good time with Ian?” He tried not to choke on the words. Tried not to groan out loud when Isobeille’s eyes lit up like the goddamn Christmas tree at the mention of the other man’s name.

  “Aye. He is a verra nice mon. He kens a lot aboot my time. And, Nick, he offered me a job! A real one, where I will earn my own wage! I will no longer be a burden te ye.”

  Nick’s heart ached. “Isobeille, you could never be a burden. Not to me.”

  For a moment, her eyes softened, but she looked away. Nick hated that he had done that to her, made her believe for even one second that she was anything less than a precious gift.

  “He says he will help me get something called a veeza, so I can apply for a room at the university.”

  “I don’t want you to leave,” Nick blurted out.

  Isobeille forced a smile, but it was the saddest, most insincere smile he’d ever seen. “Thank ye for that,” she said carefully. “But ‘tis for the best. I am certain your woman would agree.”

  “Actually, I, uh, broke up with Gloria. I’m sorry about the way she treated you. You won’t ever have to see her again.”

  “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised. “Is that a good thing? For ye, I mean?”

  “It’s a very good thing,” he said, summoning the courage to close the space between them. He stopped when he was still a good two feet away. “It’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

  Big green eyes looked up at him, swirling with the emotion she was trying so hard to hide. But she couldn’t hide from him, not anymore. His eyes were wide open now, his vision crystal clear.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because. I don’t love Gloria.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Ye doona?” she asked carefully, her voice little more than a breathy rush of air as she sought to control her breathing.

  “No. As it happens, I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Oh.” The spark of hope faded quickly as Isobeille shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Then I guess I am happy for ye.”

  “Are you?” He took another step closer, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body, so that her delicate scent of snow and wildflowers, now also mixed with salt and sea, filled his lungs. It was like coming home.

  Isobeille didn’t answer.

  “Isobeille?” he pressed softly. “Are you happy for me?”

  “Nay,” she said quietly, refusing to look at him. “I amnae.”

  Nick smiled at the top of her head. His sweet, honest Isobeille. He loved her so much his heart threatened to simply break free of his chest and lay itself right at her feet.

  “What if I told you that the woman I love is you? Would that make a difference in how you feel?”

  Isobeille blinked, the fat tears that had yet to fall clinging to her lashes as she tilted her head up to look into his face. “Ye love... me?”

  “Aye, that I do, sweet Isobeille,” Nick said, taking her hands in his. Looking at her now, feeling the way he always felt in her presence, he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to figure that out. He reached for the words he’d looked up and had been practicing all day. “Isobeille, Tha gaol agam ort,” he said, hoping he hadn’t butchered the Scottish-Gaelic version of “I love you” too badly. “And I’ve been a blind fool not to realize that sooner.”

  Nick bent down on one knee before her. “But the important thing is that I do now, and I know the only woman I want to spend the rest of my life with is you. Will you marry me, Isobeille, and make me the happiest man on earth, in this time or any other?”

  Chapter 17

  Isobeille might have been a bit naïve; she might have been clueless when it came to living in the twenty-first century, but she was no fool. She looked down at the man now on bended knee before her, gazing up at her with those wonderful brown eyes. Once filled with kindness, they were now filled with something else, too - love.

  All of her worries, all of her doubts, dissipated as the truth sank in. Nick loved her. He wanted to wed her and make her his bride. In those moments, her world was reduced to only the man in front her; everything, everyone else ceased to exist.

  She placed her hand on his head, lightly stroking his mussed chestnut hair. It was the first time she had allowed herself to openly do so; it was even softer, silkier than she had imagined. “Ye are a bonnie, fine mon, Nick Peterson,” she said quietly.

  Nick closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. Then opened them right back up again when he realized she hadn’t said yes. “Isobeille?”

  “A bonnie, fine mon, indeed,” she murmured. One of her hands slipped into his hair, letting it slide between her fingers until she cupped him at the base of his neck. The other rested lightly on his shoulder. She stepped forward until his face was only a hair’s breadth away from her bosom. It was a bold move, one meant to tempt and entice. She had seen his gaze alight there more than once, had seen the desire and hunger in his eyes.

  * * *

  Nick’s heart began to pound against the walls of his chest as his lungs filled with the scent of Isobielle; he could feel the heat of her lush little body on his face just as tangibly as those light, curling
strokes of her fingers against the back of his neck – the ones currently sending white-hot shivers up and down his spine. She was barely touching him, and yet his entire body hardened with an almost visceral need.

  And then he felt it, felt her small hands exerting just the tiniest bit of gentle pressure, coaxing him closer. He looked up and saw her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes half-shuttered, her mouth just slightly agape in a silent, subtle plea. It was, quite possibly, the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

  Unable to help himself, Nick moved his head slightly, nuzzling her breast. She made a sound somewhere in the back of her throat, a sound he’d never heard before but that somehow reached right down between them, grabbed him by the balls, and squeezed.

  “Isobeille,” he breathed. He wanted her so much, to claim her, to make her his. Did she know what she was doing to him? Did she know that her light, innocent touches lit a fire in his blood that he could barely contain?

  Had she been anyone else, he would have been buried deep inside her body by now. But she wasn’t. She was his Isobeille, sweet and gentle and so damn innocent. Despite the desperate need welling up within, he wanted more than sex. So much more. He wanted to spend the rest of his life loving her, caring for her, making sure she never felt lost or lonely or unhappy ever again.

  No, he wouldn’t ravage her like he wanted to. He would find the strength to leash his lust and let her set the pace of whatever happened next. He was hers to command, to do with what she wanted, as long as she said yes.

  Which she had not yet done.

  That realization penetrated his lusty thoughts. Why hadn’t she said yes? She was still here, her luscious breasts only inches away from his hungry mouth, her fingers making light little circles that felt absolutely amazing against the back of his neck, her nails digging into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. Did she doubt his sincerity?

  Or – his groin tightened painfully at the thought – did she seek to ensure that she owned him mind, body, and soul before accepting his proposal?

  Because he was totally okay with that.

  Leashing his baser instincts was one thing, but he couldn’t completely quell the need to touch her. His hands found purchase on the curve of her hips. Sweet, curvy hips that he longed to feel bare beneath his hands.

  Apparently she needed it, too. With a tiny gasp she pushed forward and tugged on his hair, making his scalp tingle.

  “Aye, Nick,” she breathed, her brogue more pronounced, his name little more than a guttural utterance on her lips.

  It was all the encouragement he needed. He turned his head to the left, placing a light kiss upon the inside of her breast, right through her sweater. Then he turned and did the same to the other side. He slipped his hands just under the hem and caressed the smooth, bare flesh of her belly with his thumbs.

  “More, Nick,” she pleaded, pressing herself against him.

  Fuck, yes. Isobeille might be innocent, but she was responsive as hell. Even the slightest caress seemed to bring out a passion in her that he had only dreamed of up until this point.

  Lifting her top a little more, he pressed his face against her skin, reveled in the softness, the fragrance. He kissed her lightly, tiny little close-lipped kisses that made him yearn for a taste. Then he allowed his tongue to peak out and swirl around her belly button before dipping inside.

  “Nick!” she gasped, tugging at his hair, which seemed to have a direct correlation to the pleasure centers in his groin.

  With each passing second, Nick was losing more of his self-control. He needed Isobeille, needed her with a passion that threatened to burn him from the inside out. She was his. She had travelled six hundred years. For him. He’d been an idiot not to fully recognize that before now, but now that he did, there was no way he was ever letting her go.

  “Isobeille, sweetheart, I love you. But if you aren’t ready for this, you need to tell me now while I can still stop myself.”

  It was a lie, the biggest one he’d told yet. He couldn’t stop now, not without doing some serious damage to his internal organs.

  And his sanity.

  * * *

  Isobeille heard the words through the haze of desire clouding her mind. Nick’s honor was an admirable thing, but if he thought to stop now, she might just not survive it.

  “Doona cease. Doona ever cease.”

  He growled something against her belly, a wholly masculine series of sounds that made the internal muscles directly beneath his mouth clench. She thought she might have caught the words “thank” and “God” in there among some others, but she could not be sure and did not really care. The only thing that mattered was that he was no longer prattling on about that stopping nonsense.

  The next moment, her world tilted even farther on its axis as Nick swept her off of her feet and tucked her against him.

  She was only vaguely aware of entering his bedroom, too intent on holding on, on relishing the distinct rippling of his shoulders, arms, and chest as he carried her. Then she felt the soft give of the mattress beneath her, countered by the heavenly feel of Nick’s hard body pressing atop her.

  His hands - his glorious, skilled, wonderful hands – moved up and down the length of her body, removing clothing, stroking, squeezing, caressing. His mouth, too, was busy, trailing behind his hands, doing the most wonderful things. Open-mouthed kisses, eye-crossing swirls of his tongue, and stinging nips of sharp teeth soon had her writhing beneath him.

  Isobeille thought she knew what it was like to feel desire for a man, but she was so very wrong. Nothing came close to the powerful waves crashing into her now, threatening to turn her mind into mush and the rest of her into a molten puddle of want and need. Nick, with his ardent and thorough attention, had somehow transformed her entire body into one pulsing, throbbing, erogenous zone. She ached, inside and out; it was at once agonizing and exquisite.

  As she lay there, reveling in these wondrous new sensations, there was some far-away voice in her head that suggested that she should be a more active participant as Nick worked his magic. In truth, there was little she could do. Without conscious thought, her hands were already grabbing blindly at his hair, his shoulders, his biceps, unable to do anything more than just hold on for dear life.

  And then her hands gripped nothing but air as Nick positioned himself between her thighs. Feeling the loss of his weight and heat acutely, she lifted her head and began to protest. Her eyes widened when she realized where he was, what he was about to do. She had heard of such things before, mainly from the whores at the pub her father often frequented, but never had she imagined a man wanting to please her this way.

  She blinked, certain she was hallucinating, but when she opened her eyes again, there he was, looking up at her with a wicked glint in his eye. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of tasting you, Isobeille?” he said, his voice rough and barely intelligible.

  A small whimper sounded in the back of her throat, but it was unlikely he heard it. His attention was focused elsewhere. Both of his large hands pressed against the inside of her thighs, opening her to him, his eyes blazing with desire as he gazed upon a part of her no man had ever seen.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Just fucking beautiful.”

  For one irrational moment, she thought about protesting, for surely no respectable lass would allow such a thing. Then he kissed her there, his full male lips soft and tender against her receptive flesh, and all rational thoughts fled her mind entirely, leaving her feeling light-headed and dizzy.

  The initial pleasure was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to what he did next. His tongue came out and flicked her in one particularly sensitive spot, causing her back to arch until naught but her feet and shoulders remained atop the bed.

  He growled again and took instant and ruthless advantage of her vulnerable position. Wedging his shoulders beneath the backs of her thighs, he wrapped his powerful arms around her legs, angling her exactly where he wanted her.

  Isobeille
was soon lost in a world of sensation. A strange and wondrous pressure began to build as Nick feasted upon her, the sounds of his greedy pleasure feeding her own as he murmured and muttered against her. The words he spoke were raw and carnal, stripping away every sense of decency and propriety she had.

  And then, just when she thought she could not possibly survive another second, the rapture seared through her like a bolt of lightning and she was no longer earthbound, but flying amidst the stars.

  Nick slid up the length of her trembling body and pulled her into his arms. “Isobeille,” he crooned softly as he placed gentle kisses at the corners of her lips. “My beautiful, sweet Isobeille. I want to spend the rest of my life making you feel just like this.”

  His voice travelled right into her soul, branding it as his lips had branded her body. For as long as she lived, it would be that voice that would always reach her, that voice that would command her heart. She was his, she had been from that very first moment on the sidewalk when she had looked into his eyes. He had given her so much. Now it was time for her to give him the only thing she could.

  “Nick,” she murmured once she was able to speak again, “I need ye.”

  “You have me, Isobeille.” He petted her softly. She could feel the hard proof of his need, yet he made no move to join with her.

  “Not all of ye.”

  His eyes flashed, filled with fire and heat and want and need, but he still held back. “We can wait. Until you’re sure. Until you’re ready.”

  She cupped his face with her hand. “I am sure. Verra sure. And verra ready.”

  His lips tilted a little at the corner. “You haven’t said yes yet, Isobeille.”

  “Yer hearing must be failing, for I recall screaming that verra word quite loudly only a wee bit ago.”

  Nick chuckled and nuzzled the soft spot just behind her ear. “You know what I mean, Isobeille.”

  “I do ken it.”

  “Then say yes, Isobeille. Say you will marry me.”