“But alas, I find myself bare-handed,” he went on, his words warm and mellifluous. “Thus I must employ other knightly devices to win your favor.”
But you already have, her heart answered.
“A kiss?” the maid of steel wanted to know.
“Aye, a kiss.” He extended his hand, beckoning her. “But first a simple question.”
“A question?” Isolde hoped he couldn’t see her disappointment.
He lowered his hand. “You desire more?” He feigned puzzlement. “More than a kiss and a few words?”
She did.
She desired . . . everything.
“Can I not answer from here?” she ventured, fingering the end of one of her braids in a feeble attempt to disguise the trembling in her hands.
And to attract his attention to her hair. Another infallible lure for unsuspecting seduction victims, Evelina had assured her.
“As you wish.” He gave her a casual shrug, but the glitter in his eyes was anything but indifferent. Folding his arms, he regarded her with a penetrating look. “Why did you avoid looking at me when you came to speak with Gavin?”
Her eyes flew wide.
She could not tell him why.
“I await your answer, lady.”
Isolde looked down. “I . . . I . . .” She threw up her hands. “ ’Twas your chest,” snapped the steely wench, much to her dismay. “Your bonnie chest. I-It unnerved me.”
His shout of laughter filled the room. She glanced at him, horrorstruck at her own tongue’s brazenness.
“Unnerved you?” He peered at her, and for once, both of his brows shot heavenward. “You find my bare chest bonnie and that unnerves you?”
She nodded, unable to lie.
His wicked smile returned, more devastating than ever. “Then mayhap you should see it again?” Not taking his gaze off her, he divested himself of his fine leather belt and tossed it aside. He reached for the bottom of his tunic. “Aye, I believe you need to see my bonnie chest again,” he said, and pulled the shirt over his head.
Isolde eyed his splendor, keenly aware of the wondrous urgings gazing upon him called forth in her.
Faith, but he was magnificent. As he well knew.
The knowledge gleamed in his rich brown eyes. His strapping good looks and his sublime self-confidence sent eddies of feminine awe whirling through her and lit fires in all her dark and mysterious womanly places.
“And now, sweeting, I believe we shall have another lesson in enlightenment.”
He came forward, his each step firing a new stab of pure heated desire straight to her core. His dark allure swirled around her like a warmed, silk-lined mantle, enveloping her in his mastery until she could do naught but stand and stare at him.
His eyes crinkled in amusement. “A bonnie chest, you say?” Tilting his head to the side, he took her hands in his. The feel of his fingers closing over hers, strong and warm, set her senses to reeling.
“So look upon me, Isolde of Dunmuir, until I unnerve you no more.”
And she did.
The bold lass in her reveled in the wide set of his shoulders, the play of hearth fire over the hard-muscled expanse of his chest. A delicious tension spread through her, a sensation both disturbing and exhilarating.
He was gloriously handsome.
She yearned to trace her fingers along the smooth contours of his powerful arms. Her gaze dropped to his taut stomach, flat and well-honed. Iron strength and carefully restrained power emanated from every bold male inch of him.
His high looks and charm of manner proved more potent than all of Devorgilla’s love concoctions combined.
Not that her potion had been blended to cull a man’s favor.
Taking her leisure at studying his noble physique, she returned her attention to his face. First to the hard, firm line of his jaw, then to the full, sensual curve of his lips, the silken fall of his thick black hair, and finally his eyes.
A knight’s eyes.
Heavy-lidded with desire, dark and full of ardor. Ardor for her.
A soft sigh escaped her, and she glanced away, unconsciously seeking a reprieve from the sheer headiness of just gazing at him. She needed her wits about her if she hoped to seduce him.
Thus far, ’twas he who was doing the seducing.
She who would succumb.
Her brow knitted in perturbation.
“I vow you must look some more,” he said, the levity in his deep voice striking the balance she needed to offset her burgeoning ill ease at having her plans so easily wrested from her control.
He brought her hands to his lips and kissed all ten fingertips. Each kiss sent showers of tingles washing over her. “You still appear . . . unnerved.”
“I-I have seen enough,” she said, hating the quiver in her voice.
Releasing her hands, he spread his arms wide and turned in a slow circle. “You’ve no reason to be afraid,” he said, coming to a stop before her. “I told you, knights admire wenches with steel in their blood.”
His gentle teasing made her heart skitter wildly. Then his jollity faded, and the look of the predator returned.
Dark, stirring, determined.
The look alone would have sent a less bold lass diving under her bed.
The look made Isolde want to dive into her bed.
With him.
Now.
“And what do knights like wenches to do?” she asked, striving for a low, sultry tone like Evelina.
She must’ve failed sorely, for rather than darken with desire, his eyes crinkled with renewed mirth.
He’d seen through her ploy and was laughing at her.
But then he scratched his chin, and she recognized his ploy as well. He meant to play along with her. One finger moving oh-so-slowly along his jawline, he gave her question a new twist. “What do knights like wenches to do for or to them?”
For or to them?
The possibilities, everything Evelina had taught her, landed in one great rush . . . there, close by the tops of her thighs where a pulsing ache had begun.
Do such things for or to him? Mercy, but she wanted both options.
In every variant.
“Well?” He stepped so close the heady musk of his dark male scent did powerful things to her senses.
And to her fool tongue, for it seemed to have swelled to ten times its size. She couldn’t speak, could only stare at him, waiting for him to relieve the unquenched stirrings he roused in her.
Waiting for his knight’s kisses.
“This knight would like you to do something for him,” he said, and touched his fingers to the smooth curve of her cheek.
She leaned into his touch, a brazen maid, silently urging him not to take away his hand.
Not to withdraw its magic.
“Will you do something for me?” The low, huskily spoken words sank into her soul.
She nodded, not even considering denying him.
Not caring what it was he wanted.
A blush stole up her neck, for the truth was, she hoped whate’er it was, would be bold. Lascivious and daring enough to quench the fire raging in her blood.
May the saints preserve her wanton soul.
He slipped his hand around her neck, let his fingers caress her nape. “Will you do two things for me?”
She gulped, and nodded again. “If you wish,” she agreed, the words an embarrassing squeak.
He looked sharply at her. “Have you imbibed more of that wretched potion?”
She started to shake her head in denial, but before she could, he’d lowered his mouth to hers. Her heart stopped, she was sure of it, so intense were the flames of desire flaring inside her, licking at her very core.
So thrilling to have him kiss her again.
But rather than the sweeping knight’s kiss she’d hoped for, he merely flicked the tip of his tongue over her lips.
Tasted her.
A soft, gentle lick, naught more. Fleeting and light as a butterfly’s wing, a simple ta
ste to see if he could detect the anti-attraction potion on her lips.
Lightning quick though it’d been, the mere touch of his tongue on her lips had been powerful enough to send a surge of white-hot need shooting through her.
She slid her arms around his shoulders and thrust her fingers into the thick gloss of his hair. She pressed herself into him, not caring if she exposed herself to be as shameless as Evelina. Parting her lips, she used her urgency to beg for more, ached for him to kiss her deeply, thoroughly, as he’d done before.
“So eager, my love.” He set her from him, his use of the endearment melting her heart as surely as his touch ignited her blood.
He rested his forehead on hers, his warm breath a sweet caress on her skin. “Your appetite pleases me immensely. Aye, lady, you rouse me to the limits of my restraint,” he murmured. “And I shall give you all the knight’s kisses you desire and more, much more, but before I do, you must fulfill your two promises.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Will you?”
“What is your will?” she breathed, nigh melting at the thought of giving herself to him so wholly she’d do whate’er it was he wanted of her.
Do anything for him.
He lifted one of her braids, rubbed his thumb over its thickly woven strands. “You are not blessed with much restraint, are you?”
She shook her head, beyond speaking, so eagerly did she crave his will.
His touch.
He let the braid fall. “There is much I would have you do for, and to me, sweeting. And I to you,” he said, his eyes darkening, his voice low and . . . seductive. “But the keen edge of anticipation is almost as sharp as the final pleasuring and should not be missed.”
He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, down her arm. “I want to initiate you into carnal pleasures one luscious step at the time,” he vowed. “Such a tender fruit as yourself ought to be savored fully, but slowly. Very, very slowly.”
“And how do you wish to . . . t-to savor me?” her newly discovered wanton self wanted to know. “What two ways?”
He reached for her braids, taking them both this time. Looking deep into her eyes, he said, “I want you to undo your hair for me, Isolde.”
Disappointment and confusion welled inside her. The pulsing need she’d hoped to see quenched, cried out in pained rebellion. “Unbraid my hair? That is all?”
“That is the beginning.” He lifted her braids. “To look at your hair,” he told her, “to watch my fingers touching the strands, watch me feel them, caress them as they slide like ropes of golden-bronze silk over my palms.”
The pulsing in her belly flared anew, and with a greater vengeance than before. Faith, but he could work a fine wizardry with simple words.
“Do you see, my sweet Isolde, how aroused you are merely by watching me fondle your braids?” he asked, and she knew he spoke the truth.
He was arousing her.
His lips curved in a slow, lazy smile. “How do you think it will make you feel, make me feel, to revel in your unbound tresses?”
A deep, throaty sigh rose in her throat, and she released it. The thoughts he put into her head, the shivery tremors his words sent tumbling through her, inspired a whole fleet of breathy sighs.
One more gusty than the other.
“I want to bathe in your hair,” he told her, finally relinquishing her braids. “Drink in its fragrance, lose myself in its satiny warmth.”
Isolde swallowed. She wanted that, too.
Badly.
But he’d had one more request.
One more desire.
Her pulse raced with anticipation. “And what is your second wish, milord?”
The slow burn in his eyes turned wicked.
Very wicked.
“I want to see your breasts,” he said, and her heart slammed against her ribs.
She’d waited all evening to bare her breasts to him, fretting she’d not have the nerve after losing Evelina’s nipple cream. A veritable fire wall of heat swept through her, and a wild tingling began in her breasts, its intensity mirroring the pulsing sensation in her belly.
“You want to look at them? Simply look?” the steely wench asked, inexorably pleased when he slowly shook his dark head.
“Nay, sweeting.” He smoothed the backs of his hands very lightly down the outer swells of her breasts. “I want to do much more than look.” He paused. “Dare I?”
She nodded. “But I would hear the words,” she said, already finding this . . . this speaking of such acts highly stimulating.
Just as Evelina had promised.
“Aye, I would hear in the greatest detail what you mean to do to my breasts,” she said, the heat pooling in her woman’s core now pulsing with heavy urgency. “Tell me and I will undo my hair, then free my breasts to your will.”
“You please me well, Isolde of Dunmuir, and so I shall oblige you,” he said, tapping a finger against his chin. “First, I shall simply look at you, but from all angles. From afar, and up close. Very close.”
“I would hear more,” she urged, enjoying the game, her cares and woes forgotten.
He smiled. “I shall touch you with my hands, and in many ways.” He let his gaze roam over her breasts as he spoke. “I will smooth the backs of my fingers down, around, and under your breasts, move my fingertips over you in featherlight circles that will send shivers of delight the length of you until, finally, I turn my attention to the peaks of your breasts . . . your nipples.”
He peered at her, waiting for a nod, a word, for him to continue. She purposely stalled, just a short moment, then inclined her head. “Your words stir me,” she admitted, scarce believing her wantonness. “Pray continue. What else shall you do?”
“Ohhhh . . . I shall lift and weigh your breasts. I will fondle and palm them, mayhap a bit roughly, but only enough to heighten your pleasure.”
“Is there more?” she asked, a pleasing warmth coursing through her, her woman’s core weighted and pulsing.
“Aye, much more,” he promised, the intense bliss his words instilled in her startling and amazing her. “I shall worship you with my lips and my tongue. I shall lick, lave, and—” He broke off, hopping on one bare foot.
“What the . . .” He reached down to retrieve something from the thick layer of floor rushes. He examined whatever it was, then held out his hand, a little earthen pot resting on his palm.
Isolde flushed scarlet.
’Twas the blush of rose.
Evelina’s nipple cream.
“Is this yours, my lady?” He snatched his hand back when she reached for it. “I see it is by your flushed cheeks.” He opened the jar and peered inside. A look of astonishment, then recognition flashed over his handsome face.
He knew what it was.
He looked at her, high amusement coloring his own cheeks. “This is vermilion,” he said, staring at her. Flum-moxed. “Whore’s paint.”
Isolde glanced away, too embarrassed to admit she knew its common usage.
“You meant to use this to seduce me,” he said, the odd catch back in his voice.
“Aye, I did,” she allowed, beyond pretending false modesty after the bawdy talks they’d just indulged in. “But I lost it.”
His dark eyes twinkled. “And here it is again.”
“So?” Her heart began to pound.
Faith and mercy, he wanted her to use the nipple cream.
“I want you to put this on,” he said, confirming what she already knew. He handed the little pot to her.
“If it will please you,” she said, feeling somewhat disappointed. The surprise effect she’d hoped to achieve with the cream had been lost. “It won’t be the same if you know it’s there.”
He shook his head. “Sweeting, surprising me is no longer the nipple paint’s purpose.”
Now he’d confused her. “Nay?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “How bold can you be, lass?”
“As bold as your pleasure,” the wanton in her replied.<
br />
“Then you shall please me indeed if you will let me watch you apply the paint to your nipples.”
Isolde gasped, the idea first repulsing her, then arousing her.
Very much so.
She curled her fingers around the little earthen pot, her cheeks flaming.
Blush of rose.
An apt name indeed.
And she could scarce wait to sample its power.
Chapter Fifteen
LIQUID FIRE.
Spun gold kissed by moonglow.
Shimmering, watered silk of untold luxuriance.
Donall’s brows drew together at the sumptuous bounty presented by Isolde of Dunmuir’s unbound hair. Blessed be, she whiled before the window, bathed by the night’s silvery luminosity, whilst he lingered in the safe concealment of the shadows.
Hidden in the cool dimness outwith the reach of the revealing silver-blue light. A delicate glow spun of the night’s magic, spilling into her bedchamber, and highlighting her charms so sweetly.
Bewitching him and laying bold claim to a heart no other maid had e’er heard beat, much less possess.
His scowl deepened.
He’d have to remove the hard-earned suffix from his name should she catch him making fawn eyes at her.
And, curse his bones, that was exactly what he was doing. Staring at her all agog, captivated as an untried youth scenting his first whiff of a bonnie wench’s roused desire. And, saints stay him by, she had yet to completely loosen her braids.
She’d only unraveled half their glossy length.
The sheer temptation of what she’d displayed thus far bit so deep, the fetching sight had him composing lines more suited to an overperfumed French courtier than a red-blooded Islesman known as the Bold.
The only thing bold about him at the moment was the iron-hard press of his arousal against the snug confinement of his hose.
His mouth dry, his loins painfully tight, his heart . . . lost, he rested his shoulder against the wall, secretly borrowing from its solidity to help him to stand tall through the ongoing torture of watching her unravel her braids.
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