Wanting it, too.
He captured her face between his hands, the compelling look in his dark eyes demanding the truth. “Are you aware of what will happen after you do this for me?”
Isolde nodded.
Aye, she knew.
And ached for him to take her in that final way. Ached badly.
He leaned forward, dragged his mouth across hers, sealing her lips with the feel, the taste of him. Making her his, and his alone. “Then so be it,” he said, his eyes turning dark as peat.
His gaze steady on hers, he skimmed his hands along her shoulders and down her arms. But this time, rather than reveling in her hair flowing wild and free over his hands, he smoothed her tresses off her shoulders, careful not to leave one strand shielding her near-bared breasts from view.
“You are more beautiful than I can describe,” he told her, his voice cracking, so strong raged his desire.
She blushed prettily, and he would’ve sworn she thrust her breasts forward a bit. As if she, too, ached for his touch, burned for the pleasure he was about to give her.
Teach her to give herself.
His manhood bucked and pulled at the thought.
“The paint,” he breathed, the words heavy with his ardor.
His enjoyment of their game.
A game more arousing if played with words.
“Open the jar of paint, Isolde,” he said, and she did.
She watched him watch her, a hot, liquid-y feeling twirling deep within that part of her. “And now, Sir Knight?” she whispered, “will you tell me what to do?”
Donall drew a deep breath. “You are eager to continue our talking game?”
Her nod of acquiescence near undid him.
“Then let us begin.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Your breasts are lush and perfect,” he said, opening this new round, a more elevated version of the game than what he’d taught her earlier.
This time he meant to do what he spoke of, not simply regale her with what he wanted to do.
He peered at her. So closely his stare would soon burn a hole in Evelina’s borrowed undergown. “Full and ripe, eager for my touch, they strain against the cloth of your camise,” he said, massaging her shoulders as he spoke, his own blood thickening with every uttered syllable.
She hung on his words, watching him with a rapt expression, her eagerness so apparent he could all but taste it.
He smoothed his hands up the column of her throat, toyed with the lobes of her ears, the soft skin just beneath. “Their peaks, your nipples, are a beautiful dusky rose. They are tightened, hard little buds, thrusting toward me through the fine, sheer fabric of your camise. They’ve peaked because they ache to be caressed.”
His wordy magic wove a wondrous enchantment ’round her, so titillating was it to hear him speak thus.
She burned for him.
“I ache for your touch,” she breathed, the admittance shooting straight to his groin, lengthening him to a painful degree.
He trailed his fingertips across the top halves of her breasts—the bared flesh swelling above the edge of the lowcut camise. Unbridled longing spiraled through her. She sighed, aching to rip apart the camise front and fully expose herself to the heat of his gaze.
“And I ache for you, sweet Isolde,” he said, gently kneading her upper arms, the magic he worked on her, pushing her past all maidenly decorum.
“Then take me,” the wanton in her pleaded. “Take me now.”
“And lose . . . this?” His slow smile returned, and its impact was devastating. “Nay, my love, to be a knight’s steely maid, you must learn restraint, to endure. Even when you believe doing so will push you to the brink of madness.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he swiftly leaned forward, catching it with his teeth. He flicked his own tongue over the tip of hers, then suckled briefly on her full lower lip before releasing her.
“You see, Isolde, when the anticipation is keen and sharp, the later release is powerful enough to move the stars, and that is what I would give you. Nothing less.” He looked at her. Deep and fully. “I want to move the stars for you.”
His gaze dropped to the black linen of her half-discarded mourning gown. Still bunched around her hips, its abandoned state, gathered in wanton disarray, formed an irresistibly erotic frame for the lush bounty displayed so sweetly above.
It was time.
“Pull down your camise, Isolde.”
A sharp stab of pleasure shot into her core.
Her hands began to tremble, almost in time to the aching throb between her thighs. Near swooning for want, she kept her gaze on his and eased her arms out of the camise’s shoulder straps. The undergown’s bodice dipped a bit when she dropped her arms to her sides, but the silky gauze still clung to the full mounds of her breasts, snagged there by her hardened nipples.
“Is this enough?” She played the game, the slow pulsing at her woman’s center almost unbearable now. “Will this . . . suffice?”
He shook his head, his dark eyes a rich, liquid brown.
“Pull down the fabric, Isolde,” he said, the words a command. “I would see you push down the camise until your breasts are fully exposed for my perusal.”
Clenching her thighs together, for she could no longer stand the throbbing ache this word game unleashed in her, she curled her fingers around the top edge of Evelina’s undergown, and tugged it down until nothing stood between her bared skin and the MacLean but the cool night air and the sheer pleasure of standing before him thus displayed.
Touch yourself.
The words came so soft, so low, she thought she’d imagined them.
“Touch yourself,” he said again, more clearly this time. “Do this for me and then I shall do all manner of deliciously wicked things to you,” he promised. “And not simply to your breasts.”
He nodded to the little pot of vermilion she’d picked up. “Set that down for moment,” he said. And she did, unable to resist whate’er he would have of her.
His eyes grew heavy with passion. “Lift up your breasts, Isolde. Lift them up, and toward me.”
Very slowly, her entire body trembling, she placed her hands beneath her breasts and . . . didn’t move them at all. She simply stood, holding them, feeling their weight against her palms, too embarrassed to do aught else.
“Show them to me, Isolde.”
A ragged sigh tore from her throat as she did as he bade. He didn’t moan or sigh, but his eyes were passion-drugged. Pure lust smoldered in their depths and sprang onto her, igniting similar fires in her own blood.
“Now touch your nipples,” he instructed, and the hot pulsing at her core burst into wholly new dimensions. “Toy and play with them, Isolde.”
She cried out the moment her fingers grasped the hardened peaks. Her knees buckled beneath her, but he caught her, pulling her tight against his warrior’s chest as he leaned back against the table.
Holding her, he pressed a light kiss to her temple. “Can you go on, my love?” He trailed his fingers down her arm, carefully avoiding any contact with her aching breasts, with her nipples.
He sat back, cradling her securely in his strong arms. “Would you crave surcease now, or shall we prolong our pleasure a bit longer?”
She nodded. “More.” The word came faint, pleasure-drowsed, but unmistakable.
Donall’s smile flashed triumphant. “My fine bold lass,” he said, his heart singing. “Then pull on your nipples, Isolde,” came his voice, thick with need. “Let me see you play with them.”
Her eyes drifted shut, so intense was the pleasure streaking through her. Her hips began to rock, her thighs instinctively inching apart, the pulsing ache between them begging for relief.
Infinitely gentle, he drew his hand, full-palmed over the plump heat of her woman’s flesh, warm through the folds of her gown. He caressed her need with a fleeting touch . . . a promise. “Soon, my sweet,” he breathed, taking his hand away. “After I’ve had my fill of watching you toy wi
th your breasts. After I’ve toyed with them. Now pull on the nipples, Isolde. Please.”
And she did. Hesitant at first, simple touches with the very tips of her fingers. Then light circles, scarcely touching the ruched peaks, until, urged on by his words and heated looks, she grew bolder, and began really playing with them.
Rousing herself with each tug, each pull. Watching him watch her do this stimulated her beyond anything she would have believed.
“The cream, Isolde,” he said, his voice calling her from the haze of wanton delight. “You are ready, my love.”
Still dazed, she felt him take one of her hands and smooth the cold, rose-scented unguent onto her fingers.
“The nipple cream. Use it, Isolde,” he urged. “For me.”
Another cry pushed up her throat, even as that part of her grew so heavy, she could scarce bear the exquisiteness. A heated, pulsing weight, driving her to the brink of all need.
“Rub the cream on your nipples.”
Her right hand, the one he smeared the blush of rose onto, drifted toward her breasts. Almost of its own volition. Moving ever closer, then pausing just above the aching tip of her left breast.
“Do it, my lady.” His words drowned her in lust, enslaved her to his mastery, his ardor.
His passion.
“Let me see you put the cream on your nipples, Isolde,” he coaxed her, his voice a caress of warm silk sliding past her ears, bewitching her. “Slow, gentle circles, a pull or two, a good, sound rubbing to work in the color, and then . . .”
She looked at him. “And then?” she breathed, her voice so thick with need she scarce recognized it as her own.
“Do it, my sweeting.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and the lust in his eyes sent her cream-coated fingers straight to her left nipple.
He flashed her a smile to rival the brilliance of the sun. “I am doing it, Sir Knight,” she breathed, his smile giving her the boldness she needed to be wanton.
His wanton.
“And what shall you do, now that I am?” She rubbed and rubbed, her gaze holding his. “What is this ‘and then . . .’ of yours?”
“And then, sweet Isolde,” he vowed, leaning forward to kiss her nose, “and then I shall call down the moon and the stars for you.”
Chapter Sixteen
CALL DOWN THE moon and the stars?”
“Every last one of them,” Donall vowed, still leaning hard against the table, still cradling her in his arms. “I swear it to you.”
“Every one?” She looked at him, shadows and candleglow playing across her beautiful face.
“So I have said.” Half-besotted with lust, he rubbed his thumb in slow, tender circles ’round one of her vermiliontipped nipples. “And when the day breaks, mayhap I shall fetch you the sun as well.”
She sighed, snuggling closer, her eyes limpid. “And you, my lord? What of your pleasure?”
His pleasure?
Could she truly not know simply holding her thus filled him with such pleasure, he’d soon burst from the sheer intensity of it?
“My pleasure is in the giving,” he said, returning his attention to her rose-scented nipples. Hoping to lose himself in passion before his conscience smote him for what he was about to do: indulge his fierce craving for her, then leave.
And leave he would.
He’d take the key she’d so bravely relinquished, and escape at first opportunity, following not his pleasure, his heart, but his duty.
His pressing need to return to Baldoon before Iain’s temper unleashed such chaos the tittle-tattlers would need centuries to tell the tale.
Her fingers—warm, smooth, and surprisingly strong—slipped over his hand, staying the sweet ministrations he dispensed so gladly. Banishing all thought of his hot-headed brother.
“The key is merely to afford you and your friend more comfort,” she said, as if she’d read his mind, the words slicing through the thick shroud of his lust.
Donall glanced sharply at her.
Saints, but she was as great an all-seer as Gavin!
Something keen and hurtful hid behind the desire lighting her eyes, but before he could fathom the look, she spoke again. “Naught has changed.”
He arched a brow. “Think you?”
She met his gaze full on, her courage bright and shining. “You and Gavin MacFie may while unhindered in your cell, but the door shall remained barred.”
Hot fury sluiced through him, the cursed MacLean taint, and he struggled to tamp it down. Cool his brewing temper and not lose sight of her struggle.
And struggle she did.
Warring emotions flashed across her face, while the bitter edge in her voice heralded the weight of her cares.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, silently cursing himself for a fool. Despite his own vexation, seeing her thus troubled bothered him greatly.
“You are blind, Isolde of Dunmuir,” he said, his voice tight, rigidly controlled lest he bellow his frustration at her.
Remind her of the famed MacLean temper.
Toss tinder on her suspicions against Iain.
“Blind?” She tilted her head and the movement sent a sheaf of her hair sliding over his arm.
Cool, flowing silk, heating his blood, and firing his temper at his ineptitude in convincing her of his brother’s innocence.
“Aye, blind.” Willing the flare of ill humor to recede, he smoothed his free hand down her arm. He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “A braw lass would look into her heart when seeking truths, and not out fool windows.” He gentled the words with a soft kiss on the backs of her fingers.
Her eyes widened, but rather than dispute what he’d said, she pressed her lips together and simply stared at him.
Donall shrugged. “ ’Tis there, and there alone, your answer lies.” He released her hand. “Not out yon windows or inside flagons of foul-reeking potions.”
Her face colored at that, and she glanced away, despite his words, looking straight toward the row of unshuttered windows lining the far wall. Narrow, arch-topped eyes peering out on the silvered night.
Undaunted, Donall cupped her chin and turned her face back to his. “Fair lady, you are wondrous full of puzzles.” He touched a fingertip to the lone freckle on her cheek. “How is it, you can dab whore’s paint on your breasts without batting an eye, yet one mention of that sharp-smelling tincture and you blush furiously?”
The high color in her cheeks glowed near as red as the vermilion staining the tips of her breasts. Donall peered at her, curious beyond redemption. “What is the brew?” he prodded. “Have mercy and ease my wonderings, for I will not be gulled into believing it is what you’ve claimed.”
His gaze raked her from the crown of her pretty head to where her gown and camise still bunched ’round her waist . . . and saw naught but unblemished creamy skin.
“You have but a single freckle,” he said, his MacLean temper vanquished by the powerful swell of his lust.
He placed a light kiss atop the freckle. “And a most fetching freckle it is,” he said, a genuine smile curving his lips.
“A bonnie freckle, indeed,” he jested, extraordinarily pleased at the way her own lips lifted in a tiny half-smile at his teasing. Totally smitten, he kissed the freckle again. “I would sorely regret its demise.”
“There were others,” she began, fidgeting at the lie. “I bbanished them all wi—” she broke off when he shook his head.
Clearly defeated, the blush drained from her cheeks, quickly replaced by the soft vulnerability he found so difficult to resist.
A vulnerability alluring enough to melt the most jaded knight’s heart, yet enough steel in her blood to make that same warrior’s hardened soul swell with pride.
Despite his best efforts to remain impassive, a frustrated sigh welled in Donall’s chest, and this time he didn’t even try to hold it back.
“By all the prophets and apostles, lass, it cannot be that damning,” he swore, his voice gruff, riding his ag
gravation. “What is the vile potion?”
She turned her head to the side and for one gut-wrenching moment, Donall feared she’d cry, but then a worse thought seized him. “Are you ill?” His fool MacLean heart twisted in anticipation of her answer.
To his astonishment, she smiled. Little more than slight twitchings at the corners of her mouth at first, but blossoming into a beaming smile of such radiance, it rivaled the light of all of Baldoon’s finest candelabra combined.
A smile to light the darkest night.
Or warm the emptiest heart.
“Aye, I am ill,” she said. “Sorely stricken, and there is no cure. The potion was given to me as a p-preventative measure, but has proven itself worthless save in repelling all who catch its smell.”
Something tightened in Donall’s chest. Not because of her words, but because of the look on her face as she’d said them. Were he Gavin MacFie, he’d know what the look meant, but he wasn’t, so he asked.
“And from what dire scourge is the wretched brew meant to protect you?”
She hesitated but a moment. “From you, milord,” she said, looking right at him. “From you.”
“From me?”
She nodded.
“A potion to protect you from me?” Hilarity began to overtake his astonishment. A bold conviviality, moving in fast and hard, ably crowding out his stunned surprise, and even his passion.
“Saints above, lass, ’tis not I who set out to seduce.” He skimmed his fingers across the round swells of her breasts.
Her naked, exposed breasts.
Heated desire shot straight to his groin. “Why would you seek to protect yourself from that which you so openly sought?”
She blinked, had the good grace to appear chagrined.
“Sought and won,” he added, heeding the urge to needle her when she didn’t answer him.
Needle her and take the sharp edge off his growing need to possess her.
He grazed a fingernail over one hardened nipple. “So now you’ve worn down my resistance, you seek to safeguard yourself with rank-smelling potions?”
“Nay, such is not the way of it,” she demurred. “I drank the potion to protect me from myself.”
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