This, now, with Yancy was all that mattered. Later, on her lonely mattress, she would examine her impetuousness and chastise herself to China and back.
As if sensing her desperation, he stepped from her embrace and tore off his shirt. His sculpted muscles bunched and flexed when he threw it carelessly on the floor.
In the few moments it took for him to remove the garment, she felt bereft. She required his touch just as the earth needed the sun’s caressing rays.
Winding an arm across her back, he urged her closer, while tilting his hips and pressing the solid bulge in his trousers into her soft belly.
Yancy brushed his lips against her hurt cheek, the barest whisper of a kiss. “My darling, I’m so sorry.”
He rained tender, reverent kisses over her injuries as if he sought to erase the pain.
She touched his mouth with hers, a butterfly’s stroke. “Kiss me, Yancy.”
“I don’t want to hurt your mouth.”
“You won’t.”
And he wouldn’t, not this gentle, considerate man.
At last his mouth took hers in a tentative kiss. A torrent of longing burst upon Isobel, as fierce and intense as the rainstorm that drenched them earlier today.
He probed her lips with his tongue, urging her to open for him.
Ravenous for everything he had to teach her, she eagerly complied. She moaned against his mouth and clutched his back, the wide planes smooth and warm.
Framing her face with his hands, Yancy kissed her, almost as an act of worship. He found his way inside her blanket and fondled her breasts.
Isobel sighed, arching into his caress.
He eased back, and her remaining blanket glided to the floor.
Chapter 22
Yancy hadn’t ever been this overcome with longing. He’d been a man about town, and a woman’s form held no secrets. But Isobel—God in heaven—she was beyond any of his erotic fantasies. And he’d had plenty of them.
Magnificent breasts—almost too big for her frame, the nipples large and coppery-tinted—taunted him unmercifully. He ached to feel their generous weight in his hands, to bury his face in their creamy softness, and suckle those glorious tips. His palms could scarce contain the ripe bounty of her full breasts.
They rose and fell in cadence with her rapid breathing.
A vision of her astride him, her breasts jiggling as she rode him to completion, left his mouth chalk dry and his penis straining against his pantaloons.
Her slender waist tapered in to wide, perfectly plump hips. Centered between her ivory thighs, a nest of almond-colored curls beckoned, as mesmerizing as Venus and as addictive as opium.
Imagining his groin settled against that soft treasure, gripping the luscious mounds of her derriere as he thrust into her, had Yancy on the verge of spilling his seed where he stood.
He hadn’t been this moon-eyed and out of control since Julia Cambrill sank her talons into him.
Bereft of covering, Isobel’s mouth dropped open in surprise and uncertainty danced across her beautiful features. She bent to retrieve the blanket, presenting him with her tantalizing buttocks.
Groaning, he snared her around the waist, yanking her to his aching shaft. One hand cradling a breast, the other her pelvis, he ground his hips into her bottom. “See what you do to me, Isobel?”
She trembled. “Yancy. I’m not . . .”
He trailed his tongue to her shoulder and bit gently.
A throaty moan left her in a rush of air, and she sagged against him. She smelled sweet and womanly.
Burying his face in Isobel’s hair, he sucked in a great, gulping breath. They would be married as soon as he spoke to her father and the contract was signed. “I promise, I shall make all the settlement arrangements—”
Isobel stiffened, remaining rigid and immobile for an instant, before wresting from his arms.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” He tried to embrace her once more, but she shied away and snatched the other blanket from the floor.
Swiftly wrapping it about herself, she hid her woman’s bounty from him. Eyes averted, she gestured between them. “I blame myself for this.”
Hands on his hips, he studied her. Why the barriers now?
Her lower lip quivering, she blinked several times and swallowed. Her gaze kept skipping to his bare chest. She wasn’t any more capable of resisting him than he was her.
“Isobel, there’s no blame involved.” He touched her arm tenderly.
Her mortified gaze met his for an instant as she backed away, clutching the blanket like a protective mantel. “I shouldn’t have left the bedchamber without my clothing and shouldn’t have encouraged your attentions. I knew better and am sorry my actions gave you the wrong impression.”
“Wrong impression? Sweetheart, we both want—”
“I shall retire now.” Chagrin and unshed tears thickened her voice.
He extended his hand. “Don’t go. Your hair isn’t completely dry and the chamber isn’t heated. We can sit before the fire and talk, while your hair dries, if you wish.”
He’d rather lay her before the blaze and explore every inch of her smooth, satin skin.
“No.” A vivid blush swept her face, and she ducked her head. Shoulders hunched, she edged past him. She swiftly padded to the bedchamber, and a moment later, the door closed softly behind her.
What the bloody hell just happened?
Isobel had been a wanton siren one instant, and the next, frigid as Loch Arkaig in January. Plunging a hand through his hair, Yancy stared into the flames carousing in the hearth. A muted sound carried through the door separating them.
Sobbing.
Blast. Would he ever understand women?
A dram of whisky wouldn’t be amiss right now. Who did he think he fooled? An entire bottle wouldn’t cure the rod tenting his pantaloons or the guilt besetting him. A decent man would have proposed and wed her before taking such liberties, even if she had been willing and irresistible. And, God knew, he was no saint.
Yancy jammed on his boots, but ignored his shirt. He grabbed a whisky bottle as he stamped his way to the entrance. He’d already bathed, however another thorough dousing was in order—freezing well-water for his lust-ridden body and alcohol for his smitten heart.
The front door banging roused Isobel from weeping into the lumpy pillow. The fabric smelled slightly of Yancy. She flopped onto her back, an arm across her eyes.
Silly, becoming overwrought due to a few splendid kisses. Fine, a mite more than kissing had occurred, and perhaps the experience had been the most wonderful thing this side of heaven.
Sucking in a ragged breath, she swiped at the tears seeping from her eyes. She had acted a promiscuous tart with a man she knew full well couldn’t offer her anything other than his protection. And worse, she’d been tempted to let him have his way, consequences be damned.
Then, her vexing conscience reared its prudent head with a litany of logical reasons why she needed to ignore her heart and the delicious sensations engulfing her:
You cannot throw your virtue away on a man who doesn’t cherish it.
You’ll never forgive yourself.
You’ll be little more than a well-bred courtesan.
You won’t have the remotest chance of making a respectable match.
Still, Isobel had been sorely tempted.
Until he so crassly mentioned an agreement.
That curbed her ardor faster than vermin in the sheets.
Yancy obviously wasn’t as overcome with need as she since in the middle of their interlude, he could contemplate contract terms. He’d evidently assumed her responses meant she had agreed to become his mistress.
The devilishly handsome boor.
Tonight sealed her heart and her fa
te. She’d leave Craiglocky until Yancy departed. Then, in a year or two or ten, if she had a chance encounter with him, her emotions would be impervious to his charm.
He would likely have a passel of offspring with Matilda by then, and Isobel would either be a spinster, shriveled up drier than forgotten shortbread, or married with a brood of her own, the Good Lord willing.
They would simply smile and nod before passing one another as if this wretchedly wonderful attraction hadn’t ever existed between them.
Burrowing deeper into the itchy blankets, she released a long, dejected sigh. Why had her feckless heart chosen Yancy?
Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.
Tish tosh, Grandmother. What’s meant to happen will happen, all right. And look what a colossal disaster everything has turned out to be.
A shuddery breath escaped her before she determinedly clamped her eyes shut. A visage of her and Yancy embracing finally enticed her into the arms of Morpheus.
Sometime before dawn timidly crept across the horizon, Isobel awoke with a cry. Rearing upward, fear choked her as she frantically searched the room. The moon’s half-light filtering through the shutters lent an eerie glow to the chamber.
Where was she? And why was she naked?
“Isobel?” Yancy’s shadowy form appeared beside the bed.
Memory flooded her. Gripping a blanket to her chest, she slumped in relief.
A dream. The attack had been nothing but a dream.
“Are you all right? You cried out in your sleep.” Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he touched her shoulder. “And you’re trembling.”
“I dreamed Angus found me. Us.” She brushed her hair away from her face, trying to breathe calmly. Terror’s vise-like grip slowly let loose of her chest. “He stabbed you and put his hands on me intending to—”
She couldn’t finish as a fresh wave of dread seized her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fisted the blanket. Lord, the nightmare had seemed real. Yancy dead, a dirk impaling his heart. Tears oozed from beneath her eyelashes and tracked down her cheeks.
“Shh, sweetheart. I’m here.” He draped an arm across her shoulders and pressed her head to his solid chest.
So nice and firm. The fine hairs tickled her nose. He smelled of strong spirits and the pleasant aroma she had come to associate with him.
“Scoot over and lie down. I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep again.” He bumped her slightly with his hip.
Isobel did as he asked. “Where were you sleeping? On the floor?”
He chuckled as he tucked her in. “Yes, outside your door.”
“That must be awfully uncomfortable.” She hadn’t given a thought to where he would sleep. Selfish of her.
He shrugged, a boyish smile framing his lips. “I’ve slept in far worse conditions.” He gave her a hip little squeeze. “Now, go to sleep. I would like to get an early start. I don’t think we were followed, but I shall be more comfortable once we are on McTavish lands.”
She settled against him, his shoulder pillowing her head. One of her arms rested on his chest, her legs flush with his. “Do you think Ewan raided Dounnich House?”
Yancy curved one of his arms underneath her nape. He lightly played with the tendrils there and settled his other hand atop her hip.
His voice thick with sleep, and perhaps a trifle too much drink, he mumbled, “I would bet on it. He’ll have extra sentries patrolling his borders too.”
“Hmm.” Isobel yawned, nestling into his side. “That sounds like my brother.”
Yancy kissed her nose and arched into her. His rigid length pulsed against her leg. “Now sleep, vixen, or I shan’t be responsible for what happens next.”
Chapter 23
Cool air blasted Isobel. Shivering, she snuggled closer to the warm body lying beside her. Awareness dawned. A firm, male body cradled hers from shoulder to calf.
Opening her eyes, her gaze collided with Yancy’s languid green stare. She blinked sleepily and smiled.
His lips curled up lazily before his perusal moved to her exposed breasts. He touched one nipple with his fingertip.
Suddenly, she wasn’t cold any longer. A delicious heat sang along her veins.
The door exploded open.
She shrieked and hauled the blanket over her breasts as Ewan, Father, Dugall, Harcourt, and several clansmen stormed into the miniscule chamber. They were packed tighter than biscuits in a tin.
Yancy surged upward, only to freeze as Ewan’s sword tip pricked his Adam’s apple. A dot of scarlet appeared.
“Do. Not. Move, Ramsbury.” Ewan’s savage expression nearly stopped her heart. He looked ferocious enough to kill.
She’d never seen this side of him, the side that earned him the reputation of an unparalleled Diplomatic Corp agent and unrivalled with a blade.
Hands splayed in surrender beside his head, Yancy sank onto his back. The rippled muscles of his abdomen bunched, as if lying submissive strained his endurance. Eyes wary, he met Ewan’s enraged glower head on.
“Do you mean to run me through with your sister lying beside me?” His focus shifted to the Duke. “And Harcourt, thank you for defending me.”
“Old chap, what would you have me do? You’ve been caught in the act red-handed—er, not the act, but I assume Miss Ferguson is naked as a plucked chicken under that blanket.” Sporting one blackened eye, Harcourt rubbed the side of his nose. “Besides, I’ve not seen you in a predicament this interesting.”
A sound, very much like a growl, accompanied the ugly glower Yancy sent the duke.
Harcourt chuckled wickedly. “I’m eagerly anticipating how you will extricate yourself. Should prove most entertaining.”
“If you value your eyesight, I would advise you to stop ogling Isobel this instant, friend.” Fire kindled in Yancy’s eyes.
“Shut. Up.” Ewan wedged the sword firmer against Yancy’s neck. The scarlet grew larger.
Dragging the blanket with her, Isobel sat up. “Ewan, stop it this instant. Nothing happened. If you’d notice, he’s wearing pantaloons.”
She tried to ignore the awkwardness of the demeaning situation. Nonetheless, the men shuffling at the end of the bed and Harcourt’s appraisal strained her composure. Pointing at the sword, she scowled. “Get that away from Yancy.”
“I warned you, Ramsbury, not to trifle with her affections.” Ewan sent her a glance filled with disappointed accusation. “I expected better from you, Isobel.”
“Aye, it’s shocked I be, lass.” Father’s usually jovial eyes brimmed with disapproval.
Pain welled within her chest, and she stifled a wounded gasp. Clasping the blanket tighter, she dropped her gaze as mortification surged from her bare shoulders to her hairline.
They blame me.
And Ewan had warned Yancy away from her? Tears pooled, but she refused to shed them.
Yancy shifted the tiniest bit, nudging her knee with his. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I’ve every intention of marrying her.”
Nearly letting loose of the blanket, Isobel swung her gaze to him. Had she heard him correctly? “Pardon?”
“Not the most romantic proposal, I know.” A twinkle entered his expressive eyes. “A blade at one’s throat does rather ruin the moment.”
Father and Dugall appeared ready to pummel him. Ewan threatened with the sword tip, and the others’ countenances were no less menacing, except Harcourt who seemed highly amused by the situation.
Her composure and patience at an end, Isobel jerked her head toward the door. “Leave. All of you, so I can rise.”
“Not until we settle the matter.” Legs spread, Father folded his arms, his expression unyielding.
Stubborn oaf.
Dugall mimicked their father’s stance.
If it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the situation, Isobel might have teased him. Instead, she flashed her father as stare meant to scorch his hair and blister his skin.
“Do you think to have this discussion with Isobel unclothed in full view of these men, Sir Hugh?” With a blade at his throat, Yancy dared challenge her father.
A rush of appreciation seized her. She might be able to pretend chagrin wasn’t shattering her, but she wouldn’t be able to continue the ruse much longer. Especially, with the curious and censured glances—and a few appreciative ones as well—covertly directed at her from the clansmen.
Everyone between here and London would know of her ruination within days.
Yancy’s question took Father aback. His dark-brown eyes assessed the earl. “Nae. Clear the room. That be includin’ ye, yer lordship.”
Yancy patted Isobel’s leg. “Everything will be all right. I promise.”
As you promised last night?
Father lurched forward. “I’ll thank ye to keep yer hands off me daughter.”
Ewan stepped away and lowered his sword, though he didn’t sheath the weapon.
As Yancy rose, the men ambled from the chamber except her father and Ewan who came up behind him.
“Father, wait.” Isobel scooted higher, careful to keep the blanket secured over her breasts. “Where are Duncan and the twins?”
As one, the men turned to look at her.
A grimace settled on Ewan’s face, and the scowl he leveled Yancy could have ignited tinder. “You didn’t tell her?”
Yancy’s fierce glower mirrored her brother’s.
“No. She’s been through enough, and I didn’t think she needed any more worries at the moment. She was abducted, assaulted—in case her bruised face escaped your attention—held prisoner, and nearly forced to marry a crazed monster before she escaped and fled for her life. I’d say that was quite enough to endure.”
Premonition slithered across Isobel’s bare skin, and she shuddered. Damned, rotten owl.
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 17