by Wilde, Tanya
Chapter 11
Drew woke up warm, his body burning up. This surprised him, as he vividly recalled falling asleep curled up in a fetal position with a sheet pulled over his head. Cold. Weary. Dreams filled with scenes of horror. Yet heat seeped into his bones, waking his body to a different sort of fever pitch. He was hard, the shirt and breeches straining against taut, sensitive skin. The air turned thick and heavy as tension danced over raw nerves, firing up his blood.
Drew nearly groaned.
He forced his eyelids open, finding the source of all the sizzle, a vision of creamy porcelain and bright copper hair. Isla lay cocooned against his side, head resting on his shoulder, legs entwined with his, one arm thrown over his chest.
This close, he could count all the tiny freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose—and he did count them all. They were the same color as the flecks of gold that dusted her whisky-colored eyes. Eyes that spit fire at him lately. Eyes that had begun seeing beyond his disguise.
Drew wiped the beads of sweat covering his brow and adjusted his eye patch, banishing the last of his nightmare. As always, in his dreams, he relived that day. The scent of copper seeping into his skin. Ewan on the ground. Shattering silence. A gasp. A string of curses. The roar of Falcon. Adair falling on his knees into the dirt, reaching out to cradle his brother’s limp body.
The dream, a living ghost of his past, never failed to spark the memory of each miserable moment from that day on. The funeral. Six MacCallans’ pummeling fists. Woods. Darkness. Cold. His brother dragging his body to a carriage. His mother’s tears.
Drew glanced to the sleeping woman beside him.
And the ghosts of his dreams vanished.
Awareness, emotion, and raw fear blazed inside him. He could no longer pretend he’d be happy to have her in his life any way he could have her, even from afar. The only way he would be able to settle was for her to be at his side: Isla and Drew.
Peril lurked every time a spark of recognition flared in the lass’s eyes—as if she had already pieced together the puzzle but did not yet grasp its significance. As if on some deeper, profound level, she had always recognized him, but her grief had been like shutters covering her eyes.
It was, Drew reckoned, only a matter of time before she saw straight through him. He had to tell her the truth before that came to pass.
Please, God, don’t let me lose her.
She brought warmth to his battered heart—the same warmth that currently swept through him—and he let it in, basked in it, allowed it to fill him with a longing that dragged the air from his lungs.
But the one truth he knew better than anyone—the truth that had haunted him these past eighteen months—was that guilt and self-loathing were far more painful than being pummeled by fists. Shame always lingered long after bruises faded.
He would no longer be chained to guilt and regret. Last night had made him more determined than ever to break free of this disguise and the lies attached to it.
The two of them were better together than apart. When they were separate, shadows and sinister noises threatened to invade and send chills down their spines. When they were together, no scratching in walls, no scraping and howling against glass windows scared them.
He would no longer hold back, Drew decided. Tooth and nail, he would fight to win Isla MacCallan back.
“Wait a little longer for me, lass,” he whispered into the soft strands of her hair. “I need a little more time to brace my heart before I can face you.”
Drew watched the rise and fall of her breasts, snuggled in his embrace, with a growing sense of severity. The air seemed to thicken with attraction whenever they were together, yet the consequences of his actions were uncertain. She thought him someone else. And Drew was no fool. A fight lay ahead. A fight for their future. A fight for her love. A fight with those damn MacCallan men. This time, he would not stand to be their punching bag.
But as long as there tethered a sliver of hope for Drew to hold onto, no battle was too big—he’d march into each battle with his sword drawn.
A soft murmur of pleasure slipped through her parted lips, drawing his gaze once more to their fullness. Blood simmered in his body. Would she taste as sweet as roses? He could brush his lips over hers, and she would be none the wiser. Languidly, like a cat, she stretched her limbs out, her legs pushing into his.
Drew clenched his fists. Hard.
How had they ended up beneath the same blanket? Not that Drew wasn’t delighted at this turn of events, but she might accuse him of all kinds of underhandedness.
He peered at her from beneath his lashes and waited for her to wake up. Her cheeks were warm, a lush pink color beneath the creamy white. She was warmth and light, the fresh breeze that blew away the dark cloud that hung over his heart, his soul.
“No matter what happens,” Drew whispered, memorizing each sweet impression of this moment, “you will always take my breath away.”
Her lashes fluttered.
ISLA WOKE SLOWLY, SNUGGLING deeper into the warmth surrounding her. Her eyes snapped open. Warmth was supposed to be soft and fluffy, not hard as a rock. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim light, and found herself drowning in glowing blue eyes. A promise of something wild and wanton flashed in their depths. She knew she should speak, say something, but words simply trailed away, lost on her tongue. Never, not once in her life, had she been struck with awe this way.
Her cheeks flushed with heat as she slowly unfolded herself from his body.
“How are you feeling?” Mr. Ross asked.
“Not so magical as last night,” she admitted, sitting upright, brushing strands of copper hair from her face.
“You should stay away from that ale; it’s stronger than it ought to be.”
“It’s too early to be scolded,” Isla muttered, her gaze traveling over the bed. Her blanket lay disregarded at the foot of the mattress as though she had kicked it off and gone in search of a warmer, more devilish source. Och, how humiliating.
“Do not fret about it, lass,” Mr. Ross said, seemingly reading her thoughts. “I allowed you the use of my body as a source of heat. You should thank me.”
Isla shot him a drowsy glare. The man had a gift of chasing away every feeling—discomfort and fondness alike—with that mouth. But something seemed to have changed. Instead of the usual pang of exasperation in her breast, a softer emotion fluttered there.
She studied his stark features through heavy lids. Mr. Ross had lost someone, a woman he had once loved deeply. And yet he appeared such a strong man, as though loss would never dare touch the likes of him. He seemed far too untouchable for that.
“Do you always sleep like an octopus?”
Isla blinked. “Are you comparing me to an octopus?” She patted down her bed hair and then recalled how her legs had been wrapped around his body. Isla’s face burned.
“What’s wrong with an octopus?”
“They are slimy and have tentacles.” Irritation finally made its appearance. “The more I think about it, the more offended I am. How dare you compare me to an octopus, you . . . you insolent man-beast.”
He choked on laughter. “If I am already accused of insolence, I might as well act the part.”
Isla froze when his hand lifted to twirl a strand of her hair between his fingers, his eyes brighter than usual. She realized then, as heat spread through her body, that it had not been the effects of the ale that had left her all bothered and trembling. It had been the effect of Mr. Ross. All along.
“Silky,” his voice murmured smoothly.
“What are you doing?” She exhaled as those words fluttered from her lips like butterfly wings, almost seductive in nature.
“Being insolent.” He touched his thumb to her lower lip. “Soft.”
“Well, stop it.” She slapped his hand away, ears burning.
He smiled, showcasing a perfect row of pearly teeth. “Stop what? This?” He pinched her cheek. “This?” He tugged her ear. “This?” He swa
tted her nose with one finger.
Isla laughed while batting away his hand.
His face appeared suddenly inches away from hers. “Or this?” he whispered, lowering his head, lips hovering above hers. When she did not pull away, just stared at him without blinking, he brushed them against hers.
“Sweet,” he murmured, pulling away. “Just as I imagined.”
Isla lifted her finger to try and trace the spark his touch had left behind. “Why did you do that?”
“Insolence.” A devilish glint flashed in his eyes. “By inviting me into your bed, you invited my touch.”
Isla snorted. “You shock me with a kiss and then bait me with such an outlandish statement that I cannot be adequately shocked.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are a sly man, Mr. Ross.”
He smirked. “You aren’t leaping away from me.”
She lifted her chin in mock upset. “I ought to slap you, but I’m still too stunned.”
“Go ahead, then, lass. I’ll give you a moment to be shocked.”
“Mr.—”
“You have nineteen freckles,” he cut her off, his well-shaped lips curving into an equally well-shaped smile. “I counted.”
“Must you always interrupt me?”
“Only when I sense you are about to say something meaningless to me.”
Isla opened her mouth to give the arrogant beast a proper scolding when his words struck home. Both hands lifted to cover her cheeks. “You counted my freckles?”
“I could not resist. They were right there, begging to be counted.” He offered her a sheepish grin. “And I did not wish to wake you.”
“I do not know what to make of you, Mr. Ross,” Isla muttered with a shake of her head. “It annoys me how you manage to disarm my annoyance with annoyingly disarming statements.”
“It may be that you like me, lass. Have you thought of that?” He grinned.
“Och!” She sputtered, pointing a finger at the door. “Get out of my bed, and do not kiss me again.”
“Tossing me out of your chamber already?” He lifted a hand to clasp at his heart. “I’m wounded.”
“I’m sure you are not.”
He leaned down, nose-to-nose with her. “Just so you are aware, that wasn’t a kiss.”
“Then what, pray tell, was that?”
“A peck,” he said. “More than anything in the world, I want to kiss you. A proper kiss. The way a man kisses a woman. Right now, just as you are.” Drew pulled away and rose from the bed. “But I will not.”
“Och, you are surprisingly bold this morning, Mr. Ross. I did not ask you to kiss me.” She lifted her chin. “How can I when I do not even know your name?”
“Aye, you don’t know my true name, and because of that wretched fact, I cannot spend the hours, days, or a lifetime seducing you, chasing away any shadow that dare enter your eyes as I wish to.”
Seduce her! What had gotten into Mr. Ross this morning? As if to taunt her, her words of last night whispered into her memory. Sleeping together is better than sleeping apart. If she’d pinkened before, it was nothing compared to the blaze of red that warmed Isla’s cheeks now.
His soft laughter flowed down her spine.
Isla snatched a pillow from the bed and flung it at him. “Why are you still here?”
His laughter deepened as he strode to the door, slipping from the room with one last parting word. He grinned at her. “Roses.”
Och, her poor, hopeless heart.
Chapter 12
He had compared her limbs to the tentacles of an octopus.
Counted her freckles.
Teased her.
Laughed at her.
Kissed her.
Nay, brushed his lips against hers in a peck.
Spent the night in her room.
Declared staggering words to her.
Not in that particular order, but ye gods, if those weren’t the most unforgettably breathtaking words she’d ever heard in the most arresting, throaty brogue, she must have been dreaming.
You truly believe that? That anyone can spend a second in your company and not want to spend each season of his life at your side.
A pox on that man-beast. Had he teased her? What else could it be but teasing? Surely he hadn’t meant he wanted to stay by her side forever? Such teasing was not the least bit funny.
Och, but he was the most confusing, insolent octopus in the world!
She clasped a hand over her fluttering breast. “Why is my heart beating so fast?” She fought to draw air into her lungs. “Too fast.”
Och, she had sunk too deeply into those blue eyes.
Curse this hopeless heart!
Nevertheless, Mr. Ross and his flattering words were not a matter to dwell on with a protesting belly. Brooding would have to wait, preferably shelved for a later date. Better yet, she’d never brood over his words again. Aye, that was a solid solution.
Shelve. Pivot. Forget.
Decided, Isla left her room with only food in mind. And tea. Lots and lots of tea. She hurried down to the dining room, taking care not to miss the ninth step again. However, her descent slowed on the eleventh and came to a complete stop by the thirteenth.
Mr. Ross as Isla had never seen him before stood at the foot of the stairwell. The woman in her snapped to life as her gaze darted over him. Nothing had really changed about him—he still wore a loose-fitting white linen shirt with a brown woolen coat. No tartan. No waistcoat. No neckerchief. His hair still a shaggy mop that teased his shoulders, and thick stubble still coated his jaw. And always, an eye patch covered his right eye.
He was the same bossy, insolent, arrogant Mr. Ross.
And yet, he was not.
It was not the man who had changed, Isla realized, but her knowledge of him, her awareness of Mr. Ross. She had, in the course of their short journey, discovered a labyrinth of winding and twisting layers that made up the man. A deep, scarred, thorny Highlander, and yet profoundly caring, oddly considerate and, at times, even charming.
Isla felt a sudden jolt of nerves as he gave her a crooked grin. Her gaze lowered to trace the quirk of his mouth, and she recalled the spark they caused while brushing against hers—if that had not been a kiss, Isla did not know if she’d survive actual kissing. But she’d kiss him anyway, she decided, and if she did not survive that spark, she would happily perish in those strong arms.
“Miss Ross.”
Her eyes whipped up to his, ears burning at being caught staring.
“You look . . .” He inspected her from head to toe like a predator honing in on his prey, his attention absolute.
She held her breath.
“Hungry,” he finished with a roguish tilt of his mouth.
“Och, you are a mean one.” Isla descended the last two steps and flounced past him, muttering, “Could you not have said ravishing? No woman wants to look hungry.”
His chuckle trailed after her. “Is it too late to amend my words, then?”
“Aye, no amount of amending will erase the picture of me ravenously gorging on a leg of duck.”
“Are you that famished, lass?”
She shot him a heated look over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. His eyes were laughing at her, and good humor emanated from him in waves—a jocularity that replaced her growing touchiness with amusement.
Isla averted her gaze. He had already caught her gawking at his mouth; she refused to be caught drowning in the blue of his eyes. She had some dignity.
The lovebird couple, Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda, were the only other occupants in the dining room when they entered. They hardly noticed Isla and Mr. Ross, their heads bent together as they whispered soft promises to each other.
Isla sighed in envy.
She wondered if they knew just how fortunate they were to have found each other.
“What calamities do you think will befall us today?” Isla asked as she dropped into the chair Mr. Ross pulled out for her.
His answering look made her chuckle. �
�I am merely asking.”
“Do not speak of such things.” He swept the room with a suspicious glance as he lowered into the seat across from her. “These walls will listen and oblige.”
A strange sense of déjà vu burned through her again, and she fought to place it. Why did Mr. Ross seem so familiar? She shook her head to clear the sensation. Her gaze traveled over the dark wooden interior of the room. It must be this place, she decided, that coaxed sentiments of days past out into the open.
The maid bounced over to their table, and Isla considered Mr. Ross from beneath her lashes as he ordered them each a bowl of hearty breakfast stew and a pot of tea. What a dependable man—one, she suspected, who would give all he could for others before he took for himself.
“Andrew,” she blurted when the maid dashed off.
His gaze locked with hers.
“My first guess,” Isla clarified, then scrunched her brows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m merely reflecting on your choice of name,” he murmured with a wry twist of his lips. “St. Andrew is the patron Saint of Scotland.”
Isla nodded. “It’s a strong Scottish name.”
His smile was a touch smug. “You think me strong?”
“Brave,” she corrected. “You defied my brothers, after all.”
“That was no hardship.”
Isla gave him a sideways look. “Wait until they catch us.”
“This might be the one place they will never catch us.” Humor lit his brow.
Her smile turned rueful. “Do not speak so soon. If only the haunted are drawn to this establishment, this might be the one place we are sure to get caught.”
Mr. Ross sat back with a shake of his head. “True.”
“By now my brothers will be searching for me, knowing that I’ve gone to England with you as my escort.”
“You always knew they would find out.”
“Aye, but I never imagined I wouldn’t even get to the border before they caught up to me. Now they’ll have worried for nothing.”
“They were always going to be worried, lass.”
A vision of her brothers, their brows rife with anxiety and fear, entered her mind. At the time she’d left MacCallan Castle, she’d been so angry and frustrated, she hadn’t cared about anything but herself. That anger had all but faded, and Isla found herself missing those brainless lumps of men.