He cradled her against himself and sat on one great rock so that she lounged across his lap, never ceasing his kiss. He could guarantee that the lady held the memory of him tightly in her thoughts – and he could do so without taking a thing from her. He slid his hand over her knee and up the silken skin of her thigh. Isabella gasped when his fingers touched the tangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.
He lifted his head and smiled at her, savoring the wonder in her expression. He loved how disheveled and pleased she looked already, and knew she would soon be more so. He slid his fingers between her legs, smiling more broadly at the slick heat he found there. She was aroused already and her breath came more quickly.
“I shall do all that needs to be done,” he vowed to her. “Simply savor it.” Her lips parted, looking so lush and soft that he could not resist her. He bent and kissed her slowly, swallowing her gasp of pleasure when his fingers found the pearl between her thighs. Isabella shuddered from head to toe, but she parted her legs and pulled him closer for another kiss.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Murdoch was more tempting than should be humanly possible. Isabella knew what she should do and knew what was sensible and right. But this man had only to smile that slow smile at her, to let the wicked glint dawn in his blue eyes, or to touch a fingertip to her, and Isabella could think of nothing other than his kiss. The pleasure he conjured with his touch drove all practical matters from Isabella’s thoughts.
Her kirtle was unlaced and his hands were beneath her chemise, his fingers kindling wondrous new sensations. She felt wanton, for she could deny him nothing, and indeed, she wanted more. He touched her with surety, at first gently, then with more demand. She had no doubt that he knew precisely what he did to her, for a tumult rose within her unlike anything she had ever felt before. He coaxed her to lean back on the great rock, the sky arching chill and blue overhead, and Murdoch’s caress making her burn with desire.
His kiss tormented and teased her, tempting her to give him more and more. He murmured her name, his voice rough with a desire that made her heart pound. He looked down at her, his eyes glittering as his fingers worked their magic.
“Next time, we shall meet abed,” he whispered to her, his voice dark with an intent that thrilled her. “Next time, I shall do this with my mouth, with my tongue and my teeth and my breath.” He flicked a finger across her and she gasped in pleasure. “Next time, I shall take you fully and claim you as my own.”
Murdoch’s voice dropped to a growl, his intensity making Isabella’s very blood heat. “I would bed you in furs and velvet,” he vowed and her heart thundered at the possibility. “I would bed you in sunlight and in moonlight, I would bed you in darkness and in day, I would bed you in the morning and in the afternoon.”
“In the stables and the meadow,” Isabella gasped, loving how he smiled. The tumult rose within her, as Murdoch conjured it with skill. Isabella was content to do as he had bidden, though truly, she thought she could not bear more pleasure. She fairly danced upon his wicked fingers and he grinned at her, tormenting her so that the heat doubled and redoubled beneath her skin.
“Indeed,” he whispered. “Make no mistake, my Isabella, I would bed you every day and every night for the rest of our lives.” He pinched her clitoris then, his fingers moving with quick and gentle force.
Isabella cried out as his touch cast her over the edge and into the abyss, shivers of pleasure cascading through her body and leaving her trembling in his arms. He caught her close and kissed her deeply. Isabella clutched fistfuls of his hair, wanting to merge their bodies into one, to have more of him, even all of him, and to have it with all haste. She wanted him naked, his skin pressed against hers and his strength inside her. Although he had given her pleasure, she ached for more.
It was when Murdoch pulled her closer, tucking her head against his shoulder, that she saw the mark upon his left wrist. He had lifted his head and was listening avidly to something she could not discern.
Isabella caught his hand in hers and studied the blue whorl in confusion. She had never seen the like of it. “What is this?” It could not be a malady, for it looked so deliberate in design, as if a scribe had drawn on his flesh.
Her question seemed to trouble him, for he became curt. “It is nothing,” Murdoch said, putting her on her feet with unceremonious haste. “I hear horses.” He strode to Hermes, taking undue interest in the beast’s bridle.
“I do not.” Isabella stared at his back, startled by his change of mood. She straightened her garb, though she would have preferred to have lingered with Murdoch.
“Listen!”
Isabella followed him, less interested in pursuit than his dismissive tone. “If it is a malady, perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“It cannot be healed.” Murdoch spoke dismissively, his eyes narrowed as if he would hide his thoughts from her. She noted that he tugged at his left sleeve.
The mark troubled him.
Why? What was it?
“You cannot be certain of that until we try,” Isabella said mildly. “Has anyone tried to heal it?”
“No. And no one shall, for it cannot be healed.”
“Where did you get it? When did it begin?”
“It is not of import!” he said through his teeth, his eyes flashing. “You must ride out, immediately.” He locked his hands together to create a step for her to mount Hermes, and fixed her with a determined glance.
“But what of you?”
“I will ensure my own survival.”
Isabella could not understand his manner. He spoke to her as if she were a stranger, not a woman he had kissed and touched with such intimacy just moments before. He gave her a hard look. “And when shall I see you again? Where shall I find you?”
“You may not.” One moment he spoke of the future as if it were assured, but the next he looked intent upon fleeing her side. “Ride out, before it is too late.”
Isabella regarded him for a long moment, then stepped into his locked hands and swung up into the saddle.
“Can you manage him?”
She looked Murdoch in the eye. “You cast me from your side, yet suddenly show concern for my welfare. What ails you in truth, Murdoch? Will you not confide in me?”
“I would if it would make a difference,” Murdoch said, his tone softening. “It is cursed complicated, Isabella.”
That he no longer called her his Isabella made his intentions most clear.
“No, it is simple,” Isabella snapped. “Simple enough that even I can see the truth of it. I have been useful to you, no more than that, and now you would dismiss me. Was that caress your payment?”
Murdoch had the grace to wince, but Isabella was too annoyed with him to care. She clucked to the horse, which recalled the way out of the fen well enough. Hermes sank to his ankles once or twice, but they moved with enough speed that they were soon cresting the rise again. Once level with the fields, she realized it was Alexander’s party who rode toward her, her brother at the lead. He looked to be terrified and urged his horse to greater speed when he saw her.
Isabella smiled and waved to reassure him, and did not look back. She would not give Murdoch’s location away.
She would save him and she would heal him. That mark on his flesh was at the root of his change of mood. And Isabella was going to find out what it was.
One way or the other.
* * *
Murdoch could not court Isabella.
There could be no more telling reminder than the marks that claimed his own flesh, yet in the presence of Isabella, Murdoch had forgotten the Elphine Queen, the clutch she had upon him, her possession of his heart.
And the reality that he was doomed to either disappear into Fae or die at the next new moon.
He had no right to make sweet promises to Isabella. He had no right to dream of a future with that maiden by his side, to imagine that he could woo and win her, to make hot promises of the pleasure they would give each ot
her.
The only mercy was that he had not taken her fully. He had not claimed her maidenhead, which surely would never be his to possess.
Murdoch was angry then, angry with the trickery of the Elphine Queen and the net in which she had snared him.
He was yet more angry that he did not know how to free himself. If only he could find Duncan’s relic and restore it to Seton Manor, perhaps his fortune would change.
Isabella’s assurances about her brother’s intent did not let him rest easy either. Murdoch followed her as swiftly as he could and climbed the rise, lying in the snow as he watched Hermes run toward the party that had given chase.
It was her brother in the lead, for Murdoch recognized the insignia on the younger man’s tabard. Isabella rode directly toward him, confident in her brother’s good nature. Murdoch fingered the hilt of his knife and wished they had been close enough that he could throw the blade in defense of his lady.
But the laird leapt from the back of his own steed and lifted his sister down. He embraced her with a relief that could be seen even at a distance, then set her on her feet and framed her face in his hands. His affection for his sister was evident, as was his intent toward her.
The lady’s confidence in her own welfare was deserved.
The laird clearly questioned her, his gaze rising to a point on the horizon far to the north, then back at his sister again. When he turned and led her back toward Kinfairlie, his arm cast over her shoulders, Murdoch knew the truth.
Isabella lied for him.
And Murdoch would take a southward path back to Kinfairlie’s forest.
The party rode back toward the village, the other horses surrounding Hermes and Isabella. Murdoch laid in the snow for a long time, ensuring that he would not be spotted when he moved. For the first time, he was assailed by doubt. Was the Laird of Kinfairlie as innocent as his sister believed? Who then was responsible for the theft of the relics? Did the brother Ross act alone? Who else could steal so many relics with such efficiency, claiming them from behind locked and guarded doors? How could any other soul know the locations of the relics without resorting to the accounting of that auction, the records now kept in the laird’s chamber of ledgers?
The locked room that only he visited. It had seemed a most reasonable conclusion to make, that the laird must be complicit, but now he wondered. Was Isabella right about her brother?
And how could Murdoch discover the truth?
* * *
Isabella had the strange sense of being a traitor within her own home as she rode back to the village beside Alexander. She had lied to her brother with an ease that had alarmed her, and Alexander had believed her so readily that she was doubly surprised. His men were in good spirits and joked with each other now that their fears for her safety were allayed.
She felt as if she had a secret, not only in knowing Murdoch’s location but in the memory of his sure touch. She felt flushed and warm, convinced that what they had done was right – and that they would do as much and more again. She knew Murdoch had meant the pledges he had made to her in that moment. It was the mark that meant something, something ill, something that frightened him. All she had to do was discover the source of that mark and see him rid of it.
Cured of it.
“Routed!” one of Alexander’s men gloated. “We saw that brigand run out of Kinfairlie’s forests.”
“Aye,” agreed another. “And his camp destroyed. Should he return, he will not find it easy to remain.”
“If he has any wits about him, he will not return,” concurred Alexander. “But I fear it will be only a matter of time.” Isabella looked straight ahead, giving no indication of her concern for Murdoch.
“Fortunate he was to evade us, that is certain.”
“You shall see he pays the price for threatening any soul on our roads, my lord.” The men laughed, confident of Alexander’s sure and swift justice, and the entire party rode into the village to cheers.
Isabella knew she had to ensure Murdoch’s safety. It was only a matter of time before he acted again – unless she unveiled the truth first. She had to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel immediately and search its crypt.
“I must check upon the Siobhan’s son and his cough,” she said to Alexander, for it was true and would also ensure that no one accompanied her. “I pledged as much to Eleanor before this all began.”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly. Isabella had time to wonder whether she dared risk a trip to the chapel on her way back to the hall when one of the smith’s apprentices appeared beside Hermes.
“The smith would speak with you, my lady. He feared for your safety when we told him what had occurred.”
“You may tell him that I am well enough and thank him for his concern,” she said, not slowing her course. “I must visit the baker’s son.”
“The smith would see as much with his own eyes, my lady. I know it to be so.”
Isabella smiled for the boy, not wanting him to be chastened for failing to do as he’d been bidden. It would only take a moment to assure the smith that she was well, and then she would return to the baker’s abode. Alexander nodded agreement to this and Isabella dismounted, leaving Hermes to return to Kinfairlie’s stable with the rest of the party.
The smith spared her a glance when she arrived at his forge. It was much quieter there than earlier. The messenger’s mare was tethered to the front of his workplace, nibbling hay from the wagon.
“So, you are hale, after all,” the smith said to her after a searching glance.
“Hale enough,” Isabella agreed with a smile, wondering what the smith saw. She fought the urge to blush. “The king’s messenger will be glad to have his horse returned.”
“No more injured than lacking a shoe,” the smith noted with satisfaction. “The tale could have ended far worse.” He held Isabella’s gaze, his own dark. “It is not every thief who would ensure the welfare of a stolen horse, despite what some might believe. I have seen horses sorely used by brigands and renegades.” He frowned at his work, running his finger around the new shoe. “My boy says the lad had coin, so perhaps he even intended to pay for the shoe.”
“Perhaps he did.”
“This renegade in the forest could have sent the horse to another village, one more distant where she would not have been recognized. It would have ensured his anonymity, but would have caused the horse pain.” The smith met her gaze again. “I cannot find it in my heart, my lady, to despise a man who ensures the welfare of a horse over his own.”
“Nor I,” Isabella agreed, her words breathless.
“He did not need to ensure that the boy escaped unscathed – and were he truly as black–hearted as one might expect, he would not have done so.”
“Indeed.”
“It seems a selfless deed, to ensure the welfare of a horse and that of a squire, even while risking one’s own safety.” The smith nodded. “A selfless deed.” The words had a curious resonance the way he uttered them, as if they were of great significance.
But Isabella did not understand.
“A selfless deed? Of what import is that?”
“It is an ingredient from an old spell. Three selfless deeds will set a condemned man free, as I recall it.” The smith turned back to his forge, poking at the fire to make it burn brighter.
“Truly? What manner of condemned man?”
He flicked her a look. “Do you know what you ask, my lady?”
Isabella guessed. “Does such condemnation have to do with blue lines on a man’s flesh?”
The smith caught his breath in alarm. “So, that explains it,” he murmured to himself.
“Explains what, Master Smith? What do you know? I entreat you to share it with me.”
He eyed her for a moment, glanced up and down the lane, then lowered his voice. “I cannot speak of it,” he muttered. “Not without damning myself to some trouble or other. But this I can say. My lady, the tidings from the hall is that you learn skill with herbs, from La
dy Eleanor.”
“Indeed, I do,” Isabella agreed, wondering that he should note this.
“Have you learned of the powers of wild thyme?”
Isabella shook her head and repeated her knowledge, for thyme was no herb of mystical powers. “The thyme we grow in the keep garden is primarily for the kitchen. It is best paired with roasted meat, though Eleanor says it can aid with nightmares, digestion and shyness.” She smiled. “It is a symbol of chivalry, because of its association with courage.”
The smith did not smile. “It is the other thyme I ask about. The one with smaller leaves that grows on hill banks and creeps along the ground. There is a patch of it on the banks of the millpond, which blooms pink in summer.” The smith seemed determined to avoid Isabella’s gaze, which was most unlike him.
What was so important about wild thyme?
And what did it have to do with the blue marks on Murdoch’s flesh?
“I would think them much the same, perhaps one stronger than the other,” she said with care. “It is often that way with the wild plant and the variant grown in the kitchen garden.”
The smith shook his head with vigor. “I suggest with respect that you learn more of it, my lady, and do so soon.” He gave her one last look before he raised his voice. “I do hope that the matter of the renegade in the forest and his true intent is well-investigated,” he said, seemingly for all to hear.
“Bertram!” the smith’s wife hissed from within the shop. “Mind your place!”
“The Laird of Kinfairlie has shown himself to be a fair man, and one who does not insist upon men holding their tongues,” the smith said.
“Indeed, he has,” Isabella agreed. “I thank you for your counsel, Master Smith.”
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