In the third drawer down she found a stack of neatly-folded t-shirts. One pile white, one grey, one black. She took a white one and reluctantly headed for the bathroom, steeling herself for the sight of the bloodied towel, but it was gone, and the sink was clean.
She cast her eyes around the bathroom, but there was no trace of anything out of the ordinary. Had she imagined the whole thing?
The sash window had been thrown open, and the sill was damp with rain blown in by the raging wind. Isla closed it with a bang, softening the din of the stormy night to a murmur against the glass.
She draped the t-shirt over the side of the bath- dry, and empty, slipped out of her dusty dress and climbed into the shower cubicle. Three tiled walls enclosed her, and the plain white shower curtain formed the fourth. Isla drew it across and turned on the water, gasping at the ice-cold spray that hit her body. Jesus. She adjusted the temperature until the goosebumps flattened against her skin, and steam began to billow over the curtain into the empty bathroom.
Was it empty? Isla stilled, reaching for the soap. Yes, of course it was. There was nowhere to hide...not for a flesh and blood person, anyway...blood...no, don’t think about blood. Isla squeezed her eyes shut, and snatched up the soap, building it to a furious lather. She was tired, that was all, and overwrought. There was no blood, no body in the bathtub, no reflection in the water, no ghost, no curse…
But there had been somebody in the castle. And that somebody had locked her in. And Ethan MacRae owned a shotgun, and he’d pointed it at her without hesitation, and with deadly, unnerving accuracy.
Isla’s goosebumps were back, but it wasn’t the water temperature that had caused them this time. She shut off the water, and hesitated, with one hand on the curtain, her mind conjuring images of what might await her on the other side, but when she yanked it open, the bathroom was exactly as she’d left it, aside from the haze of steam and scent of patchouli.
Ethan’s t-shirt was soft, well-worn, and far too big. Isla found an electric toothbrush in the cabinet above the sink, and a pack of spare toothbrush heads. As she brushed her teeth she studied her reflection in the mirror. Pale skin. Flushed cheeks. Wide eyes. But the face was her own. Of course it was. Who else’s would it be?
Isla spat into the sink and rinsed the foam away. A smudge of red remained against the enamel by the plughole. Not toothpaste, but blood. She hadn’t imagined it. She knew she hadn’t. Ethan must have cleared away the evidence since getting back. But evidence of what?
Twenty Five
He could have killed her. He almost had killed her.
Ethan dropped heavily onto the stool, heard the harsh scrape of the legs against the floor.
His finger had been on the trigger, the gun aimed towards the sound of her ragged breathing. Nausea swelled in him, and he dropped his head into his hands. His breath was hot against his palms, and his hands shook.
For a few minutes there, at the sound of someone banging against the tower door, he’d thought his time had come at last, and to his utter surprise, he hadn’t felt ready. Thoughts of her had crowded his mind, and a spark had taken hold, made him reach for the gun, made his finger twitch at the trigger. Then she’d spoken, and reality had come crashing in, waves of self-hatred threatening to drown him.
It was a miracle he’d held it together, escorted her to safety, or the closest to safety she could get tonight. Behind a locked door.
Ethan sat up. His breathing had finally evened out. He still felt sick to his stomach, but he didn’t expect that would change anytime soon.
Had there been someone in the castle? It seemed improbable, and yet...she’d sounded so sure. So scared. Of course she was scared. He’d pointed a damn gun in her face. She was probably petrified. Quaking under his covers right now.
Ethan hied from the visual that created. Though it had been almost five years since he’d seen anything at all, his mind was perfectly capable of creating an array of imagery, most of it incredibly unhelpful when it came to Isla.
He shouldn’t be thinking about her in his bed, about her bare legs twisted in his sheets, her hair spread across his pillows, her lips murmuring his name.
“Fuck.” Ethan slammed his fist against the piano lid.
He’d almost killed her.
And she wouldn’t have been the first.
*
Rain splattered against the window in bursts as if thrown against the glass by the wind. The window rattled in its frame, and a low, unearthly howl moaned from beyond the curtains.
Isla shrank a little further beneath the bed sheets. They smelled earthy and sweet, with a hint of spice. They smelled of Ethan. Of course they did, it was his bed. Isla chastised herself, but it didn’t stop her imagining him lying there beside her. She didn’t need to use her imagination to know what he would look like without his clothes, she’d seen enough of him that first day to know. Heat filled Isla’s body as she pictured his naked body tangled in the sheets, thick dark hair against the pale skin of his chest, she imagined touching her fingertips to it, trailing downward…
Isla groaned and rolled over, stuffing her face into the pillow. Not that it helped. That smelled of him too. This was torture.
She’d been lying there for hours, listening to the storm rage, going over everything that had happened in the past few hours - the past few days - in the time since she’d first come to Rosehill. It hadn’t been long, and yet so much had changed. She’d changed. She was changing still, she could feel a shifting, a stirring, within her. Some unknown part of her was unfurling, stretching, taking shape. She couldn’t name it. She daren’t. But it was there.
A sudden noise made Isla sit bolt upright in the bed. The hairs raised on her arms. Even above the howling wind, and endless rain, the sound drifting beneath the locked door was unmistakable. It was the sound of someone playing the piano.
Ethan. Isla bit down hard on her lip and tasted blood.
She should ignore it. Lie back down, put a pillow over her head and wait for dawn. So why was she kicking the covers back? Reaching for the candlestick? Padding barefoot across the floor? Isla watched her fingers twist the key in the lock with a strange sort of detachment.
Cool air hit her bare legs as she stepped out into the corridor, and the candle flickered. Isla’s pulse quickened, but her mind was calm. None of it felt quite real. Not the murky-dark corridor, or the mournful notes floating along it. It was like something from a dream. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe she was asleep right now, in Ethan’s bed, half-mad with exhaustion and terror, breathing in his scent and conjuring up this very scene.
Shadows danced around her, and each portrait she passed sent her heart leaping into her throat, as face after face reared up out of the gloom, illuminated by the flickering flames. The music grew louder as the end of the corridor came into sight.
Isla paused. The song reached its crescendo, and suddenly all Isla’s fears rushed to the surface and threatened to drown her.
All her life, her mother had warned her what men were capable of, urged her to keep her distance, guard her heart...and she had, until now. She didn’t know what would happen when she opened this door, but she knew that whatever it was, she wouldn’t be able to take it back. This was her Pandora’s box... but was she ready for what she might find inside? Would she ever be?
Isla took a step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. The music cut-off with an unharmonious jangle and she froze, one hand on the doorknob. Ethan had heard her. He knew she was out here. Still, it wasn’t too late to turn back. She could slip away into the shadows, back to Ethan’s bedroom and lock the door behind her. He wouldn’t follow her, she was certain of it. She would pass a restless night in his bed, and he would never mention it.
Isla took a step backwards. Or…
Her breath hitched in her throat, and she seized the door handle.
*
“Isla?”
Ethan’s senses were swamped by her, as their bodies collided. She smelled of his so
ap, and for a few seconds it disoriented him, but then he picked up her own scent beneath it, sweet and warm. Heat radiated from her, but he felt a tremble pass through her body before she pressed a hand to his chest and pushed lightly away from him. He heard her move away and set something down with a gentle scrape.
Ethan immediately felt bereft. Having her in his arms, even momentarily and entirely by accident felt so right, he struggled to remember why it wasn’t, why he shouldn’t pull her to him, run his hands through her hair, press his lips to hers…
“What are you doing?” His voice was rough.
Her reply came as a whisper. “I couldn’t sleep...I heard you playing…”
Silence stretched out between them like a note only they could hear, pealing out, taut and unwavering.
And then Isla stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. She raised herself to her toes and brushed her lips against his.
Every nerve in Ethan responded, electricity thrilling through his body at the lightest touch of her impossibly soft lips. It was a gentle kiss, uncertain, an invitation.
He knew he should refuse. That it would be lethal for them both if he didn’t, that he should tell her to leave, push her away.
Ethan reached out, his hands landing on her hips, intending to hold her at arm’s length, and make her see reason, only instead of pushing he pulled, drawing her against him.
“Isla, this cannae happen-” he broke off, laying his forehead against hers, their lips still touching.
“Why?” she murmured. The vibration of her question passed through Ethan’s lips, as though he’d asked it himself.
But what answer could he give? When every possible variation ended with her pulling back, turning away, running from him? As she should.
“I havenae anything to offer you, Isla.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Her words knocked the breath from him. He gasped for air, grasping for reason. “And when you leave, when your time at Rosehill comes to an end, what then?”
Ethan felt her hesitation, heard the catch in her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and steady. “We say goodbye.”
Ethan ignored the tightening in his chest. “So, this is just physical?”
“What else would it be?”
Aye, what else indeed? For a millisecond there, he’d almost allowed himself to hope...but that would have been the biggest mistake of all. Greater even than the one he was about to make.
“Ethan?”
The sound of his name on Isla’s lips obliterated all reason.
If her kiss had been a question, his was the answer. Ethan pressed his mouth to hers in desperation, feeling her soft lips yield beneath his, parting slightly. His tongue found hers and he kissed her without restraint, his fingers digging into the soft flesh around her hips.
Isla slackened against him and looped her arms around his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair. Ethan moaned like a man condemned.
She tasted of sweet mint. He should not be doing this.
Isla closed the remaining distance between their bodies, her breasts pressing against his chest. No part of him deserved this, no part of him deserved her.
Ethan trailed kisses down Isla’s throat, and along her collarbone, feeling her pulse beat against his lips, drinking in the scent of her. Isla’s hum of satisfaction spoke to a part of him he’d forgotten existed, or maybe never had. Ethan couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before.
Her fingernails scratched lightly against his scalp, and Ethan shuddered with bliss and despair. He hated himself, but he wanted her more.
Twenty Six
The tether that had been holding Ethan back snapped, the tension flooding out of him as he pressed himself against her, leaving no room for doubt. He wanted her.
Isla had known it before, but it seemed that whatever Ethan’s reasons had been for not acting on it, he was willing to overlook them, or perhaps incapable of doing anything else. Isla found she didn’t care either way. Not when his mouth was on hers, not with his hands moving over her body.
She hadn’t come here for reasons, for explanations. She’d come for this. The feel of Ethan’s hard body pressing into her, the taste of him on her lips, his breath mingling with hers.
He tasted of whisky and smelled of the woods at night, and Isla felt drunk on his kiss.
Ethan’s fingertips dug lightly into her hips through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and his thumbs brushed over the soft flesh covering her pelvic bone.
She let her own hands wander, over his bare forearms, under the sleeves of his t-shirt, and then down over his chest. She fisted her hand in his t-shirt, and Ethan let himself be pulled forward, their mouths crashing together. She moved her hands lower, to where his crumpled t-shirt met the waistband of his jeans, and slid her thumbs beneath the fabric, tracing semi-circles across his skin.
Ethan hissed against her teeth, increasing the pressure through his fingers until Isla could swear she felt delicious bruises blossoming beneath his touch. Still, it wasn’t enough. This tasting, touching. Isla burned with wanting, needing more, wanting nothing between them.
She lifted the hem of his t-shirt, and Ethan pulled back, reaching one hand behind his back and dragging it over his head. His hair spilling across his face. He pushed it back, his muscles rippling.
Isla wanted his hands back on her, his body against hers, but she also wanted to savour the way he looked standing before her, shirtless and wanting in the dark. The only light came from the candle she’d carried in and set down on a sideboard by the door. The rest of the room was shrouded in black, but the flickering flame was enough for her to make out the hard lines of Ethan’s body, and the desire written in his face.
Isla felt a stab of not quite guilt, but something, realising that he couldn’t - would never - be able to do the same. He would never see her, the way she could see him right now. She slipped her t-shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor, before closing the distance between their bodies.
Only the thin, white, lace of her bra separated her skin from his, and at the feel of it against his bare chest, Ethan’s face went slack, his eyes darting wildly across her face.
“Isla,” he breathed.
“Mmm.” She brushed her lips against his.
“This is...I havenae-”
“You haven’t what?” She murmured, but his thumbs brushed across the lace of her bra, her nipples hardening beneath his touch and already she’d forgotten the question.
Ethan dropped his hands to his sides. “Since losing my sight, I havenae...there hasnae been anyone....” His voice shook.
Realisation dawned on Isla. “You haven’t had sex since?” She could barely disguise her disbelief.
“No.” He took a step backwards but Isla looped her fingers through his belt hooks, anchoring him in place.
“Why?”
Ethan lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “For a long time, it wasnae a priority, and then…”
“What?” Isla prompted.
“Well, let’s just say I havenae been exactly inundated with offers.” Ethan gestured around the darkened room, and then up at his face. “I cannae imagine why.”
Isla’s chest ached. She brought her hands up to cup his face, his stubble grazing her palms. “Neither can I.”
Ethan’s mouth crashed against hers, and Isla gasped at the ferocity of his kiss, at his surrender. Her legs buckled, and then Ethan’s hands were lifting her. She hooked her legs around his waist and looped her arms around his neck, knotting her fingers into his hair.
Ethan took a step forward, and Isla felt something cold and hard against her calves. She twisted and saw the grand piano behind her- ebony black, lid down. Ethan lowered her onto it, the smooth wood cold against her bare legs.
Ethan gathered her hair into a fist at the nape of her neck, tugging gently, tilting her head back and brushing his lips over her throat.
“You’re sure you want this?” His words hummed against
her skin.
“Yes,” Isla gasped as he tugged on her hair. “I want this. I want you.”
His fingers loosened, and he pulled away, breathing hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Isla cupped his jaw in her hands, stroking her thumbs across his dark stubble. “I know enough.”
Ethan’s expression was raw, as he lowered her gently onto the piano, unwinding his hand from her hair, and fanning it out around her. Then he stepped back and unfastened the button of his jeans, slowly lowering the zipper. Isla watched, mesmerised as he slid his jeans over his hips, taking his underwear with them. Lightning streaked across the sky, and a flash of white light illuminated the room. Isla swallowed hard and stared up at Ethan MacRae standing naked before her.
*
Isla’s silence was louder than the storm. Only her uneven breathing let Ethan know that she was still there in the darkness with him.
“Isla?”
“Sorry, I-” She swallowed audibly.
“If you’ve changed your mind...”
“I haven’t.” Her hands found him in the darkness, his nerve endings firing beneath her touch as her fingers trailed across his abdomen, moving lower. Ethan groaned.
He fought his instincts, grasping for sense and reason. “Isla...what about protection? I dinnae have any.”
“I’m on the pill,” she murmured, her breath hot against his chest.
Memories rippled below the surface of Ethan’s mind, but he pushed them down. “If you’d rather wait…”
“No!” she said it with force. With emotion. “Put your hands on me, Ethan.”
Ethan obeyed without hesitation, exploring the landscape of Isla’s body with his touch. She’d removed her bra, and he delighted in her gasp of pleasure as he discovered it, rolling her nipples between his finger and thumb, pinching and tugging until he felt her arching beneath him. His erection brushed against the soft skin of her inner thigh and a jolt of pleasure surged through him.
Not yet. He wanted to hear her, turn her quiet murmurs into moans, have her call out his name in the darkness. Then, and only then would he believe this was real.
Out of Sight Page 18