Fire on the Island (19 page)

Troubled, Isla
thought back to their visit with Mhairi and what had been said after Jeremiah
left the room.
"
Bruixi
mate for life, Isla. If he's the one,
your fates are intertwined. Always have been. Something led him here. If he's
the one, you'll know."
She knew she should tell Jeremiah, but she was
afraid of what he might say.

The haunting
words echoed in her head, causing her throat to clench and her heart to thump.
Was she really ready to be tied to someone for the rest of her life? Someone
whom fate had chosen for her? She didn't know, but the idea of it seemed to
suck all of the air out of her space.

She wanted to be
with someone because she loved them and they loved her. Not because of some
ancient writing on the wall. Did she love him? Maybe. She thought she was
beginning to, but they'd only known each other for a little over a month.

That didn't
stop him, she thought. He loved her. She could see it shining in his eyes every
time he looked at her, and that sight never failed to make her heart flutter.
But the idea that this was all out of their control was enough to blur the
lines of her vision with the dull edge of panic.

Gulping for
air, she shot out of her seat and backed away from the group slowly. Jeremiah
rose and reached for her, but she twisted out of his reach, chest heaving.

Hurt flashed in
his eyes but disappeared just as quickly as it came. "Isla—"

"Please."
She silently pleaded for him to give her the space she needed. If they talked
now, she was afraid she would say something she couldn't take back. "I
just need some time to process. I'll find you later." Without waiting for
a response, she turned and dashed away.

Jeremiah stood
transfixed, staring at the spot where she had been until he heard her ancient
pickup cough and sputter its way down the drive.

Grabbing his
keys where he had tossed them on the table, he started after her, only to be
blocked by a hand on the center of his chest. Callum stood in front of him with
Jack flanking his right side.

His hand was
firm, but his eyes were filled with sympathy. "Just give her a little
space, mate. It's a lot to take in, findin' out that your life may not be
entirely your own. She just needs a minute to wrap her head around it."

Jere sighed and
his broad shoulders slumped just a bit. "Yeah, I know. It's just hard not
to try and fix it for her."

"That's
how it is when you love someone, man. Get used to it," Jack said, clapping
one big hand on Jere's shoulder and the other on Callum's. "Why don't we
all just sit down an' have another beer."

Giving him a
small smile, Jeremiah shook his head. "I appreciate it, but I think I'm
just going to head back to the house, maybe do some work on the deck. It will
give me time to wrap my own brain around all this new information. Do me a
favor? You hear from her, just call me so I know she's all right."

"Will do.
Take care, mate."

Chapter
Sixteen

After three days, he still hadn't heard from her. Jeremiah
had kept himself mindlessly busy during that time to keep himself from calling
her or going to see her. He had managed to repair all of the loose boards on
the deck and refinish it to remove all of the splinters that kept stabbing him.

After that, he
moved on to painting it a nice, crisp white to match the trim and shutters of
the little cottage. Having just finished the job, he stomped into the house
barefoot and shirtless—covered in paint—wearing nothing but ragged, paint-splattered
jeans.

Padding into
the kitchen, he snagged a half empty bottle of single malt off the counter. He
had polished off the first half somewhere between refinishing and painting.

Exhausted and
more than a little buzzed, he flopped down on the couch, only pausing for a
second to hope that all of the paint on him was dry. He took a swill of the
cheap scotch and looked around the room. Realizing that he had just run out of
projects to keep his mind off of Isla, he searched desperately for something—anything—to
do. He spotted his guitar in its scratched black case across the room.

Old friend, he
thought. Heaving his big body up, he walked over to it and flicked open the
case. He stroked a loving finger down the neck of his worn, shabby Fender, and
lifted the instrument gently out of the case. She may not be pretty, he
thought, but she still sings like an angel.

Returning to
the couch, he propped his feet up on the coffee table and closed his eyes and began
plucking a tune. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to snag the cord
connected to his portable amp and plugged it in to the bottom of the guitar.

Squeezing his
eyes shut even tighter, his fingers began to fly on the strings and the guitar
began to wail. He often lost himself in the music when he had a lot on his
mind. He would put himself into a kind of trance, where nothing existed but the
music.

As he played a
riff from one of his favorite country blues songs, Jeremiah realized that for
the first time in his life, he wasn't transported by the music. Try as he
might, he couldn't keep his thoughts from drifting back to Isla. Where was she
now? Why hadn't she contacted him?

He tried to
tell himself it didn't matter, he would be going back to the states in a month
anyway, so he had no use for personal attachments. He almost believed it.
Shifting on the couch, he picked up the bottle and took another drink, played
another riff.

Losing track of
time, he continued on that way for what could have been hours—or only
minutes—until he began to drift off, fingers still poised on the guitar.

Isla had worn a
track in front of her fireplace, pacing back and forth, worrying over her
situation, over Jeremiah. The idea that unseen forces were pushing her toward someone
as a foregone conclusion terrified her, and yet she knew she'd had feelings for
Jeremiah before she found out about their intertwined fates. How much of what
she felt were her own emotions and free will and how much was destined? How
could she know—how could anyone know?

She kept
thinking in circles, a self-perpetuating cycle of worry. The one conclusion she
could manage to come to was that, regardless of the why or how of it, she had
come to love Jeremiah and when it came down to it, that was all that mattered.

Stopping in her
tracks suddenly enough to startle the cats out of their slumber, Isla realized
that she had just admitted to herself that she was in love for the first time
in her life, and she hadn't spoken to the man in question in three days. She
would be lucky if he'd even see her. Stuffing her feet into scuffed brown
hiking boots—a stark contrast with her wispy mid-thigh-length tunic dress—she
grabbed her keys and ran out the door.

Parking the old
truck on the street, Isla climbed the slope of the neatly manicured lawn and
went around to the back of the cottage. It never occurred to her to go to the
front door, as she had been coming this way for nearly ten years.

She stopped
when she came to the back porch, taken aback by the gleaming whitewash and the
mended boards. He’d been busy, she thought, wondering if worry for her had
caused this burst of productivity.

The next thing
she took note of was the silence. The cottage was curiously absent of any
ambient noise, no footsteps or music, no movement coming from inside. Still
shaken from their encounter at the lake, Isla was instantly worried for
Jeremiah. Her heart leapt into her throat and her pulse pounded in her ears.

Not wanting to
give an enemy the advantage, she crept up the steps to the back porch, her
well-worn boots tapping softly on the refinished boards. Easing the glass door
open, Isla tiptoed inside. The only sound came from her dress ruffling around
her legs as she turned to shut the door behind her.

The back door
opened to the dining room and kitchen area, which she found empty and silent.
Afraid to call out, Isla crept around the corner into the large, open living
room. Her whole body sagged against the wall as she breathed a huge sigh of
relief. Jeremiah was seated on the couch with his long legs stretched out and
the guitar still in playing position resting against his stomach, sound asleep.

Taking a moment
to just look at him, Isla raked her eyes over the thick, muscular chest that
narrowed to a trim V underneath the guitar, which his slumping posture had
hitched up higher on his belly. She swallowed as she glimpsed the trail of
fine, dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans, where the top
two buttons were left undone.

She trailed her
gaze along the length of his long, paint splattered legs to his bare feet,
which she found strangely endearing. He truly was a specimen, she thought, as
her pulse leapt and heat pooled in her belly.

Frowning, she
took in the two empty bottles of cheap scotch and several beer bottles on the
coffee table. Studying his face more closely, she saw the dark shadows under
his eyes that brushed against his sharp cheekbones and the worry lines around
his mouth.

She did this.
In the short time that she had known him, she had brought the man nothing but
trouble, from her enemies attacking him to sending him mixed messages and
shutting him out. It cut her deep that she had caused him so much pain and
worry that he had resorted to drinking too much to drown it out.

Jeremiah
deserved better than this, she thought. He deserved a woman that stood by him
and let him help her, who shared everything with him. Flawed though she was,
Isla just didn't have it in her to give him up to someone else. He was too
wonderful to let go. So from that moment on, she resolved herself to be
everything he deserved and more, and she knew without even thinking about it
that he would do the same.

Isla knelt
before him, situating herself on the floor between his knees, and placed her
hands gently on his thighs. His left hand, still resting on the body of the
guitar, twitched reflexively on the strings.

Peering up at
him, Isla saw that he was watching her through slitted lids. He seemed groggy,
but she could tell that the haze of alcohol had receded a bit with the rest.

He watched her
through barely open eyes, his expression guarded and wary. Isla felt another
stab of guilt for wounding him, however unintentional. Searching his angular
face, she dared hope to see forgiveness and acceptance.

Seconds passed
and finally his body relaxed again. He began to pick a tune on the guitar still
across his stomach. The melody, soft and twangy, floated through her like a
wandering spirit. She remembered him playing the song before—he had called it
Shining Moon—said it reminded him of her.

Taking it as a
good sign that he was playing for her, she sat there for a moment, suspended in
time, and let the music fill her with warmth. While the song was an olive
branch of sorts, Isla wanted more of him.

Leaning forward
slightly, she placed both palms on his rigid abdomen. She traced the lines and
grooves of muscle there, silk over steel, and still he watched her, his
expression veiled. Isla let her fingertips follow the dusting of hair to the
open buttons of his jeans, and she slowly released the remaining buttons.

Parting the V
of worn denim, Isla reached inside and freed him, causing his breath to hitch
slightly, but his fingers never faltered on the guitar. He said nothing, just
watched her and continued to play. Isla's mouth quirked up in a half-smile,
considering his feigned indifference a challenge that she would gladly meet.

Lowering the
waistband of his jeans slightly, Isla allowed her hands to roam, gauging his
reactions. His eyes closed briefly, and then turned their fierce hazel glow
back to her face. She'd hurt him. She could see it in his eyes. But he'd
forgive her. She saw that there as well, and she closed her eyes as she was
swamped with love for him. Wanting him to relax in a way that he hadn't been
able to in days, she smoothed her hands over him.

His hands shook
slightly and his chest hitched up and down as his breathing sped up—all the
while, the guitar's wistful siren song continued. She leaned over him, brushing
her silky curls over his belly, causing the muscles there to ripple and bunch.
Oh yes, she thought. Her man needed her, wanted her badly.

His head sagged
back as his eyes reflexively closed, and he allowed her to do as she pleased.
She felt her own body respond, relishing the skin-on-skin contact, and she dug
the nails of her free hand into his jean-clad thigh which tore a strangled
groan from his lips.

Finally, as if
just remembering it was there, Jeremiah slid the guitar off of him to rest
safely on the couch beside him. He brushed her curtain of mahogany curls aside
with one big hand and stroked her cheek with a calloused thumb.

She literally
purred. She sounded feline and satisfied, and if she wasn't so mesmerized by
him, she'd have laughed at herself. The sound seemed to have lit a fire under
him, and he had to gently push her away. Unable to help it, Isla could feel her
lips form a pout, and he chuckled at her.

“Unless you
want this to end right here, right now, you’re going to have to stop,” he said,
chest heaving.

Isla got to her
feet and her lips parted with a sly smile. Jeremiah swallowed visibly as she
prowled toward him, sliding her hands up the sides of her slender thighs to her
hips, and raising the hem of her dress along the way.

His eyes were
riveted to her hands as she hooked her fingers into the elastic of the scrap of
silk that covered her and slinked it down her legs. Stepping out of the garment
with first one foot, then the other, she came toward him—stalked him with fluid
grace.

In one easy
movement, she climbed up on the couch and straddled his lap, slowly lowering
herself onto him. Jeremiah's eyes drifted closed as he gripped her hips and
thrust up to meet her downward movement. His hands were everywhere, cupping her
breasts, molding her curves.

Isla set the
pace, pushing him faster as she took her pleasure from him. Looking down to
where their bodies joined, Isla found it incredibly erotic to see that they
were still mostly dressed. She'd never wanted anyone—or been wanted—that
desperately. It was a heady feeling.

Heat spread
through her body and she knew she was close. He kept one hand on her hip while
splaying the other between her breasts, riding it down her torso, which was
stretched tight as a bowstring.

He began to
stroke her in time with the movement of his hips. She threw her head back in a
rain of curls, as her release exploded within her. In the glow of her own
passion, she felt the exact moment he lost himself to her, and rode the wave of
his own release.

Isla collapsed
against his chest with her arms around his neck, both of them taking great
heaving breaths. They stayed that way for an interminable amount of time before
she drew back to peg him with her jade stare.

"Hi."

"Hi,"
he answered, releasing a satisfied, lopsided grin. "I missed you."

She smoothed soft
fingers over the worry line between his brows and frowned. "I know. I'm
sorry I freaked out."

"S'ok. I'm
not that easy to get rid of." He winked at her and flashed those wolfy
teeth. She knew he was making light of the situation, forgiving her and comforting
her all at once. Her heart tripped, and fell.

"I don't
deserve you," she said, placing staying fingers over his lips when he
tried to protest, "but I love you anyway."

He blinked and
started to speak, then stopped and blinked again, making her laugh. The
movement of her body made her acutely aware of their intimate position, and the
fact that he was still inside of her.

"What did
you say?"

"You heard
me," she said with a smile. He ran his hand up her neck to fist in the
hair at her nape, and dragged her forward, crushing her mouth in a possessive
assault. As their tongues danced, Isla was astonished to feel him harden again
inside her.

He pulled away,
breathing heavily. Cupping her cheek, he looked at her with those deep hazel
eyes. "I love you, too." Her breath caught, released, and caught
again. Slowly, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she rolled her hips against
him.