The Return of Black Douglas (20 page)

“’Tis not such a bad thing that ye were absent. Alysandir was like a red deer in rut. Ready to fight anything that moved,” Grim said. “Has he been by to see ye since he returned?”

“He has been by, yes, but I haven’t seen him since before dinner. Nor do I want to.”

Grim was grinning at her as he spoke, “He will come to ye if ye dinna go doon, for ’tis easy to see he is itching to have words with ye.”

“It won’t do him any good to come here. I intend to keep my door locked.”

Grim gave her a serious look. “That willna keep Alysandir oot, not if he has a mind to speak with ye. If ye dinna gain him passage, he will kick the door doon or have a battering ram brought up, if need be.”

“I am not afraid of him.”

“Tonight, ye might want to be,” Sybilla said. “He barely touched his food, but he did drink a week’s ration of ale and that was afore he opened a bottle of brandewijn.”

“He can have poison for all I care.”

Sybilla reached over and took Isobella’s hand and gave it a squeeze as she said, “Grim is right. If he wants to speak with ye, ye canna keep him oot. He would level the entire castle if he has to.”

“Then the two of you might want to sleep elsewhere tonight,” she said. The three of them laughed, but Isobella noticed it was a bit forced.

After they departed, she locked the door and readied herself for bed. Let him come, she thought. There isn’t anything he can do or say that would make me open that door.

It was an eerie wind that came into the room and billowed the tapestry over the window. Then the mournful weeping of bagpipes snuffed out one of the candles.

“Blow them all out and see if I care. You men are all alike,” she said, and went to change into her sleeping gown. “Nothing but hot air!”

***

Alysandir could not erase the memory of his hands around her small waist as he lifted her from Gallagher’s back, or the way she fled into the castle to the sanctuary of her room the moment they returned. On the one hand, he admired her courage, for she had the heart of a lion, the patience of a rock, an abundance of compassion, and more stubbornness than he had ever come against.

She infuriated him and he had nothing to measure her by, for there was not a woman in the whole of Scotland like her. It was as if God had created one of her and decided mankind would not survive and he changed his design. She talked too much; she would not listen; she would not obey. She would argue with the pope himself; she would fight him to the bitter end; she had an opinion about everything whether he asked for it or not.

She was too stubborn, too determined, too beautiful, and too desirable, and he wanted her so much he ached. But a woman like her would strip a man bare, down to the very marrow of his bones, until he was mindless as a beggar. He poured the last dram of brandewijn in his goblet and drank it faster than he should. He paced the room three times and decided what he had to say to her could not wait until the morrow.

It was the second time he took the stairs three at a time, and it was the first time he wanted to throttle her, especially when he found her door locked. No amount of knocking, pounding, or brash threats changed that. He stared at the door for a few minutes. He turned around and headed back toward the stairs. But instead of going down this time, he went up.

Not more than ten minutes passed before he had ripped the tapestry drape in the room above hers from its moorings, cutting it into strips with his dirk and then tying them together. One end he fixed to the post on the heavily carved bed. The other end he tossed out the window, and then he followed it, scaling down the wall until he reached the top of the window of the room below… Isobella’s room.

He pushed himself away from the wall to swing out just far enough to let a few inches of the tapestry slip through his hands. When he swung back, he caught a glimpse of her standing by the bed wearing a white linen gown, just as he sailed forward and through the open window into her room.

Chapter 23

I am not quite sure whether

I am dreaming or remembering,

whether I have lived my life

or dreamed it.

—Eugène Ionesco (1909–1994)
Romanian-born French playwright

Alysandir plowed into Isobella, who was about to climb into bed, and the two of them went sprawling on the floor. He heard her gasp, then hiss, “Are you insane? Get off of me, you big oaf! And then get out of here.”

He had her pinned beneath him. The warm feel of her softness caused him to forget the flaming reprimand he planned to give her. Suddenly, chastening her did not seem as important as it had a few minutes earlier. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. He could see that she had nothing beneath that gown but lush, firm breasts, long legs, and the shadow of what lay in between.

She must have felt his desire, for she sucked in a horrified breath and shoved at him. “Get off before someone comes in and catches us like this.”

“I find I am quite comfortable just as I am. ’Tis the first time I have been on top of anything since I met ye. Ye have led me on a merry hunt, mistress, but the chase ends here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What merry hunt? Are you feeling well? If you are, then you’ve got your facts all wrong. You’ve been gone most of the time since I arrived. How could I lead you on a merry anything?”

He stroked and nuzzled her with his nose, nibbling and kissing her throat and neck, then her eyes. “Ye have done nothing but give me torment and trouble since I met ye. Ye willna listen to anything I say. Ye disobey my orders. Ye provoke me at every turn. Ye tell me preposterous stories.”

“That is easy enough to remedy. Let me go to the Macleans. I want to see my sister. Let me go, and rid yourself of me and my troublesome ways.”

Wait a minute. This was not going according to his plan. Leaving was precisely what he did not want her to do. He looked at her beautiful face with the flashing green eyes that said she cared for him, even if she was furious with him. Alysandir was angry. By staying angry, he could hold his yearning at bay.

Although he did not want to admit it even to himself, he realized that ever since he first met her, he was afraid, deep within his very soul. He feared he might fall in love with her, and loving a woman like her would strip a man bare, until he was naked and vulnerable. Already, he feared that after making love to her, he would not want to leave her as he did with other women. He feared he would want to hold her close. That he would wrap his arms and legs around her and surrender to the perfect peace of her closeness.

He couldn’t marry her and he couldn’t let her go, but he didn’t know how that equation equaled out. He wanted her, had wanted her for too long. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. He started kissing her neck and stroking just beneath her ear, which was soft as a moth’s wing, with the tips of his fingers. Then he was kissing the side of her face, her eyes, and the slender length of her nose. His lips brushed across her lips, skimming lightly over them, once… twice… thrice… until he groaned. He took her firmly in his arms and pressed himself against her, bringing his mouth down upon hers.

His hold on her was firm but gentle, his kiss long and drawn out. By the time it ended, he knew just what she liked, and how and where she liked to be kissed. He knew how to kiss a woman into submission, and he took his time, allowing her to warm up to the idea, to follow his lead, to become so full of desire that she forgot that only moments ago she had wanted to leave.

He sensed intuitively the moment the long and drawn-out heat of passion took over, burning away her anger. He felt her body relax as she melted, gasping a soft little cry when his hand slipped lower and touched her. She opened to his hand like a lilac in the sun. She was sweet… And lovely… And warm… And all his.

God, she was beautiful to touch, responsive to even the lightest caress. His hands cupped her face, and his fingers threaded through the long filaments of her hair. He found a sensitive spot at the nape of her neck and felt the first trembling of a shudder ripple across her shoulders. He lowered his head to the cove of her shoulder.

She moaned. Her head fell back to expose the full lustrous length of her warm throat. His lips moved lower, and he knew she felt the instant betrayal of her body rushing to meet him. She was intoxicated, mindless with wanting.

“Ye seduce me with your little moans,” he whispered, his voice husky as his mouth glided over her skin. He knew she was floating away from herself, that she was out of touch with all reason. For this moment, nothing was important but the feel of his arms, the taste of his mouth, the rough texture of his face, the fragrance of his skin. She whimpered softly and tried to pull away, but he held her against him.

“Tell me what you want. Am I frightening you? Don’t be shy… not with me… never with me.”

He released her with a gentle nuzzling as his tongue followed the outline of her ear. Her arms went around him, and she spread her fingers flat against his back as her other hand slid behind his neck and into his hair, pulling him closer.

He was undone. “I want to make love to ye.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He had never had a woman ask that. “Because I desire ye and canna think of anything else.” As soon as he said the words, he saw the disappointment on her face. She wanted something more from him. Something he could not, would not, give.

“You are taking unfair advantage,” she whispered.

“The rules of conduct do not apply in love or war.”

He felt her bubbling laugh just before she said, “So, which one are we doing now? We switch so often that I have trouble keeping up.”

***

He kissed his way across her face. “War is the furthermost thing from my mind at the moment.” He kissed her tenderly and long with a shattering intensity that left her feeling liquid and warm inside. He wanted to make love to her. She wanted him to make love to her, and she feared she was well on her way to being head over heels in love with him…

But, was he falling in love with her? No. That reality hit her flat out, and she felt devastated. How could she have been so naïve? He had said nothing, done nothing, to make her think he was even close to loving her. Where did that leave her? He would bed her for a while and move on to someone else. What if she got pregnant? She had already seen firsthand how he treated his bastards.

She couldn’t think because he was kissing her throat, his lips traveling across the untouched softness of hidden places. Her body seemed to melt into his, and she wanted him to be her Mr. Darcy. She was in love with him but couldn’t bear to be a temporary lusting. God, she yearned for him, torn between what she wanted and what he offered her.

A static charge hung over the room. She knew he was frustrated, but she didn’t dare tell him that she was one of the weird ones who wanted to hold out for love and marriage. She looked at the bewildered face and almost gave in. Just once, she was thinking. What would it hurt to make love to him just once?
Because you wouldn’t stop at just once, and you know it.

His arms went around her. “I know what ye want, lass. Ye want it all done proper with marriage and children. I canna promise ye any of those things. Dinna fear me or worrit aboot my casting ye aside. I willna hurt ye, Isobella. Not ever. I dinna want ye to fear me any more than I want ye to distrust me.

“I canna say I love ye. I dinna think I understand what love is. I dinna care aboot going there again. Some people are na destined to fall in love and live happily together until they die. Some people destroy each other. That doesna mean we canna be happy together or even grow old together. I desire ye. I care aboot ye. I dinna want ye to fear me.”

“I don’t fear you, Alysandir. I am not made of stone. Maybe it would have been better for both of us if you hadn’t rescued me. Or kissed me. I want to make love to you… so much that I ache. Stop looking at me like that.”

Her mind was racing. She had ruined Elisabeth’s life, dragging her back through the centuries to Scotland. She missed her family. Her heart ached for Alysandir and his wounded heart.
Why does it hurt so much?
She couldn’t bear to look at him.

“I know I’m making a complete fool of myself. I’m surprised you haven’t bolted from the room before now.” She was afraid she might cry so she turned away, but he caught her by the arm and whirled her around. She accidentally stepped on the front of her gown and heard a loud rip about the same time she felt the fabric slide down over her breasts.

He made a noise that sounded like a growl, followed by the calling of some ancient saint’s name. She started to speak, but her mind went blank. It was too late for words. What they thought, what they felt, whatever their differences didn’t stand a chance now. Their attraction was primal. Just one man and one half-naked woman. The rest was left to nature.

He said softly, “Aye, ye can make love wi’ me, lass. And I will prove it to ye.” And with that, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to her bed, pressing her back into the clean sheets that had been so carefully turned down earlier.

He covered her with his weight, his hips grinding against her with an agonizing heat that would have scorched the clothing between them if he wasn’t busy peeling it away. Soon their warm, naked flesh was pressed intimately together. Each time she opened her mouth to resist, he covered it with a mind-erasing kiss. She wanted him so much that the joy of it caused tears to seep from her eyes.

“I will have to say that this is the first time I have made love to a teary woman, but if ye are thinking it will cause me to change my mind, it willna. I intend to bed ye this night and bed ye well.”

She would have to say that he was a man of his word, for his hands knew precisely where to touch to make her moan with painful intensity while the rhythm of his hips filled her with a maddening throb, a throb that beat against her with the acute awareness of something beautiful happening between them.

For a fleeting moment, she imagined she was dreaming again and in the arms of her dream-lover and she held onto him tightly, afraid if she released him he would disappear forever. She felt the warmth of his palms cover her breasts, forming them like potter’s clay to the contours of his hands. She felt like she was floating, buoyant and weightless.

She gazed at him as if she had never seen him before, every square inch of her body acutely aware of him with such fierceness that it frightened her. Her insides felt like an overwound clock that had suddenly gone haywire with springs popping and flying everywhere, and she feared that she would never put herself back together again.

While his hand wreaked havoc at her breast, his lips began their own assault on her face, throat, and neck. She was breathing so rapidly that she barely managed to say four little words.

“You don’t play fair,” she whispered, then bit him on the shoulder.

He was kissing her face but paused long enough to say, “When ye are involved, I always play to win.” This time when he kissed her, it was hard, forceful, and passionate. She whimpered from somewhere deep inside and could not stop her hands, which slid upward to lock around his neck, pulling him closer and closer still.

“I won’t let ye go, Isobella. Ye are safe with me.”

He was wrong. She wasn’t safe. She was in over her head now, and she knew it. She kissed him intensely and felt a corresponding stab of longing curling deep within her. He was the embodiment of her fantasies, her dreams, and the reality of her imaginings.

She had to know what it was like to make love to him. She had to experience what it was like to have him want her to the point of insanity, even when she knew the insanity would pass, just as the wind passes, and the leaves are still once more.

Tomorrow she would regret this, she was certain, but for now, nothing mattered but him and the delicious stroke of his hands, the warm, soothing phrases that he uttered, and the lazy movement of his tongue—everything working separately, yet coming together to leave her incoherent.

“Make love to me, Alysandir. I want to make love with you. I have wanted you since I first saw you that day in the glen, and I have wondered with it would be like to lie with you like this. I don’t want to wonder and imagine anymore. I want to know. I want to feel. I want to live. I want to feel you inside me, not because you want it, but because I do.”

He groaned and rolled onto his back, flinging his arm over his eyes. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” he said, his breath coming in short pants, his face contorted in discomfort. Her hand shyly eased into his, and he pressed her fingers against him, his hips anxious for their merging and rising up to meet her. “Mon Dieu!” he said.

The overwhelming desire to share this moment overrode any hesitance, and she moaned when his hand slipped over her breast. His thumb brought her to the point of readiness. His kiss grew more urgent now, his breathing harder and more ragged. Then his body slid over hers, and he spoke softly in Gaelic. He was turgid and so vulnerable that she ached inside.

Her hands wandered with slow, easy movement to learn the contours of his back and then explore the strength of his neck before she threaded her hands into the silky texture of his hair. She luxuriated in the weight of his body pressing her down. He pressed hard against her, and her legs parted. A mounting heat began to build, spiraling around her with such intensity until she whispered against his ear, “Please…”