Isabella halted on the threshold, struck by a sense that all was not right. There was no one in the cabin, although the music played ceaselessly. At her confusion, the man drew back and waved a hand.
The music stopped. There was only the welcome crackle of the fire in the grate and the heat it generated. Still, she felt an uneasy sense that things were not what they seemed.
Or was she simply too tired?
“I must leave on this night,” the man said, his voice so deep and rich that it seemed it could not emanate truly from him. “I beg you to make use of the fire and my humble abode.”
Before Isabella could thank him for such kindness, he wrapped his cloak around himself and stepped past them into the night. The wind swirled around him, making his cloak flutter.
Then he was gone, swallowed by the night and the storm.
Murdoch released a shaking breath. With his cold fingers, he fumbled at his belt, even as he fell to his knees. Isabella thought he wanted his sword, although she could not imagine why. She made to step across the threshold and tug him inside by force.
“No!” Murdoch said with force, his eyes flashing, and flung her on to the ground beside him. Before Isabella could protest, he pulled a dagger from his belt, one with an elaborate design on its silver hilt. He jammed the blade into the dirt of the threshold, showing a disregard for the weapon that astonished Isabella.
She was more astonished when the cottage seemed to waver slightly, like a reflection in a pond.
“Now, you can enter,” Murdoch whispered, sounding as if he had crawled a hundred miles.
“Should we?”
“We have little choice. At least we will be able to leave.”
Murdoch sagged then, as if this effort had spent him completely. Isabella put her arm around him and supported his weight as she got him out of the storm. She urged him toward the fire and he collapsed, boneless with exhaustion.
Or something else.
Isabella closed the door behind them, not securing it in case the man returned. She cast off her own cold and wet cloak, then bent to remove Murdoch’s cloak. It was heavy with water and the hem crusted with ice.
“He was one of them.” Murdoch spoke so quietly that Isabella could barely hear the words. “He would trap us in his turn.” So, the man was Fae. Isabella thought of his fathomless eyes and was glad she had not looked more closely. Murdoch lifted a hand and his eyes opened slightly, revealing a glimmer of blue. He smiled a little and touched her cheek. “Not you, too. Not my Isabella.”
“They will not claim either of us,” Isabella vowed, although she was not at all certain that was possible. It was her hope, and perhaps that was sufficient.
Murdoch’s eyes closed then and he breathed heavily. He lay on his back before the fire, looking for all the world as if he had left this realm. Isabella leaned close and listened, the faint sound of his breath enough to encourage her.
She had to get him dry and warm.
Isabella dragged the pallet from the far side of the cottage in front of the fire, and rolled Murdoch on to it. He moved limply and she was struck that his skin had become even colder. His hair was thoroughly wet and clung to his head, icicles caught in its length. She used the bottom of her skirt to rub his hair dry and get most of the moisture out of it, leaving him tousled and alluring. The pallor had faded, too, leaving him looking more hale again.
She reached out a fingertip and traced the line of his mouth, remembering the surety of his kiss.
She could not let him die.
But still, Isabella had never seen a man naked, and she certainly had never removed the garb of a man she found so dangerously attractive. His garments were soaked, though, and his survival could rely upon warmth.
Isabella took a deep breath, then began to undress Murdoch.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Murdoch’s boots had pools of water in the soles and she poured them out, setting them before the fire to dry. The leather would be stiff in the morning, but there was little she could do about that. Their cloaks were already stretched out to dry.
She paused and surveyed him again, reminding herself that this was no time for maidenly shyness.
Isabella tugged off Murdoch’s gloves, pausing to study the whorling lines curling around his hand. She untied the lace at the cuff of his chemise and pushed up the sleeve, catching her breath at the extent of the blue mark. It continued, swirling around his forearm and past the elbow. The tendril of blue she had seen at Kinfairlie was the end of this design, where it had begun to wind around his throat. A quick check revealed that his right arm was nearly the same, the marks only slightly less extensive.
She unfastened his belt, expecting him to stir when she removed his purse and scabbard, but he did not. She grasped the hem of his tabard and pulled it up over his chest, noting that it was far less clean than once it had been.
She sniffed it and smelled blood. What blood? Was he this pale because he had been injured? Did he yet bleed? The possibility filled her with purpose. Isabella put the tabard to one side, intending to wash it once she had found and tended his wound. She loosened the tie of his chemise at the neck.
The sight of his bare throat made her resolve flutter. She recalled the feel of his embrace, and reminded herself to act. Her mouth dry at the boldness of what she did, Isabella tugged his shirt up from the waist and hauled it over her head.
Then she looked, telling herself she was seeking a wound. Murdoch lay half-naked before her and the strength of his body was beautiful. He was all muscled power, lean and strong. He did not have a single scar, let alone a bleeding wound – she even rolled him over to check.
The lack of a wound was not what astonished Isabella.
It was not even Murdoch’s nudity.
It was extent of the winding blue lines that covered not just his arms, but his shoulders and his torso. It looked for all the world like a tracery of dark vines that encased his body.
And his skin was pale beneath the marks. Where they had not marred his skin as yet, the flesh looked tanned and healthy, but beneath their tracery, it was grey and pale. She could not evade the sense that the lines grew like a bramble or a thicket, one converging upon his chest.
Surrounding and barricading his heart.
Isabella caressed his chest tentatively, wondering whether the marks hurt, her fingertip following one of those lines. Murdoch suddenly caught his breath. His eyes flew open and his gaze locked with hers. She laid her hand flat on his chest, her palm over the steady beat of his heart, and felt the heat grow there.
“Isabella,” he whispered, his voice husky. There was awe in his eyes and they became more blue as she watched. Color touched his face, driving out the pale hue even behind the blue lines. Isabella dared to hope that she truly could heal him of this malady.
What would she have to give to see him completely warmed? Isabella stared into his eyes and thought she knew.
And she was prepared to give it.
When Murdoch reached for her, Isabella could not have denied him to save her very soul.
* * *
Isabella might have been an angel of mercy, come to save him.
Murdoch had been surrounded by a fog filled with whispering shadows of ghosts and Fae. They had closed around him after the dark cloud’s assault, as he and Isabella had struggled to reach safety. He had been both relieved and terrified by the sight of the cottage, knowing they needed refuge but fearing the one who offered it – and what the price might be. He had already been weakened, the ice gathering in his veins as he felt himself fade.
At least he had had the power to drive the blade into the threshold. If they survived, they would be able to leave.
If they did not consume any morsel, they would be able to leave.
He had to warn Isabella, but the fog had closed around him as soon as he had entered the cottage. He feared it would only clear when he was in the Elphine Queen’s captivity. Murdoch was cold, colder than he might have believed possible, an
d he was certain that his every exhaled breath cast snow into the air.
He jumped at what he thought was that Fae queen’s touch on his bare skin, but the warmth that spread from that light caress told him otherwise.
Isabella.
Murdoch opened his eyes to find his stalwart maiden leaning over him, concern in her expression. She was fine and she was fearless. Tendrils of her hair hung damply around her face, the golden light cast by the fire gilding her to a vision of perfection. Her lips parted in surprise and her eyes widened that he awakened.
When she smiled with relief, Murdoch could not resist her. He reached for her, sliding his hands into her hair, drawing her closer. She smiled more broadly and leaned against him, claiming his lips with a kiss that sent heat surging through him.
Murdoch caught her closer and drank of her kiss, loving how she fell against him in a tumble of softness. She framed his face with her hands, capturing him between the heat of her palms, her lips and tongue kindling that fire within him to a blaze. Murdoch felt warmth return to his body, and heard the thunder of his own pulse in his ears.
Isabella gave him new life. He enfolded her in his embrace and rolled her to her back, surveying her when their kiss broke. She trailed one hand down his cheek and her eyes shone with a welcome that fed his desire yet more.
She was so vital that he had to defend her. “You must not let any morsel pass your lips in this place,” Murdoch advised her. “That, too, will see you captive.”
“Was that what you did?”
“I looked into her eyes. I saw promises there that beguiled me.” Murdoch forced a smile. “They were all lies, Isabella, for I was trapped against my will..” They were speaking in whispers, as if they might be overheard, the sound of their voices hidden by the crackle of the fire on the hearth. Indeed, Murdoch was not certain of their solitude. He shuddered at the recollection of his captivity, then met her gaze. “I would sooner die than be compelled to return.”
Her green eyes glinted with the determination he so admired. “I would sooner you survive,” she said with resolve, then pulled him closer for another kiss. Her kiss seared him and awakened him, making him feel powerful once again. He feared that she could not heal him totally, but even if this was merely a reprieve, it was welcome. He kissed her deeply, savoring her responsiveness, glad to find the sense of doom slipping from his thoughts. When he held Isabella and drank of her passion, he could believe in victory over the Elphine Queen.
When he lifted his head, they both were breathing quickly. The lady was flushed and Murdoch smiled at her.
“Your color returns,” she said with satisfaction. “And your eyes are not so filled with shadows as they were.” She slid her hands around his neck, drawing him closer. “Come and kiss me again. It seems the deed is good for what ails you.”
But Murdoch braced his hands on either side of her shoulders, resisting the temptation she offered. “Know, my Isabella, that if we touch again, I will not be able to stop our embrace. I fear you will no longer be a maiden when we part.”
His lady smiled. “Know, Murdoch, that it will be assumed I surrendered my all to you this night. In fact, I think Alexander already believes you have bedded me.” Murdoch might have protested this injustice but Isabella touched a fingertip to his lips. “If I am to be condemned, it will be for a deed I have done, not one I have only yearned to do.”
Her resolve made everything within him tighten. Still, he would ensure that she knew the price she might pay. “I would not have you be condemned at all.”
“Then you must survive the new moon, and you must wed me. That alone will ensure as much.” She spoke lightly, but Murdoch’s desire for that end was sobering.
He might have pulled away then, fearing as he did that it was impossible to fulfill that goal. “I will not pledge what might not be mine to offer,” he said gruffly, reluctant even so to leave the haven of her embrace.
But Isabella held fast. “Murdoch! I believe that the deed we both yearn to do this night might well give you that chance. It might turn the tide.”
“It might not.”
“I would take the risk, for the potential reward is well worth it.” She smiled again. “I knew a man who believed in the merit of a well-considered risk.”
Murdoch smiled back at her. “And you do not even know what pleasure this deed might offer.”
“It does not matter.”
She spoke with such conviction that Murdoch had to tease her. “So, you see this as an act of mercy? A treatment offered by a healer?”
Isabella’s tone turned more fierce. “I love you, Murdoch. I will never regret what we do this night, no matter what happens on the morrow. This is my gift to you, and I only pray that it will make the difference.”
Murdoch was awed and he was humbled. His lady was all he might have hoped to gain in a wife and partner, and he would not insult her by spurning the gift she offered.
For he loved Isabella with a fervor unexpected. He would take the chance that this deed might give him the chance to wed her with honor.
He bent and captured his lady’s lips with his own, resolving to go slowly and make this a night to remember. The least he could do was ensure her pleasure on this night of nights – indeed, a sweet memory might be all Isabella possessed of him in the end.
It was one offering Murdoch Seton knew he could make to his lady fair.
* * *
Isabella knew the moment Murdoch was persuaded. That mischievous glint lit his eyes again, though it was but a glimmer of what it had been before. And she tasted his intent in his kiss. He was more leisurely than he had been, yet she knew he did not hold himself back. He tasted her and cajoled her, savoring her kiss with a thoroughness that left her breathless.
When he raised his head and smiled down at her, Isabella knew she would remember this night for the rest of her life.
And this knight as well.
“Your gift is a generous one, my Isabella,” Murdoch murmured, his voice sending shivers of anticipation through her. “Do not imagine that I fail to realize its import.” He laid a fingertip across her lips when she might have spoken. “It seems only fair that I give some hint of the pleasure that is possible in this deed.”
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, her anticipation rising.
Murdoch smiled. “Nothing. You have only to enjoy.” He leaned over her and kissed her again, one arm sliding beneath her shoulders and the other hand loosing her braid. His fingers combed through her hair as he freed it, his touch making Isabella shiver with delight. She liked the sense of being sheltered in his embrace, trapped between him and the pallet, his strength and the hearth. She felt safe with Murdoch.
It was warm in the cottage, the fire crackling on the hearth and its light turning the small space into a cozy haven. Isabella could hear the roar of a furious wind outside the cottage, but it was so faint that the walls might have been thick stone. There was not a whistle through the cracks, not a draft or a chill. Even the smoke hole in the ceiling seemed to be buffered against that wind and not a drop of rain came through that opening either.
There was just the steady crackle of the fire, its radiant heat and Murdoch’s enchanting touch.
His kiss was potent, leisurely and seductive. Isabella felt that newly familiar urgency building beneath her skin – the one that Murdoch alone seemed to kindle – and that dampness between her thighs. Her pulse skipped and she yearned for the same pleasure he had given her in the salt fens.
And though he warned her to simply enjoy, Isabella could do no such thing. She had to give to him as he did to her. Isabella slid her hands into Murdoch’s dark hair and mimicked what he did. Their kiss rapidly became more passionate, the play between them sending heat surging through her veins.
She recognized that she had some power in this when Murdoch caught his breath and broke their kiss. He exhaled slowly, as if fighting for control.
“It is best taken slowly,” he whispered, his eyes glinting. “As sl
owly as it can be managed.”
“Why?”
His smile flashed. “You will see.” He winked. “Trust me.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And do not tease me overmuch.”
Isabella smiled. “I shall tease you as much as you tease me.”
Murdoch laughed, the sound more reassuring to her than any other could be. He coaxed her to her feet and turned her before him as if she were a marvel. His fingertips trailed across her cheek and her throat, as lightly as a feather, and he studied her so avidly that Isabella blushed. He smiled crookedly, then unfastened the lace at the neck of her chemise with deliberation, slowly revealing her skin to his gaze. His eyes shone with an anticipation that echoed Isabella’s own. In a way, she wanted him to hurry, but in another, she already saw the effect of his leisurely pace.
It built her anticipation. She thought of potions she had made, how some herbs had to be simmered for hours in order to release their full potency and reasoned that love play was much the same. The release would be greater if they ensured that passion rose slowly.
And doing as much would give Murdoch a greater chance to heal. Isabella could already see how his state improved. She did not understand it fully, but in giving herself to him, in giving of herself to him, the Elphine Queen’s power over him was diminished.
She studied him in the light of the fire, noting the breadth of his shoulders and the muscled strength of his body. She liked that he was taller than her, that he was clearly so powerful yet he touched her with gentleness. She liked the humor that glinted in his eyes and as ever she found his confidence alluring. He moved with grace, at ease with his body. Isabella sensed that it was like a weapon to him, a tool he could use more effectively in understanding its strengths and limitations.
Murdoch was not truly reckless. He was confident and he calculated the strategic merit of risk. She tried not to give undue attention to the tracery of blue lines on his skin, but they were a potent reminder of the peril he faced. His calculations of risk had been correct, except when he had been assaulted by the Fae queen.
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