Finlay shook his head. ‘No, but my men did. I carry some of the blame.’
‘No!’
‘I was their commanding officer. I seem to remember you saying some such thing with regard to Estebe.’
‘I will always have that guilt as part of me. Is that what you mean?’
‘I won’t lie to you, that’s what I mean.’
‘Finlay, one of the things I like so much about you is that you don’t lie to me. Not even when you want to.’ She touched his hand again, and this time he turned it around to clasp her fingers. ‘You treat me as if I have a mind of my own.’
‘A very decided one,’ he said.
She smiled softly. ‘Like the Jock Upstart, I do not take kindly to being given orders. We are very alike in that way.’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss onto her palm, allowing his mouth to linger for a moment, warm on her skin. ‘We must go. We’ve a few days yet before we reach the coast, and the path is treacherous so we need to make the most of the daylight.’
* * *
They travelled all day, leading the horses over the roughest terrain, making slow but steady progress north. It was hard going, but Isabella made not a word of complaint, and though her steps flagged as dusk approached, she insisted on continuing for another mile, until darkness prevented them travelling further. Cheese and stale bread were all they had to eat, but she made no protest about this meagre fare, either.
There was sparse shelter provided by an overhanging rocky outcrop. ‘You take the blankets,’ Finlay said. ‘I’ll keep watch.’
‘There is no need. No one is following us up here. You will feel better for a sleep, and we will be warmer if we share.’ She smiled up at him, her face shadowed by the flickers of the tiny fire they had lit. ‘We did it once before, do you remember?’
‘I do.’ His heart gave a painful twist as he sat down beside her. More than two years ago, it had been. Against all odds they had met in the strangest of circumstances, and here they were again about to huddle under a blanket together for warmth. He hadn’t thought himself a man who believed in destiny. He wished fervently that fate had drawn him a kinder hand. Twice, he had crossed paths with the woman who owned his heart, and soon they would be parted forever. He could not resist putting his arm around her and drawing her closer. He loved her. Pointless to deny it any longer. Time to stop pretending it was anything else. He loved her, and he always would.
‘It is a strange coincidence, being here like this for the second time, is it not?’ Isabella asked.
‘I was thinking the very same thing myself.’ Finlay shifted on the hard ground, tucking the blanket around them. Her cheek rested on his shoulder. Her hair tickled his chin. He breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of her, and closed his eyes, trying to etch the feel of her body against his, the softness of her, the shape of her, deep in his mind, achingly conscious that he would have so few chances left just to hold her like this.
‘We talked of America that night,’ Isabella said. ‘I never thought I would travel there. I never imagined it would be my home.’
‘Isabella, if there was any...’
‘Wheesht,’ she said, putting her fingers to his mouth, her accent making the word sound like a caress. ‘I have been thinking of what you said. America is a new world. A country where ideals are not simply dreams. You are right, Finlay. It is a country where I can start again. I don’t know what I will do, but there are so many possibilities. You were right. It is a good place for me to go. Thank you.’
He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but there was a note of real enthusiasm in her voice that was surely not manufactured. She was not simply making the best of things, she was trying her wee heart out to embrace her fate. He loved her so much. Gràdh, mo chrìdh, he said to himself, touching his lips to the silky mass of her hair. ‘You should sleep now,’ he added aloud. ‘We’ve a way to go in the morning.’
‘Buenas noches, Finlay.’
‘Oidhche mhath, Isabella.’
‘Oika va?’
He chuckled softly. ‘Not bad. You’ve an ear for the Gaelic. Goodnight, lass.’
She nestled her head into his shoulder. He kissed her hair again, tightening his arm around the slim curve of her waist. Her breathing slowed. She was asleep almost immediately. ‘Gràdh, mo chrìdh,’ Finlay whispered, wanting to say the words to her just once, though she could not hear. ‘Love of my heart you are, Isabella. Love of my heart.’
Chapter Eleven
Isabella awoke from a deep slumber to find that her head was cushioned on Finlay’s chest. She was lying on her side, with one of her legs wedged between his. His arm anchored her to him; his other hand was splayed across her bottom. She could feel his heart beating, slow and steady, through his shirt. She listened, keeping quite still, to his breathing. Also slow and steady. He was asleep. She did not want to move and risk waking him.
The cloud had cleared while she slept, and the stars were out, huge disks of silver in the inky blue sky, the half-moon glowing milky white. Finlay said the stars in Scotland seemed much farther away. She couldn’t imagine how that could be. He stirred, tightening his hold on her. She felt safe here with him. She wished the night would go on forever. She did not want to think of the morning, which would bring her another day closer to the coast, and to the ship that would take her to her new life. If she was not so completely alone, she might be looking forward to it almost as much as she had tried to persuade Finlay she was. A new world. Perhaps there would be an opportunity for a new El Fantasma. Not a partisan, but perhaps— Her mind skittered to a halt. Something. She would think of something tomorrow, and she would tell Finlay, and she would enthuse and speculate, and the guilt he was so patently feeling about sending her off alone to her fate would hopefully abate a little.
She owed him so much. She owed him her life. She couldn’t bear to think that he’d be fretting about her once she had sailed. He had his own life to be getting on with. He would be off to fight another war soon enough. Or off on another mission for the Duke of Wellington. She hoped for Finlay’s sake that he would be given something constructive to do. Though she hated the idea of him being in danger, she knew he would be miserable kicking his heels in the officers’ mess. The Jock Upstart was a man who thrived on action. Her heart lurched at the realisation that she would never know what he was doing, who he was with, what country he was in, even.
Perhaps he would, after all, return to the Highlands and raise a family. She could imagine him, very easily imagine him, with a brood of children—bairns, as he would call them. She could imagine them surprisingly easily. Their bairns. Hers and Finlay’s. She had never really thought about children, never imagined herself as a mother. Now, for a fleeting moment, the notion filled her with some soft and warm emotion that she’d never experienced before. ‘Stupid,’ Isabella muttered to herself. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’
She was torturing herself. Better to focus on the real future, whatever that would be. It would be empty of Finlay—that was the only thing she knew for sure. Perhaps she should suggest they correspond, once she had settled in America. But she dismissed the idea immediately. A consolation to her, those letters might be, but they would be a burden to Finlay. The break, when it came, must be clean. In a few more days, only a few more days, they would part, and she must make very sure that the parting was as painless for Finlay as it could be. As to herself—no, truly, there was no point in thinking about her feelings.
She flattened her palm on his chest. He was so solid. She had never lain like this with a man. Slept with a man. It was such a very intimate thing to be doing, despite the fact that they were both more or less fully clothed. Asleep, even Finlay was vulnerable. In a sense, sleeping together was more intimate than making love. Not that anyone would believe that all she had done was slept in his arm
s. If it were discovered, her reputation would be ruined. If she had any left to ruin, that was. Though her reputation would not matter at all in the New World she was headed towards. No one would know anything about her past history. They would not know that she had spent the night alone, in a Highlander’s embrace. It was a terrible pity she had not anything more scandalous to conceal. Almost a waste.
Somehow her hand had slipped inside the opening of Finlay’s shirt. The rough hair of his chest prickled her palm. His nipple was unexpectedly hard. Was it as sensitive as hers? When she touched it, did it tingle the way hers did? Was there that shivering connection between his nipple and his—his arousal? There was certainly a connection between his nipple and her arousal. If she turned her head just the tiniest fraction, she could put her lips to the skin of his throat. It was a very, very appealing idea, but she dared not move lest she wake him. Though it was so very tempting. But it would be wrong. He had made it clear, very clear, that he would not make love to her. She was under his protection. She was an innocent. He was not a seducer of virgins.
In a few days’ time, she would be alone on a boat, and she would never see him again. No one save Finlay cared about her virginity. She would certainly be more than happy not to have to take it with her. Without her dowry and her pedigree, her virginity was not even a marketable asset. She turned her head a tiny fraction. Just a kiss. But she did not want to wake him. Just one tiny kiss. What was the harm in that?
Her lips touched his throat. His skin was warm. She licked him. He tasted slightly salty. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. She kissed his throat again. She could feel his pulse beating against her lips. His hand tightened on her rump, and she knew he was awake.
She froze, horrified. She lifted her head to apologise, but Finlay smiled softly. ‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘lovely Isabella. You’ve no idea how lovely.’
‘Finlay.’ In the moonlight, his skin was pale, his eyes dark. She reached up to touch his hair. ‘The colour of autumn leaves,’ she said. ‘All that time ago, when first we sat under the stars like this, that’s what I thought. That your eyes were colour of the summer sea. And your hair the colour of autumn leaves.’
He laughed softly. ‘I wanted to kiss you, that night. Under that blanket. Under those stars. I wanted very much to kiss you.’ His hand was caressing her bottom, the flat of his palm smoothing delightful circles. ‘I regretted the fact that I didn’t,’ he said.
‘And I, too.’ She smoothed her hand over his chest. She felt his heart leap, beat faster than before. Longing, so deep that it was almost painful, overwhelmed her. ‘I have so many regrets, Finlay. I don’t want this to be another. Make love to me.’
‘Isabella...’
‘Please,’ she interrupted, desperate to quell his conscience before it could put an end to things. ‘This has nothing to do with gratitude or guilt, Finlay. I know what I am doing. You will not be stealing my innocence. I am giving it to you. I know you want me. I know, too, that it can mean nothing.’
‘You’re wrong. Isabella, you are so wrong. It means everything. But I can’t resist you. I don’t want to resist you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.’
* * *
He loved her so much. I love you, he thought as he kissed her. I love you, Isabella, I love you. He poured his heart into his kisses. It would be his only chance to love her, to worship her, to show her how he felt. He kissed her hungrily, passionately, then softly, tenderly. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said. ‘I want you so much.’ I love you so much.
He rolled her onto her back. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her neck, her shoulders, the mounds of her breasts above the neckline of her riding habit. She tugged at his shirt, slipping her hands beneath the fabric to stroke his skin, making his muscles clench in response, sending the blood shooting to his groin.
He eased her up, sitting her between his legs, and kissed the nape of her neck. Slowly, he began to unbraid her hair, teasing it loose with his fingers. Long, silken strands spread over her shoulders. He pulled her up against him, her back against his chest, cupping her breasts, kissing her neck, then began to unlace her riding habit, taking his time, planting kisses on every inch of skin revealed, slipping the top over her arms, kissing her shoulders, the crook of her elbows, before unlacing her stays and sliding her chemise down. He kissed the knot of her spine. He could feel her breathing, fast and shallow. He cupped her breasts, exposed now, rolling her nipples between his fingers, relishing the small moans of pleasure his touch elicited.
Hot skin, cold air. He pulled his shirt over his head and drew her back against him. The silken touch of her hair caressed his chest. He whispered her name, feathering kisses across her narrow shoulders. She arched back against him, her breathing more ragged. He wanted to see her face. Gently, he rolled her onto her back again. Another long, deep kiss, her tongue on his, making his shaft pulse and throb. He ached to be inside her, but he would not rush this, his one unique opportunity to make love to the woman he loved.
‘You are a banquet,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘A feast.’
Her response was a sensuous smile that sent his pulses racing. She ran her hands over the breadth of his chest, pressing her mouth to his throat. ‘You are not the only one with an appetite.’
‘I have never been so ravenous in my life,’ Finlay replied, taking her nipple into his mouth.
She gasped with pleasure. He tasted her lingeringly, licking and teasing her, first one nipple and then the other. Her fingers dug into his back. She arched under him. He kissed the delicate line of her ribcage, licking into the hollow of her navel, murmuring her name over and over. Her hands fluttered frantically over him, her untutored touch rousing him, the guttural little moans she made heating his blood, making his pulses race.
He pulled her habit and her petticoats off together. Her skin was creamy white in the moonlight. Her slim beauty, her delicate curves, were almost too much. ‘You are so lovely. I have never seen anything to match your loveliness,’ he said. He kissed the back of her knee, her calf, her ankle, as he removed her stocking. Then the same for the other leg. Isabella was watching him, wide-eyed, intent. He adored the way she watched him. Not a trace of modesty, as if she, too, was savouring every precious moment, as if she, too, was trying to memorise every inch of him. He could not resist claiming her lips again. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her naked breasts to his naked chest. Her nipples grazed his skin. He had never felt anything so arousing.
More kisses, far headier than any of the region’s wine. He could drink of her and drink of her and never have his fill. Easing her back down, he kissed his way down her body, the valley between her breasts, the dip of her belly, to the apex of her thighs. She was panting now, her fingers clutching at the edge of the blanket on which they lay. The flesh here was sweet, soft, faintly scented with her arousal. He eased her legs farther apart, and slid his tongue inside her. She bucked under him. The taste of her, the heat and wet of her, was heady.
He thought he might come. It took him every bit of self-control he possessed to wait, to get himself under control, but he did it. She was a feast he had waited a long time to consume. He wanted to enjoy every morsel. He slipped his hands under her bottom, tilting her towards him, and licked. She was already tight. Already on the brink. He was careful not to send her over, slowly licking and stroking just enough, then moving away, sliding his fingers inside her, thrusting slowly, carefully. Her moans had become pleas. Her hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, his arms. He licked again. He thrust again with his fingers. She cried out his name, a desperate sound. He licked again, slowly but relentlessly, and she came with a loud cry, pulsing against him, the taste of her so unbearably sweet, so uniquely his lovely Isabella, that he closed his eyes to relish it, telling her again and again, to the rhythm of her climax, whispering so softly that she could not hear him, that he loved her, loved her, loved her
.
When the pulses faded to ripples, Finlay looked up to find her watching him again. He smiled. Isabella smiled back, a slow, sensuous, sated smile. He could call a halt now. He thought about it. But then she reached for him, pulling him towards her, her hands on the waistband of his breeches, shaking her head as if she had read his mind. ‘I am hungry, too,’ she said. ‘Take them off. I want to see you naked,’ she said urgently.
He wanted her to look. It was strange, he’d never felt like that before, but he wanted her to see him. He kissed her again before dragging his mouth from hers and hurriedly divesting himself of the last of his clothes. Even in the moonlight, he could see the flush of colour tingeing her cheeks. It was delightful. She was delightful.
‘May I touch you?’
‘You need to ask? I can think of nothing I want more.’ He knelt before her, once more between her legs. She sat up. Her blush was quite distinct now, but she was still looking at him in that intent, sultry way that made him ache with the need to be inside her. She touched his belly. With her finger, she traced the line of hair that arrowed down to his groin. She stroked his flanks. She traced the line of his buttocks. His muscles tightened in response. She reached for his shaft. He inhaled sharply, praying for self-control. Her touch was the faintest feathering, tracing the length of him with her fingertip. ‘Dear God,’ he said.
She yanked her hand away. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ He couldn’t catch his breath. ‘No. I’m just— It is just...’
‘You like it?’ Her smile became feline. Predatory. She touched him again, feathering up and down the length of him. ‘I think you like it a lot?’
‘Aye,’ he said, snatching a kiss from her, ‘a lot.’
‘And this?’
She circled her fingers around his girth. He nodded, gritting his teeth.
‘And this?’
A slow stroke of her hand. Finlay nodded again. Pain and pleasure; he’d no idea they were such bedmates.
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