“Aye,” Cameron agreed, “I do, too. Jamie will be in pursuit, as well as Findlay.”
“We had a lead on them, and they would need to stop,” Rory Mac pointed out.
“Nae as long as us,” Graham replied. “We stopped for this length of time because I feared pushing the women any harder. Isobel looked verra weary.”
Cameron made a derisive noise in his throat, but Graham did not comment. They moved to their spots to guard the camp, and much later, when Rory Mac complained that he would fall down if he did not sit for a bit, Graham called for a changing of the guard. He considered keeping watch with the other men while Rory Mac and Cameron slept, but when he went to see to Isobel and Marsaili, he found Isobel shivering almost violently in her sleep.
He secured a blanket to throw over her for another layer of warmth, but when she continued to tremble, he lay beside her simply to warm her. He did not want her taking a chill and catching her death. He pulled her into his arms and against his chest, half expecting her to protest in her sleep and fight him, but she sighed contentedly and nestled close to him.
Yearning pulsed with each breath he took. Her scent of heather and honey swirled around him enticingly and made him want to taste her lips to see if honey lingered there, too. He lay as still as possible, reminding himself that he was only offering her warmth and that if she were awake, she’d not welcome his embrace in the least.
Just as he closed his eyes, she twisted to face him, pressed her cheek to his chest, and threw one leg over his legs and wrapped her arm around his waist. Holding her so close and her embracing him in return felt so strangely right and natural that he frowned in bewilderment. Why did this woman he barely knew affect him so? Not only did she despise him but she soon would be married to another, so even if she had been attracted to him as he was undeniably attracted to her, they would never be in a position to act upon their yearnings. Mayhap it was simply that she was the first woman he had been this close to since he let go of his foolish idea that Bridgette was meant for him.
He glanced down at Isobel’s face, wishing to bury the memory, and he was struck breathless by her delicate beauty. His heart pounded heavily as he studied her features. She had a straight nose; full, very red lips that almost appeared to be in a pout; and thick, dark lashes that lay heavy against the top of her cheeks. Her flawless skin was the color of snow, and her hair lay in thick waves over his arm and her shoulder.
In the darkness, her hair looked black, yet he recalled it as a chestnut color, vibrant with varying shades of dark and light browns. Without thought, he reached out and smoothed her hair back, wanting to see her entire face. She immediately stirred, and as he held his breath, her eyes slowly opened.
A crease appeared between her dark brows, then her eyes flew wide as she stared at her leg thrown over his. Her lips parted, and he could almost feel her heart explode in her chest, which was pressed firmly against his. Then she had both hands on him and was pushing away. He released his hold on her, surprised at how acutely he felt the loss.
“What were ye doing?” she demanded, accusation dripping from her words.
He smirked at her. “Warming ye. When I came upon ye, ye were shivering so violently that I feared ye would become ill.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So ye needed to turn me to face ye and crush my chest up against yers to simply warm me, did ye?”
“I did nae.Yeturned towardmeand wound yerself aroundme.”
She bit her lip with obvious distress, making it almost impossible not to smile at her discomfiture. He could not resist taunting her more, just to see her reaction. “Ye slung yer leg over my wee body and wrapped yer arm tight around me. I could hardly move ye held me so tightly.”
“Nay, I—”
He wanted to laugh, but he swallowed his merriment and tried to affect a serious tone. “I was stuck. I did nae wish to wake ye, so I simply held still. Quite torturous, I assure ye. It seems ye like me more in yer sleep than ye do awake,” he added, but then he winked so she would know he had been toying with her.
Her wide eyes narrowed. She was a beautiful lass, but when she was angry and her eyes sparked with it, she was a sight to behold—the sort of lass bards wove tales about and sang about until the early morning hours.
“Ye were teasing me,” she exclaimed, sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest. She looked so small and fragile that the urge to protect her washed over him again.
“Only partly,” he acknowledged. “Ye did nestle against me, but I rather enjoyed it. Ye’re quite bonny, and I am a man, aye? I’m nae made of stone.” He hadn’t meant to admit that much, but when a shy smile came to her face and made two fetching indentations appear in her cheeks, his gut tightened and he was glad he had said what he had since it had allowed him a glimpse of another facet of her loveliness.
She ran a finger back and forth in the grass before she spoke. “Ye feel as if ye’re made of stone. Ye’re verra hard.”
“Am I now?” he replied, unable to keep his voice from growing deep and husky. He knew well she had not given a thought to his groin, but allhecould think of was how much her innocent statement made him want to crush his mouth to hers.
She released a sharp gasp. “I did nae mean—That is, I was referring to yer chest. It feels like it’s forged of iron.”
The woman was going to kill him with her unintended seductive talk.
“Tell me of yer time at the nunnery,” he blurted, wishing to move the conversation away from his hard body while also wanting to learn about her. She was his captive, after all, and she would soon be used to strengthen the king’s position, so it would be prudent to know what events had shaped the person she was.
She stilled and gave him a long, wary look. “Why do ye care?”
“It’s good to ken yer enemies, aye?” He frowned as soon as he said the words. He could not imagine what had possessed him to utter such a thing to her, except that he felt vulnerable somehow, as if admitting that she intrigued him in a more personal way made him weak and foolish.
Marsaili’s snores filled the tense silence that followed his statement, and Isobel pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, almost as if she were protecting herself from something. Perchance from her memories, or perchance from him…
“We are enemies, then,” she said. It was not a question but a statement of the truth she thought he had now confirmed. Regret burned in his gut, yet he would not rescind his words. He had a notion it might be better if she kept her guard up.
Still, he shifted with an overwhelming desire to know whatshebelieved. What if she had changed her mind?
