He frowned fiercely. “Nay.”
“Please, Graham,” she said, backing away from him to lead him into the cover of the thick trees. She needed them to be alone when she showed him the breastplate. He watched her with hooded eyes but did not move to follow her. “All ye need do is bring yer sword at me,” she called. “Ye ken well how to draw back, but I will meet yer blows! I’m certain I’m able.”
With a grunt, he advanced in several long strides, withdrew his sword, and struck at her. She did not even have the chance to lift her sword. The point of his swooped hers away, and her sword went flying into a pile of leaves with an unceremoniouscrunchupon landing. She gaped at it in dismay. “Ye deceived me!” she cried.
“Aye,” he replied. “The first lesson of any great warrior is to ken yer opponent is likely not honorable. The second is to ken to expect the unexpected. Ye failed both lessons.”
The implication that she was weak was not lost on her. She squared her shoulders and glared at him. “I’ve only just begun my lessons. I will nae forget what ye have taught me.” With that, she stomped toward her sword while planning her attack. She bent down deliberately so that her bottom was high in the air and wiggled it back and forth. The man may be acting cold, but she had not forgotten the consuming heat of his desire for her.
She heard a low growl come from behind her and she smiled wickedly, wiggling her bottom even more. “This sword is much heavier than I recall,” she said in as innocent a voice as one being so wicked could muster.
Wrapping her fingers tightly around the hilt, she gripped the sword and listened intently, preparing to move. When she was sure he was in striking distance, she swung the sword up and out toward him. His eyes widened, and in a blur his sword met hers, but she used a move Cameron taught her and swiveled her wrists to draw his sword lower. His sword dipped but did not drop as low as she had hoped before he brought it up hard, flicked her sword out of her hands once again, and brought the tip of his sword to her chest, which was heaving from effort.
He gave her a baffled look even as his gaze locked hungrily where her cloak had parted just a bit. A thrill shot through her as he brought his eyes to hers. “I’m impressed,” he said slowly, and she did hear the true admiration in his voice. Triumph pumped through her veins until he said, “But a few sword lessons dunnae make ye strong, Isobel. Ye’ve much to learn.”
She had been hoping very much that he would say that. “Aye,” she agreed quickly. “I do. Would ye teach me?”
“Nay,” he said flatly. “I will defend ye always. Ye dunnae have a need to learn to fight with a sword.”
“What if there comes a time ye’re nae with me and I’m attacked? Would ye nae feel awful if I was simply taken because I did nae ken how to defend myself?” It was a dirty ruse to name a situation that was much like the one she knew plagued him with guilt, but she was desperate to get him to agree to teach her. Once his vow was given, she knew he’d not break it, and it would ensure they spent time together.
A frustrated look crossed his face, and she held her breath in anticipation. “I will teach ye,” he finally relented, and before she knew it, he was behind her with his arms around her waist. She tensed, fearing he would feel her breastplate, but his hands did not graze her chest. Instead, he took her hands in his and placed them on his sword, causing burning desire to tighten her loins and make her breasts feel heavy. Her back pressed into his chest as he positioned her hands, his on top of hers. The hard, rapid thudding of his heart beat like a drum against her back. He wanted her. He could disguise it in his eyes, his voice, and his mannerisms, but when they touched it was much harder to hide. It was when touching him that she felt the most certain she could reach him.
“Ye hold yer sword too low,” he said in a gruff voice. His hot breath washed over her neck, and a moan escaped her. Instantly, she felt every inch of his body go rigid. “Hold yer sword higher,” he commanded and moved her hands where he wanted them. “Here”—he tapped her hands—“ye have more control.”
She could hardly think past the need raging within her, but she nodded. “What else?” she asked, her voice raw with yearning.
Several ragged breaths caressed her ears and then slowly, ever so slowly, his hand dipped low between the folds of her cloak and slid between her thighs. She whimpered as a low growl came from him. “Open yer thighs wider,” he said, his words choppy, as if he could barely talk. “Yer stance is too narrow, which makes ye easy to throw off-balance.”
“Like this?” she asked breathlessly and spread her legs wider. She cast a look over her shoulder, and their eyes locked. The unbridled hunger she saw in his gaze made her act. She turned in his arms, raised onto her tiptoes, and crushed her mouth to his. For a moment she feared he would not respond as he was standing perfectly still, but then he locked an arm around her back and pulled her tight against him.” He drew back giving her an odd look, and she suspected he felt the breastplate, so she kissed him fervently once more. He returned the kiss with a savage intensity that made her knees give. His sword clanked as it hit the ground, and then his other hand came to her neck and then cradled her head. He tilted her head back more and slanted his mouth over hers again and again. He tasted of smoke, mead, and desire. It was heavenly.
His lips left her mouth to trace a fiery path to her neck and then lower to her collarbones. Her heart raced as she clung to him with one hand and drew her other hand up to his hair to twine her fingers in his thick locks. He brought his hand to her chest, stilled, and drew back.
“What the devil are ye wearing, Isobel?” he demanded, tapping a finger against the breastplate she was wearing.
She had planned so carefully how she would show him the breastplate, but as she stepped back from him and reached up to take off the cloak, her hands shook violently. His eyes widened as she let the gown fall into a puddle at her feet and stood in nothing but her léine and the breastplate. “It’s for ye,” she said, her voice trembling with her anxiousness.
He moved his gaze slowly down the length of her body and then brought it back up to her chest. His jaw had clenched. “I dunnae wear a breastplate, Isobel.”
“I ken that,” she replied, initiating the final part of her plan. She fumbled with the heavy breastplate, struggling to remove it by herself since Bridgette had helped her don it. She glanced at Graham to see if he looked willing to help. His hands were curled into fists by his side, but blowing out a long breath, he moved toward her and wordlessly removed the gift. He dropped the breastplate on the ground beside them and devoured her with his eyes. Gooseflesh raced across her body, and anticipation swirled deep in her belly.
“I presume ye had Cameron create the piece?” he asked, not moving any part of his body but his gaze, which roamed slowly over her.
Her heart beat heavily, and her pulse raced. She licked her lips and noted that he flinched and his nostrils flared, yet he did not move toward her. Ah, he was warring with himself not to yield to his desire. She had to get him to do so now, though, or she feared the wall he had built would be impenetrable.
“I did,” she said. “I’ve blessed it.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Ye blessed it?” he asked, surprise in his voice.
“Aye.” She nodded slowly, glanced down at the breastplate, and said a silent prayer that it had been a good idea. She took a deep breath. “Aye. As thanks for a life I saved I was taught anaomh beannachdthat had been gifted to someone by a fairy.”
His eyes widened at that. “Who told ye this sacred blessing from a fairy?”
“A father passing by the nunnery with his child,” she said, purposely answering evasively. She did not want to tell him of the Summer Walkers in case she had need to go to them. “He told me that I could only bestow the blessing through a gift once in my life to defend the person I love most so I must choose wisely. I have chosen ye. I have blessed this breastplate with the sacred oath, and when ye wear it, it will help to keep ye safe. It dunnae make ye invincible,” she warned, just as theCeàrdannanhad warned her.
“A Dia, Isobel,” Graham murmured before moving toward her and sweeping her weightlessly into his arms. “Ye did nae choose wisely.” His lips pressed against her forehead, and he heaved out a sigh. “I am nae worthy.”
“Ye are worthy to me. Ye defend me, and now I have done something to defend ye.” She took his hand in hers and placed it over her racing heart. “I have given to ye my body and my soul. Please, I beg of ye, give me the submission I desire.”
