He found himself laughing more than he had in a long while. "I'm not so good at dancing, as you can see."
She giggled and, in the dim light, the flash of her white teeth and the sparkle in her eye were visible. Her lush rose scent in the midst of a Highland stable almost bewitched him. He hadn't remembered her smelling this way. Nay, two nights ago, she hadn't. Mayhap she'd bathed in a new rose-scented soap.
Was she even real? How could this be happening? It all seemed a mid-winter dream, a heated fantasy he'd concocted to drive off the cold.
A fantasy he could not resist indulging in for just one moment.
Chapter Eleven
Leaning against the rock wall next to the stall, Dirk lowered his head and found Isobel's lips. Mmm. She was sweet, her lips soft and delicate like warm rose petals after a summer rain. Her delectable female flavor mixed with strawberry tart stole his reasoning ability. He had to taste her more. What an enchanting surprise when she opened to him. He explored her mouth, loving the shy flick of her tongue against his.
Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing his head down and pulling herself up to him, her body sliding along his. He groaned, his hands finding her derriere and dragging her tight against his hard shaft. Pleasure and need tore through him. Her round arse in his hands, he lifted her higher, devouring her mouth. He moaned before he realized the sound had escaped.
Damned if this wasn't paradise.
Her tentative kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Her lips moved over his, her tongue stroked against his and she moaned. "Mmm, Dirk," she whispered. "So good."
What the hell am I doing?
Drawing back, he set her away from him. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." Growling the Gaelic oath, he tried to catch his breath and think with some logic while he listened to her ragged breathing.
"I've never… well…" she whispered, supporting herself against the stone wall. "Now we know what you're good at."
"Damnation, Isobel. Go back inside." He ached for her. He'd craved her for days, but never like this.
"Now you get surly?" she demanded. "After that?"
"Especially after that. I can't…" Pacing away, he muttered more Gaelic curses, his frustration knowing no bounds. "We can't do that. You're betrothed."
"Very well." She straightened, sounding prim and proper of a sudden and beyond vexed. "Blame it on me then."
"I'm blaming no one. Just… stay away from me." Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say.
"Bastard," she snapped.
He sucked in a deep breath, trying to rein himself under control. Aye, let her think whatever she wanted about him, so long as she didn't touch him again. Or allow him to touch her. When he did, his body was no longer under his own command.
Clearly she was an experienced widow who knew how to seduce him easily. Her future husband might not know the difference, but Dirk would. He had more honor and sense than to lie with a woman who was almost married to someone else.
She paced away from him, then back. "I but wanted to be friends."
"Friends do not kiss each other like that," he muttered, wishing he could do it all over again. Never had a kiss been so astounding for him.
"I know."
"For God's sake, Isobel, go back inside." He knew his tone was near begging but he couldn't help it. He had to fight for self-control around her. His mind latched onto how much she'd enjoyed the kiss, how she'd responded, kissing him back like a love-starved wanton, rubbing up against him. If she touched him again now, he might have her pinned to the wall in a matter of seconds, their clothing pushed aside and…
Nay, don't think of that. He shook his head, trying to clear away the erotic images.
When she came closer, he drew in a deep breath, craving the smell of her, the taste of her. He stiffened, refusing to move.
"I just wanted to say… I enjoyed that more than…"
"What do you think I am?" he growled, arousal rampaging through him. "A saint? A eunuch?"
She shook her head, then strode regally from the stable out into the courtyard.
What had she meant to say? She'd enjoyed the kiss more than any other she'd received? Had neither her betrothed nor her late husband ever kissed her as if they could devour her? Well… that's how he'd felt. 'Haps he should be ashamed of that, but he wasn't. She was delicious and damned arousing. If she'd stayed, she'd find herself spread upon a pile of hay in one of the empty stalls, her skirts flung to her waist, while he gave her exactly what she'd been asking for.
***
Hand pressed against her burning lips, Isobel rushed across the frigid bailey, disturbing the thin layer of snow. Her lips tingled, and on her tongue she savored the lingering taste of Dirk—spicy male. His scrumptious mouth had near scorched hers in the cold air. She might be a widow, but she'd never been gifted with such a sinful kiss. She had not even known such kisses were possible.
She'd never wanted a man's mouth on hers anyway. Her late husband had always had perpetually bad breath. Neither had her betrothed, the MacLeod, kissed her. She barely knew the man. But Dirk's breath, and his mouth, had tasted like sweet spiced wine… cinnamon, cloves and honey added to an unmistakably appealing masculine flavor that made her want to bite him and lick him all over.
She'd felt his considerable erection pressed against her lower belly. That was something she'd never felt before, and she couldn't believe how hard it was.
What would he do if she turned and ran back to the stable? Not that she would. She wasn't witless. His angry rejection was obvious.
Of course, there was more to consider than simply what her body craved. She must think of the clans and the well-being of all the clansmen. What she, a mere woman, wanted was of no importance. No one cared about her dreams or desires.
She ran up the steps to the castle portal. A guard helped her open it from the inside and then she entered the warm great hall. Unable to withstand more of the music and dancing, she skirted the dance floor and slipped up the narrow turnpike stairwell.
In the chamber they'd assigned her, Beitris had maintained the cozy fire and was snoozing on a pallet in front of it.
After partially disrobing, Isobel crawled between the cool linen sheets, glad several woolen blankets were piled on top. She covered her head and thought of Dirk. Her chin still burned where his beard stubble had rasped against her. Her whole body was flushed and tingling from the way he'd kissed her, consuming her mouth as if starving for the taste of it… oh heavens! She craved him with the same hunger.
She didn't understand what he'd made her feel. Was it magic? Her heart had sped up as if under some sort of potent spell or witch's potion. And the flood of hot yearning… deep inside… between her legs. She would've done anything he'd asked at that moment. Anything he'd wanted, especially after he'd drawn her intimately against his aroused shaft.
Obviously, he'd wanted more, and she wished he'd taken more. The thought of his heated, naked skin sliding along hers near drove her mad. She wanted him to be the one to make her a woman in truth. At five-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when she should know what coupling felt like. With Dirk, she craved this strange and elusive connection as never before. 'Haps she had remained a virgin too long and her woman's body was rebelling, demanding a man's body for fulfillment and completion.