“Enough, Your Grace.” She snatched a bonnet ribbon off her cheek where the wind had plastered it. “If ye won’t stop harassing my father, if ye haven’t a care for my sister and her prospects, if ye won’t listen taemy pleading, then let us cease this dance.” She flicked her fingers, as if shooing away a nuisance. “I shall merely have to find a more cunning way tae force your capitulation.”
“Such as boring me to death with your futile begging?” Dark humor touched his lips. “As I said, desperation is hardly a flattering look on you, Lady Isolde.” He stepped toward her.
“How have ye convinced anyone that ye are a true gentleman”—she matched his forward step—“not to mention a duke?”
“Back to that, are you?” Another step closer.
“It seems particularly relevant just now.”
They were practically nose-to-nose. Near enough for Isolde to see the fan of faint wrinkles bracketing his eyes like a sunburst.
A loud burst of sound drifted on the breeze—Lady Callagher’s strident voice and a chorus of giggles drawing nearer.
Damnation.
The women had lost their quarry and doubled-back in search of the duke.
Isolde glanced in the direction of their voices, alarm ringing in her blood. Kendall mimicked her looking, no doubt reaching the same conclusion.
To be caught standing toe-to-toe with the duke, both of them arguing like fishwives . . .
Kendall tilted his head toward the outbuilding farther up the path, its door swung wide over the gravel. Isolde followed him up the walk. As they neared the building, she realized the structure was built into the side of the hill. The door stood at the end of a tunnel-like entrance, chiseled out of the mound like an ancient burial cairn.
Why had she followed him here?
It was infuriating . . . her uncontrollable need to poke and prod this man until he was as raging and helpless as herself. Until the turbulent Italian half of his nature erupted, burning away the chilly English.
Kendall paused beside the open door, tugging his hat further down on his head to prevent the wind from making off with it.
“Say your worst, Your Grace, and then let me be.” Isolde pressed an arm across her waist.
“And miss my chance to gloat? I think not.” The duke’s eyes thrummed with glee. “How delightful to discover that the fierce Lady Isolde cannot stand to be bested.”
“Ye have hardly bested me, Your Grace,” she said through gritted teeth. “I simply haven’t found the time to sharpen my dirk. We Scots are always ready tae spill aSassenach’s blood.”
“Is that so? You think me such an easy mark?” He smirked and, once more, stepped toward her.
It was as if they were magnets unable to resist the pull of the other’s magnetic field.
He stood so close, Isolde could see herself reflected in his pupils. So close, the brim of his hat and the curve of her bonnet nearly touched.
She rather forgot to breathe.
A burst of female laughter sounded from somewhere behind them, causing Isolde to startle.
“Do you suppose Kendall went this way?” a voice called.
Kendall winced. “Oh, for the love of—” He bit off an oath.
Before Isolde could muster a word of protest, he wrapped his large hand around her wrist, tugged her into the dark interior of the building, and pulled the door partially shut, hiding them both from view.
Cool darkness engulfed her.
Of all the overly-dramatic—
Isolde yanked her hand from his warm grasp, hating how the press of his fingers lingered.
“Really, Your Grace,” she whispered. “I didn’t know your need tae crow victory was so pitiable.”
