It was a dare, she realized. Again, he was challenging her. Offering her choices. A different way of seeing and being.
Are ye sure it’s Fletch ye want, lass?the press of his hand in hers said.
Slowly, so slowly, his head bent down. He hovered just above her mouth, the warmth of his breath skimming her skin . . . giving her all the time in the world to change her mind, to step back or tug her hand away. Anything, really, to interrupt the downward slide of gravity drawing his lips to hers.
Isla didn’t so much as twitch.
She gasped when his mouth touched hers. The barest of brushes. A feather press of soft lips. Fleeting and gone too soon.
He lifted his head just enough to peer at her.
Tavish’s eyes. Open and honest and desperately hungry. Wild eyes. A reflection of the terrified pounding of her heart.
“Isla . . .” he exhaled, those same eyes dropping again to her mouth. As if she undid him. As if within the two wee syllables of her name, he could find salvation.
His head bent again, and she raised to tiptoe. Eager. No . . .desperate. She had to know if reality matched her memories. If his kisses still burned like lava in her blood.
Their lips touched, faint as an owl’s wing in moonlight—
Voices intruded.
Loud voices.
Male voices, calling and coming closer.
Isla and Tavish lurched apart as if jolted by lightning, shifting as far from one another as possible in the small space.
“Gray,” Isla choked, recognizing the timbre of her brother’s deep bass.
“Of all the bloody luck.” Tavish met her gaze, and she watched him retreat—yearning icing over as sure as a pond in January.
Turning away, he walked into the rain.
Tavish stepped fromthe hollow, his senses reeling from the feel of Isla pressed against him, his lips still tingling from the shadowed caress of hers.
She insisted she didn’t want him. Not in any permanent sense.
But by all that was holy, he wanted her. Not just the physical charms of her person—though he decidedly wanted those, too—but the clever snap of her wit, the fierce tenacity of her mind.
He wanted the girl she had been and the woman she had become. He wanted a lifetime exploring every iteration of the person she would grow to be.
The longing felt too vast to accommodate. Like trying to wrap his arms around the sun and hold it tight. Surely, he would be scorched to dust.
Thankfully, the cool drizzle of rain cooled his ardor.
Tavish looked up the path, gravel glistening.
“Here they are, Grayburn.” Fletch came into view, the duke on his heels.
Both men were soaked from the rain, caped greatcoats drenched and the brims of their top hats dripping.
Fletch waved, a broad smile on his face. Were he a puppy in truth, his tail would be wagging.
Grayburn scowled, limp pronounced, his brow as dark and ominous as the clouds overhead—more or less His Grace’s permanent expression with any situation that involved a Balfour.
Tavish lifted a hand in greeting.
“Really, Grayburn,” Fletch continued as they drew near. “How many times must I tell you? Despite the differences between your families, you can depend upon Balfour’s honor as a gentleman.”
