“You needn’t sleep here.” She pointed to his makeshift pallet. “The bed is plenty large for us both.”
He didn’t even look up as she spoke. Merely continued to fluff a pillow and place it atop the stack of blankets.
“Tavish.” Her hands went to her hips, as if preparing to scold him. Another wifely behavior, unfortunately.
He picked up a second pillow. “Isla, as I’ve said, I find it no bother to sleep here.”
Oh! This stubborn man!
“It’s pouring rain, and the temperature is falling. The great hall will be baltic by morning. Why are you resisting my decidedly sensible suggestion?”
Tavish dropped the pillow atop the blankets of his makeshift bed.Raising his head, he fixed her with his gray eyes . . . and something dropped within his expression. A mask she hadn’t realized he had been holding. And in its stead, she saw raw hunger—feral and barely contained.
Every last drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth.
“Isla.”
He said her name like an epithet. Or was it a hosanna? She could scarcely say. He took one step toward her before stopping himself.
“Lass, if I crawl into that bed beside ye”—his voice a rasp—“I will not keep my hands to myself. Lying beside ye without touching ye would require greater strength of will than I possess. A sane man knows his limits.” He scanned her stunned expression. “So I sleep here.”
He pointed to the piled blankets.
Oh.
And . . . now all she could picture were the delightful ways he would not keep his hands to himself. The wanting as he pulled her against his body and bent his lips to hers. She could hardly breathe for the desire clouding her thoughts.
“Is that why you haven’t kissed me? Or even attempted to kiss me?” Her questions emerged breathless. “There was a moment during our waltz when . . .”
The memory of their last kisses in that empty bedroom rose like a specter between them. The wild greed of his mouth pressing against hers. The delicious weight of his hands skimming her body.
He nudged his pallet with a foot, shoulders shrugging. “Ye haven’t tried to kiss me either, lass. Why is that?”
Because I don’t know, she thought.
Because if I kiss you again, I’m not sure I will ever stop, and I don’t want lust to drive decisions about my future.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face.
“Exactly,” he whispered. “Ye must understand, Isla, if we consummate our marriage, that will be it.”
“Pardon?”
“If I have ye, if ye take me as your husband in truth, that will be it. I will not share that intimacy with yourself and then pass ye off to another.” He paused, the next words emerging as if torn from his throat. “If ye kiss me, ye should knowwhere it will lead—you and I spending our lives together.”
His words landed with all the subtlety of a gunshot.
Isla barely stopped a wince.
“Because once we share our bodies with one another—if we make that commitment,” he continued. “I will never let ye go. You will be mine, and I will be yours.”
His lips formed a sad quirk—one that added, quite clearly,and we both know ye don’t want that.
And yet, as she held his gaze, she realized he was wrong.
I want to choose you.
The same words from several nights before, only this time, present tense instead of conditional—I wantinstead ofI would.
