His mouth painted fire down the side of her neck. Isla clung to his shoulders, spine arching in an attempt to get closer. To somehow merge her essence into his.
He obliged, his strong arms banding her to him. She could feel the faint tremor in his muscles, as if his skeleton were wracked with small earthquakes. A battering ram crashing into the wall of their self-restraint and, quite frankly, any iota of wisdom.
His eager lips left her throat and returned to her mouth, plundering with punishing force.
Isla had just started to wonder why they were both still standing upright while a perfectly soft bed of green grass stretched out behind her . . .
. . . when Tavish abruptly dropped his hands from her body. Just as he had during their waltz.
The sudden loss caused her to sag. She braced her palms on his chest for support and peered up at him, a crease between her brows.
He regarded her with the same untamed hunger, but a hint of wariness had crept in. His lungs were a bellows, expanding and contracting.
“Tavish?” she gasped.
Gently, so gently, he pulled her palms from his chest and set them at her side.
He took a step back.
And then another.
Frowning, Isla stepped forward, only to have him stop her with a slice of his head.
“Isla.” His voice dragged like chains over gravel.
She blinked up at him, at the sun haloing his head. She wrapped her arms around her waist, terrified of what he would say next.
“I can’t . . .” He paused, eyes fluttering closed as if in pain. “I can’tkiss ye and not . . .” Opening his eyes, he gave her a beseeching look. “As I’ve said before, we play with fire, lass. We both know that kisses such as these lead to more intimate activities. I won’t have ye trifle with my affections. I meant my words from last night—if we share our bodies, I will never let ye go.”
His spine straightened. Captain Balfour flickered into his expression, the iron control of a soldier.
He licked his lips.
“I love ye, Isla.” The words were torn from him, ripped from the foundation of his being. “I loved ye as a lass. I love the woman ye have grown to be. I’m certain I will love every iteration of ye between now and the end of my days. Ye are woven into the very fabric of my soul.”
Bending down, he picked up his shirt and the wet towels.
“I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life proving how much I love ye. But . . .”
Silence.
She hated that string of words . . .
I love ye. But . . .
“But?” she whispered.
He sucked in a breath. “But the only thing worse than letting ye go, would be to tether ye to myself unwillingly. To watch the affection between us shrivel and decay. My lack of funds has not changed, and the prospects for my future are as they have always been. I cannot give ye Malton Hill. I cannot offer ye anything more substantial than my beating heart.”
Isla couldn’t move. She could scarcely breathe.
His words battered her senses.
Because she wanted to claim his magnificent heart as her own. But the fear of reaching for it turned her limbs numb.
“I want ye to be intentional about this decision, Isla,” he continued. “Take all the time ye need—days or weeks or months. I will wait until ye know your own mind.”
As ever, he was making her choose. Refusing to permit lust and animal attraction to cement their fates.
