He hated that Fletch probably already knew what her skin felt like under his lips—silk and heat and rose petals.
Dammit.
Tavish probablywasjealous.
“Promise me, Captain Balfour,” she whispered.
Not Tavish.
Certainly notdarlingorlove.
Captain Balfour.
Why did the reality of moving from sweethearts to strangers have to be lined with spikes that abraded the wound of her loss?
But in this, he decided to acquiesce. Isla was Tavish’s wife currently; therefore, his loyalty should be to her first. And as Fletch’s potential future wife, Isla deserved to control how and when he learned of her prior marriage.
“Very well,” he nodded. “But be careful, lass. Try not to toy with Fletch this week. Maybe wait until after the house party to deepen your connection.”
Anything to prevent Tavish from having to watch Fletch openly court her.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“A reason to force me to remain true to you. To avoid other gentlemen.”
“Enough!” He leaned down. “Your comment earlier about Miss Crowley’s—how did ye phrase it?—ample bosom? Was that not jealousy, too? I’m not the only one struggling with this change in our circumstances.”
“Hah!” She pointed a finger at his face. “So you admit youarejealous!”
Whip quick, Tavish wrapped his palm around her raised wrist—the reflex as habitual as lifting a rifle to his shoulder. A ghost of the boy he had been, endlessly reaching for her, snatching any excuse to feel her body against his.
The shocking warmth of her skin singed his nerves and raised gooseflesh along his arm.
She gasped.
Their hands remained frozen, locked in the air between them.
I can’t believe you dared to touch me!her rapid breaths said.
I can scarcely believe it either,his own breathing replied.
But if this were to be the last time he would touch his wife, Tavish refused to relinquish her. Not until she tugged on her wrist or demanded her freedom.
She did no such thing.
He could feel the bird-flutter of her heartbeat under his fingertips.
With infinite care, he lifted her arm and pressed a kiss to the sensitive hollow on the inside of her wrist. A brush of his lips to the pulse that trembled there.
He had thought to tease her, to show her that she, too, still felt the tug of their connection.
Oh, but the jest was on him.
Her skin smelled like lavender in August. Once, he and his men had stumbled upon a lavender field in bloom outside Guadalajara. Purple-blue flowers stretched across a low valley, perfuming the air. It had been a feast for the senses—the buzz of lazy bees, the sun-drenched smell. They had discovered a beehive and gorged themselves on day-old bread slathered with lavender honey. It had felt like venturing into the Elysian Fields themselves.
Touching Isla’s skin after a drought of seven years evoked that afternoon—a surge of longing and hunger and wild yearning. An ache to recapture a fleeting instant of luminous contentment.
