Isabeau shot him a mock glare before stepping closer to the tree. The branches hung low, but not quite low enough of her to reach, even as she stretched up on her toes, the hem of her riding skirts catching on the grass. Her fingers brushed the smooth skin of a pear but couldn’t close around it, and she fell back onto her heels with a frustrated huff.
“Almost…” she muttered, straining again. The effort made her slip slightly, her boot scuffing against the bark, but she caughtherself, laughing breathlessly. “Blast these trees fer growin’ too tall.”
Michael leaned a shoulder against the trunk, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes, but made no effort to help. He only watched her as she struggled, and much to her chagrin, the pear she was trying to reach wasn’t even one of the better ones, small and bruised and lacking sunlight.
“Please,” she said, turning to him, eyes bright with mischief. “Will ye get one fer me? Be me gallant knight an’ rescue me from starvation.”
“Starvation, is it?” Michael said, his voice rich with humor. “I’d thought it was mischief that drove ye.”
“Mischief an’ hunger,” Isabeau said. Then, fluttering her lashes in exaggerated appeal, she added, “Would ye deny a lady such small comfort?”
He gave a long, theatrical sigh, though his smile betrayed him. “Ye are dangerous when ye look at a man like that, Miss Campbell.”
The comment prompted a flush from her, her cheeks heating and turning a bright red. She didn’t know how to respond, so instead, she only said, “Please? I’d really like tae have a pear.”
Michael shook his head, laughing under his breath, and stepped closer. “Very well then. Come here.”
Before she could ask his intent, his hands circled her waist, strong and sure, and he lifted her upward as though she weighed nothing at all. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, half-laughing as the sudden height made her sway.
“Michael!” she protested, though she was smiling so broadly her cheeks ached.
“Ye wanted a pear, did ye nae?” he teased, his voice rough with laughter. “Have one, lass, afore I drop ye.”
Isabeau gave a mock gasp of horror, then reached up, her fingers curling around the smooth fruit. As she tugged it free, Michael shifted to steady her, but the movement threw them both off balance. He staggered, catching her tightly against his chest just as they nearly toppled onto the grass.
For a moment, they stood like that, breathless, laughing, tangled in one another’s arms. His chest rose and fell against hers, his heartbeat strong and unsteady under her palms, and the seconds between them stretched, time slowing down.
“Ye nearly killed us fer a pear,” he said, voice husky but amused.
“A sweet death, I think,” she said.
Michael chuckled softly, shaking his head as he righted her. Once she was on steady ground once more, Michael took the pear from her hands and pulled out his dirk, cutting off the stemand splitting it in two. She couldn’t help but watch, breathless, as juice ran down his fingers, staining his wrist.
“Share it with me?” she asked, offering him half when he handed her back the pear. Michael accepted, his fingers brushing hers as he took it, and the touch sent a small shiver up her spine. They bit into the fruit at the same time, its flesh crisp, warm, and honey-sweet.
“Worth the trouble?” he asked.
Isabeau met his gaze, her lips curving in a slow smile. “Entirely.”
They ate the pear in silence, the sound of the morning around them—the whisper of wind through the heather, the soft stamping of the horses nearby. When her hand brushed his again, he didn’t pull away.
The sweetness lingered on her tongue, mingled with the warmth of his nearness. For a fleeting moment, Isabeau forgot who she was; she forgot the castle, the father waiting to cage her, the feud that made that man her enemy.
And then, he kissed her.
That time, it was a heated kiss, little more than a smashing of lips. There was a hurriedness to it, a need for more that neither of them could ignore, as if the kiss itself was a spark for something bigger, something unavoidable. Michael was insatiable, deepening the kiss with a soft sigh as he slipped histongue past the seam of her lips, tasting her like a man starved. Isabeau gasped for breath, her hands reaching to grab Michael’s tunic and pull him closer, reluctant to let go. In return, his hands found her hips, his fingers digging into the ample flesh as if he could hardly restrain himself.
But Isabeau didn’t want him to be restrained.
When he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing the seam of her lips, she parted her mouth for him, moaning at the subtle taste—the sweetness of the pear overlaid with the taste of whisky. Before she knew it, Michael had her pressed up against the nearest tree, the bark rough on her skin even through all the layers of clothing she wore, but she didn’t care. The softness of his lips, the roughness of his hand when it moved to her cheek, cupping it ever so gently, the heat of his body as it pressed against her were more than enough to keep her mind occupied, to fill her with a dizzying desire that refused to fade.
Heat coiled deep in Isabeau’s body. Never before had a man touched her like that; never before had she felt such a strong need for another, such an all-consuming passion. And now that she had tasted it, she didn’t know how she could ever expect herself to be torn away from him, from that moment when they both felt as one, moving against each other through nothing but instinct, nothing but want.
“Ye’re the bonniest thing I’ve ever seen,” Michael whispered in her ear, his teeth closing gently around her earlobe in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. His hand was like a vice around herwaist, his chest a solid wall of muscle as he pressed against her, trying to get closer and closer, as if nothing was enough.
Naethin’ is enough. I want more.
Michael’s lips kissed a heated line down her jaw and her neck, his tongue tracing a path over the sensitive skin there. And when his leg found its way between her own, his thigh pressing up against her most sensitive spot, she gasped, a moan tearing its way past her throat.
