He couldn’t help it; he smiled. “Aye, I remember. Ye looked ready tae take on ten men alone.”
“I would have,” she said, her mouth curving. “Until ye came blunderin’ in with yer sword.”
“Blunderin’, was it?”
“Very much so.”
The sound that escaped him was half a laugh, half a sigh—quiet, incredulous that they could still find humor with the weight of the world pressing on them. The air between them softened, the fear momentarily forgotten.
Isabeau lifted a hand to his cheek then, her touch light as breath. “We were strangers then. An’ still, ye saved me.”
Michael caught her hand in his and pressed his lips to her palm. “If fate set that day afore me again, I’d dae the same.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The hush of the croft was filled only by the faint rustle of the wind through the herbs hanging from the beams. Their closeness, the scent of the air, the nearness of her mouth—it all mingled into something that felt like confession and promise both.
And then, Michael kissed her, long and slow, as if savoring the moment. Soon, his arms wrapped around her waist, and Isabeau felt the familiar heat build up in her core, her walls pulsing in anticipation.
She wanted him, now more than ever. She craved the comfort of his touch, of their coupling, the way the act made her feel so close to him. And when she took his hand as they kissed, guiding him to the small room with a cot off the main room, Michael didn’t deny her. He followed her there, their lips still locked.
Isabeau parted her legs so he could step between them. This time, though he kissed her passionately, there was no hurry in the act, as though he was trying to prolong this moment for as long as he could. His hands, when they reached for her, where soft, gentle, holding her against his chest and cradling her with such warmth that it brought tears to her eyes.
He was holding her like something precious, like something he wanted to keep safe.
With a kiss to her forehead, Michael ran his hand up her thigh, his palm smoothing over the soft skin there. As he did, he pushed her skirts up, pulling her closer to the edge of the table. There were no words exchanged between them—none were needed. Michael knew exactly what she wanted, and he held her close as his fingers drifted to her core, caressing her opening with a gentle, feather-light touch.
Isabeau gasped at the contact. She was already wet, slick with need, her walls parting around his fingers as he pushed them inside her with a quiet moan. It was as if pleasuring her gave him pleasure, too, as if merely seeing her lean back and close her eyes, her hips working to pull him deeper, was enough for him.
“I want ye,” Michael whispered, kissing her between the words. “I love ye.”
Isabeau held onto him, burying her face in his shoulder, her response muffled against the fabric of his tunic. She rolled her hips, undulating and muffling out her cry when his palm met her sensitive spot as he pleasured her again and again.
And when he curled his fingers, hitting a spot inside her that sent a jolt of joy through her, she bit down on his shoulder, trying to keep herself quiet.
“Ach, lass!” said Michael with a soft chuckle. “Someone’s feisty.”
“I want ye,” said Isabeau as a response, pulling her head up to kiss him. “Please, Michael. Take me.”
Michael nodded silently, perhaps more affected than he wanted to show. He released his manhood, and then wasted no time before he lined himself up, pushing slowly inside her with a soft moan—the same sound he made every time, as if sinking into her was like coming home.
They held onto each other tightly, Michael’s arms wrapped around her waist and Isabeau’s around his shoulders. She clung to him, taking him into her body with every thrust, but this time, Michael moved slowly, desperately so. They were both trying to drag out the moment, to make it last more than it would. They were both trying to stay in their own little bubble, away from the world, where no one could pull them apart.
Every thrust of his hips had Isabeau clinging to him tighter, her folds drenched in her wetness. There was nothing around them but the sounds of their coupling, nothing but the soft sighs they exchanged, nothing but the desperate grasp of their hands as they held onto each other. And for the first time in her life, Isabeau felt a strange sense of calm, as if this had always been what she needed to feel safe—just to know that she was his.
When he pulled back, Michael only did so a few inches, just enough to look at her. “I love ye,” he said, his voice breaking. “I love ye so much,mo ghraidh.”
Isabeau’s eyes stung with tears that she refused to shed. “I love ye, too,” she whispered, her words like a promise—a promisethat no matter what, she would fight for them to be together, just as much as he would.
They rocked together like that, slow, unhurried, their passion unfurling slowly between them. Each thrust was a sweet torture, each press of his lips on hers bringing her closer to her climax, and soon, Isabeau was shaking apart, trembling in Michael’s arms as he held her, whispering sweet words in her ear. She pulsed and throbbed, pleasure coursing through her entire body, her limbs going numb as he continued his unhurried rhythm until he finally spilled deep inside her, filling her to the brim.
Afterwards, they didn’t let go of each other. They only held onto each other even tighter, staying there and sharing the same breath, their foreheads pressed together. Isabeau couldn’t help but stare into Michael’s eyes, overwhelmed by what she saw there—all the love, all the tenderness he held for her. And she knew that when he looked back at her, he saw the same thing.
She loved him; there was no denying that. She had come to the realization, and ever since, she had known it to be true. She had never known love like that before—nor been loved like that, so deeply, so completely by another. And now that she knew what it felt like to belong to someone else, someone as kind and as warm and as loving as Michael, she would never let go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The keep slept uneasily under a moon veiled in cloud. Every stone, every shadow seemed to watch, and Michael moved through the darkness like a man already half a ghost.
He had waited until the last of the torches along the lower wall had burned to embers, the last of their flames flickering in the wind. Only then did he rise from his cot, strap on his sword, and slip into the corridor. His heart thudded slow and hard in his chest, not from fear, but from the awareness that there would be no second chance.
