Isabel’shandssankdeeplyinto a wooden bowl filled with bread dough. One of the baked loaves cooled upon a low table while she kneaded the new batch. Annle had given her the yeast mixture, and she’d been pleased with the results.
The mindless activity helped push her mind away from her crumbling marriage. Saints, she was such a cursed idiot for kissing Patrick. It had been better not to know what it felt like to be in his arms, to be tempted by desire.
She punched the dough, working out her frustration. Outside, the afternoon sun was sinking, the evening light fading. After reshaping the dough into a soft ball, she covered it with a cloth and set it near the hearth to rise again.
Footsteps neared the hut, and she looked up at the entrance. Patrick came inside, closing the door. His attention moved to the loaf she had baked earlier. “Did you make the bread?”
She nodded. “Would you like a slice?”
He shrugged as if it were of no matter, but his eyes devoured the loaf. She cut a few slices of warm bread, a light steam rising from the crust. When she handed it to him, his hopeful gaze made her want to smile.
When he bit into the crust, he closed his eyes as though he were experiencing a moment in heaven. Her husband liked fresh bread more than most men, it seemed.
Isabel watched him, fascinated by the way he ate. When he’d finished the piece, he took a step closer to her.
“Is it all right, then?”
“It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.” His eyes glanced over at the loaf again, and she hid her smile.
“There’s more, if you want it.”
The boyish grin that spread over his face caught her unawares. Handsome and more tempting than sin itself, Patrick MacEgan made her senses grow dizzy.
When he reached for the loaf, she took his hands. “There’s a price.” The impulsive words slipped from her mouth, and she had no notion of what she intended to ask in return.
No, that wasn’t true at all. She wanted him to kiss her again, to feel his hands caressing her spine. She wanted to lose herself in him, to forget that she didn’t belong here. The heaviness of disappointment cloaked her mind, for she knew he’d turn her away.
“What do you want?” he asked huskily. His thumb drew lazy circles over her palm, and she wanted so badly to say,Kiss me.
She didn’t answer, her breath catching in her lungs as he moved even closer. His hand slid against her waist, his touch burning into her skin.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. Her mind closed up with wicked thoughts, of dreams that could never be.He doesn’t want you,she reminded herself.You mean nothing to him.
“What price do you want, Isabel?” His hand rose over her flesh, raising the heat of her body, deepening the desire within her.
And when she looked down, she saw that he had claimed a second slice of bread. With victory clutched in his palm, a devilish smile spread across his mouth.
“You cheated.”
“Of course I did.” He tore off a piece of the bread, placing it in her mouth. “But I’ll share it with you.”
The bread tasted dry in her mouth, even as she sat beside him and shared the meal. She hadn’t voiced a single one of her desires.
And perhaps it was better that way.
Chapter Eleven
Eveningturnedintonight,and Patrick knew it was time to depart. Isabel had prepared a meal for him and had challenged him to another game of chess.
“I must go,” he said, reaching for his cloak.
“Afraid to lose again?” she taunted. “I thought as much.”
He gave her a severe look, a warning that made most of his men uncomfortable. Isabel only smirked.
That was it. He sat down at the low table. “One game.”
Her smile widened. “Prepare to lose, King Patrick.”
