At least she didn’t roll her eyes or pretend she didn’t hear him this time—which was progress, he supposed. “And so you decided to abduct me and lock me in this wreck of a toweron an islanduntil I agree to marry you? This is how you intend to prove it to me?”
“It was supposed to be romantic. And you’re not a prisoner. Although you might have trouble finding someone who will ferry you across.”
She gave him a long look. “I wonder about you, Randy. Really, I do.”
He still didn’t like the nickname, but it was oddly fitting coming from her. She had a way of knocking him down a peg or two, and he conceded that maybe he might need it every now and then.
“And what am I supposed to do all day while I am not being held prisoner?”
He lifted a brow and gave her a wickedly suggestive look. “I can think of a few things.”
Sadly, she didn’t bite. “Not a chance.”
He shrugged, not surprised but disappointed all the same. “This place is a mess. There is parchment and quills in your room—fix it.” He started to walk toward the sea, needing a cool dip before he did something he regretted like lift her in his arms and carry her up those damned stairs himself. He turned just before he passed beyond the gate. “Don’t make me wait too long, Izzie. I’m not a patient man by nature, and I’m liable to take matters into my own hands.”
They both knew what he meant, and from the pink that darkened her cheeks, he knew the idea wasn’t as offensive to her as she wanted it to be.
Izzie knew what it felt like to be a mouse. For two weeks she’d been hunted by a very wicked, very sneaky, very feral cat that seemed ready to pounce on her for the kill. She wanted to say that she was immune to his efforts to convince her that he loved her, but the truth was that the once-vaunted knight turned ravishing, abducting brigand was wearing her down. She didn’t know what was more difficult to believe—that he’d abducted her or that he’d announced it (and her ravishment) to the world. He’d destroyed his perfect knight image for her, and it was hard not to think it meant something.
Every day he devised some devious method of knocking down the walls she’d erected around her heart. He’d laid siege to her battered emotions with such a powerful show of force, she had new respect for the English garrison at Edinburgh for holding out as long as they did. Sir Thomas Randolph knew how to wage a war—there was a reason he’d become one of the king’s most trusted advisors—and he was putting the full force of those talents at work against her.
What chance did she have?
Every morning he joined her to break her fast, after which he planned some morning activity—from fishing in a secluded bay on one side of the island (she’d declined the offer to swim), to long walks along the seaside where they would discuss everything from the war to the future role he hoped to take in his uncle’s government, to what to do after the war to prevent another English king from attempting to assert authority over Scotland, to his views on managing his own lands and farming, to his favorite stories and, of course, music.
She was entranced by it all. He shared his thoughts without moderation or calculation. He talked freely for what she suspected was a rarity for him.
After the midday meal when he wasn’t training with his men (which she might have watched more than once from the bench she’d set up in what had been the garden, to read), he would tour her around the castle, telling her what had been where and pointing out different construction methods the previous builder had used. She’d tried to feign disinterest for as long as she could—about a day—and before she realized it, she was asking questions, discussing ideas, the pros and cons of existing modern castles (like Dunstaffnage and Kildrummy), and wondering whether there should be four towers or five. She’d started to sketch different ideas and knew it was only a matter of time before she showed them to him.
But, of course, the hardest part and most difficult to resist of his tactical assault against her defenses was the way he looked at her, the not-so-accidental touches and grazes, and the daily declaration of love. Every night before she retired for bed, he would stand outside her door (which was separated from his by a very thin wooden partition wall), and bid her good night with a simple “I love you.”
But, of course, it wasn’t simple at all. It was the most important thing in the world to her—if she could believe him.
He hadn’t tried to kiss her, which was worse than if he had. She was dreaming about it, anticipating it, and—silly lustful fool that she was—hoping for it. Last night, he’d leaned down to sweep a strand of hair from her cheek, and thinking he finally meant to kiss her, she’d sucked in her breath so loudly she knew he must have heard. His eyes had fallen to her mouth, and she knew all she had to do was lean toward him and his mouth would have been on hers. She would have been in his arms again, and probably—definitely—in his bed again.
She’d lain awake most of the night cursing herself for not doing so. Her body was on fire as she remembered all the pleasure he had given her. She wanted to feel him inside her again. She wanted to skim her hands over every inch of that incredible body and feel his heart beating against hers again. She wanted to look into his eyes when he was sliding in and out of her and feel that powerful connection once more.
She wantedhim.
The truth was that his two-week long seduction was working, and she didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to hold out. The question was whether she still wanted to. He’d broken her heart—could she trust him not to do so again? Could she believe him or was he still just saying what he thought she wanted to hear?
It was time to find out. That night when he escorted her to her door and told her he loved her, she didn’t immediately turn to go inside her room. “Why should I believe you?” she asked. “How do I know you are not just saying the words because you think they are what I want to hear?”
He seemed momentarily stunned that they were finally talking about this, but quickly recovered. “I hoped the last two weeks would prove it to you. We belong together, Izzie. Surely you can see that?”
“My seeing it is not the problem.”
“I was an idiot.” She didn’t disagree. “The signs were there but I didn’t want to see them.”
She arched a brow, intrigued in spite of herself. This ought to be good. “Signs?”
He nodded. “Aye, I stopped looking at other women, I became overprotective and possessive if anyone looked at you—Christ, I nearly punched a merchant for looking down your dress that day in the market—I forgot my honor by taking you to bed before we said our vows, and I was alternatively miserable and irrational, doing ridiculous things.”
“You mean like abducting me?”
He frowned. “Nay. As I said, that was supposed to be romantic.”
“Who told you that?”
