“Dinna try anything, warrior,” she said. “I am here but to keep ye warm.”
A small laughed escaped him. “Ye are safe with me,” he said through chattering teeth.
“I’m no’ afraid of ye, warrior. Mayhap a little concerned over a wandering hand is all.”
Lachlan didn’t know whether to be offended or glad that she trusted him.
“I’ve no’ wandering hands, lass.”
“Hmm,” she said, her body heat steady at his side, grounding him in a way he had not expected.
The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him, was the unsettling realization that he did not want her to move away.
9
Isabel woke cocooned in warmth. In that moment of security and comfort, she did not question it—until she realized there was a weight on her waist that was not that of Freckles but felt suspiciously like…
Her breath caught. Peeling back the tartan, she found exactly what she thought it was. An arm. Not her own arm. A heavily muscled, very male arm. His thick palm was splayed over her belly. That arm had better be detached from the male body she suspected it hailed from.
But, nay. His breath on the back of her neck was still deep and even with sleep.
Isabel stilled, eyes wide, gaze on his arm, his hand, how close his thumb was to the underside of her breast.
Memory returned in fragments. The storm. Tending his wounds. The fire. The argument over who would sleep where. His shivering. A fever. The way he’d shivered, and his teeth had chattered as he argued like a bumbling ogre. How he’d continued to sass her as she’d solicited the help of Hamish and Finlay to move him to the pallet. His large body had shaken and trembled as she’d climbed beside him in hopes of keeping him warm.
Pressed against her now, heat radiated from his body, no longer the searing fire of a fever. Yet her own skin felt warm now. Too warm. Feverish—but not in a sickness sort of way. Something else. Something that she hadn’t experienced before.
Isabel became acutely aware of every point of contact. His thighs aligned with hers. The length of his legs against the backs of her calves. The solid weight of him at her back. She drew in a slow, unsteady breath. Never before in her life had she felt anything quite like this.
She had never laid beside a man before. There was no room for distance or denial. Every plane of his body fit against hers. She bit her lip. The closest she’d come to a man’s touch, that wasn’t a familial hug or pat, was when she was introduced to a lord and he might kiss her knuckles. But even those perfunctory greetings never elicited the shortness of breath she was feeling with the Wolf of Skye at her back. This awareness she could not quite name unsettled her.
She did not like it.
She should not like it.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. Slow, deliberate, delicious. And she knew in that instant that she could tell herself she didn’t like it as much as she wanted, but somewhere deep down in her core, she liked it very much.
She knew that it was not within the bounds of propriety to be interested in or curious about this man who lay beside her. That his subtle breath brushing along her skin was… dangerous.
Carefully, she lifted his arm from her waist, guiding it back to his own body. Every movement was measured, cautious, as though he might wake up and snatch her back, and she might let him. Inch by inch, Isabel eased herself from the pallet. As soon as she was up, he groaned and stretched across the pallet, tugging a frantic looking Freckles toward him.
Isabel snatched up Freckles, and kept her gaze fixed on him. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her wicked thoughts, to focus on his health instead. Gone was the roughness of his breath from the night before. Each steady rise and fall of his chest was a relief. When he’d been shivering violently the night before, fear for what that had meant gnawed at her. They shouldn’t have left, she knew that, and if he died on this journey, her uncle would be to blame. But Isabel would also blame herself. She should have fought harder to keep him abed a little while longer. Perhaps she could have spiked his whisky with something that would have made it impossible for him to ride. Alas, it was too late now.
Lying there, he looked less formidable. More human. And she thanked the heavens that sleep had helped to cure his fever. It would seem she had underestimated him once more.
Isabel hesitated, then turned away, not wanting to disturb him. She feared her watching would make whatever senses a warrior had stand on end. As she turned around, she spotted Elsa by the makeshift hearth, looking sheepish as she stoked the fire.
Isabel inclined her head, indicating for Elsa to follow and stepped outside. The cool morning air was a sharp contrast to the heat she’d left behind. A massive puddle soaked the hem of her gown directly outside the door. The small courtyard was covered in mud, and damp grass, tamped down by horses’ hooves and men’s boots.
Droplets of rain from the night before dripped from the trees, a cool bead landing on her forehead. But the birds were singing, and above the canopy of leaves, the sun was rising in a hazy blue sky. The storm had passed, and though the ground looked slick to traverse upon, they would not have to combat wind and rain.
Isabel located a well that Mungo had drawn from the night before and lowered the bucket. Fresh water sloshed over the rim when she pulled it up and she splashed water on her face, willing the coolness to bring her composure back.
“My lady seemed quite at ease beside the Wolf of Skye,” Elsa said in a lilting tease as she too splashed water on her face.
Isabel shook her head, rolled her eyes, but all her bluster was wasted on her maid who knew her well. “I did what was necessary. What I would have done for anyone. Ye want to arrive in Skye alive, do ye no’?”
“Of course, my lady,” Elsa replied, far too innocently, as she stepped closer and began to brush Isabel’s hair smooth with nimble fingers.
