“This is an inappropriate time to seek an audience,” she said weakly.
“You think a man willing to kidnap you concerns himself with what others think appropriate?” His hold on her arm gentled, his thumb brushing over her chemise-clad skin in a manner that set all of Isabail’s senses atingle.
It was a dangerous feeling—because rather than pulling away, Isabail swayed on her feet, tempted to lean in to his touch. “I must return to my chamber. Whatever you wished to discuss can wait until morning.”
“No.”
She swallowed thickly. “I will not stay.”
“Aye, you will.” He tugged her sharply, and she fell against his chest. That solid, divinely warm chest that blotted out the room. “You will because I say you will.”
Isabail’s head swam, intoxicated by the masculine scent of his skin and the feel of his ropy muscles beneath her hands. It seemed impossible that such a frightening wall of man could spark desire within her—but the proof was in her heartbeat and her unsteady breath. True, she had admired his handsomeness when she’d first spotted him in the orchard at Lochurkie several days ago—had even asked the captain of her guard, the unfortunate Sir Robert, if he was acquainted with him. But that was before he attacked her carriage—and before she’d stood next to him. The only man she’d ever met of a similar stature had been her father. Andrew, her late husband, had been a mere four inches taller than she.
MacCurran’s hand trailed slowly up her body, sending shivers rippling through her. So large... and yet so gentle. When he reached the nape of her neck, he lifted the thick braid that Muirne had only just plaited and unwound the gold cord that secured it. Isabail knew she should pull away—make some attempt to stop him—but the tiny thrills that shot through her scalp as he played with her hair ran all the way to her toes. No man had threaded his fingers through her hair in many a year—and God help her, it felt good.
She let him have his way.
When he had completely unbraided her hair and spread her tresses over her shoulders with a mild grunt of approval, he paused. “Are you hungry?”
“That’s a foolish question,” she grumbled, casting an eye at the brazier in the middle of the room. Next to it lay two bowls of broth, the brown juices thick and floating with chunks of meat. “I’ve not had supper.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll trade food for information.”
That was cruel. Isabail had no intention of revealing the names of the five men she knew had laid their pallets under Lochurkie’s roof that night. Not after he’d made such a pointed observation regarding what she’d learned about the MacCurran encampment. He would never release her. The risk of her telling someone what she knew was too great. “I will not,” she said. “I prefer to go without.”
“Suit yourself.”
Isabail thought that was the end of it, and she turned to leave. But he did not allow her to depart. Instead, he swept her off her feet, carried her across the room, and tossed her onto the mattress. No bed frame here, either. But there was a wealth of blankets and furs, and the mattress was stuffed with feathers not straw. Despite the comforts, Isabail immediately rolled, intent on fleeing.
She didn’t get far.
MacCurran followed her onto the mattress, and his arm latched around her waist.
Isabail shrieked. Heart pounding in her chest, she flailed in a desperate attempt to get free. But her efforts were for naught. His arm was a steel band. He tugged her back against his body, his hold ruthless and uncompromising. One leg over hers, and she was effectively trapped.
“Sleep,” he said gruffly.
Isabail lay there, wide-eyed and uncertain. No rape, no beating. Just slow, deep breaths and a firm hold. What should she do? His large body was curled around hers, his heat seeping through her shift. She could continue to struggle, but judging from her lack of success thus far, the chances of breaking free appeared small. She could scream, but who would come running? Or, she could wait for him to fall asleep.
“I sleep with one eye open,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll fetch you back if you attempt to leave.”
Those words should have frightened her. They labeled her a prisoner. Instead, his lazy voice settled her frantic heartbeat.
She studied the arm hooked around her waist. Roped with well-defined sinews and covered in a sprinkle of crisp hairs, it was as much a weapon as the man’s fine sword. If he accosted her in the middle of the night, could she rely on him to be as honorable as he’d promised to be? To release her at a push of her hand and roll away? Or was she a fool to place her faith in him?
It hardly seemed possible that her heart could have softened so quickly for this man.
Two days ago, she’d been convinced he’d killed her brother and a host of other people. What was it about him that convinced her he was trustworthy? Was it his story of a man in black? The fact that he had a brother and a mother? The adoring faces of his kinsmen? Really, even utter cads had family.
Isabail sighed heavily.
Nay, it was none of those things. It was this. The warmth and the steadiness. The feeling that as long as she remained in his arms, she was safe. He’d held her precisely this way the entire journey from Lochurkie, never failing her. Never taking advantage.
She closed her eyes.
She’d fallen asleep once before in his arms. She could surely do it again.
* * *
