Knight In My Bed (17 page)

The way he'd said the words made her glance sharply at him. He'd schooled his features to appear as guileless as she hoped her own did, but a nearly imperceptible twitch at one corner of his mouth revealed his pleasure in shooting his double-edged innuendos at her.

"It has been overlong since I have ...
indulged
." He began piling frog legs onto his side of the trencher. "Utter satiety might prove most restorative."

She gave him a fuming look, but then recalled the anti-attraction potion. All her carefully drawn plans would be at grave hazard should he imbibe the tincture-steeped comestibles.

"Hold." She grabbed his wrist just before he bit into one of the frog legs. "Those are fouled. I would not see you ill." Saints, but the wench could lie!

"Fouled?" Donall shook himself free of her grasp. Holding the frog leg between two fingers, he pretended to examine it. Though oddly seasoned with a strong-smelling spice he recognized but couldn't quite place, the tidbit appeared well larded and nicely crisped.

"Most gracious lady," he said, "I do not believe you." "'Tis true, the frogs hail from an old well and the water is oft tainted."

"Truth tell?"

"Oh, aye." She nodded.

Nodded a mite too vigorously.

He had her now. “Your cook knows this?"

"All know." She fell for his trap. "The sacred well has been stagnant for years."

Donall held back a victorious smile. "Then pray explain why the good man who oversees your kitchens would send his lady chieftain a blighted supper?"

She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again as quickly.

The tops of her ears turned scarlet.

She'd lied.

Again.

Donall's empty stomach growled. "Lady, I have not eaten in days." He eyed the morsel in his hand. Its heavily spiced aroma promised anything but a palate-pleasing taste, but it was plump and roasted to a fine golden brown.

His mouth watered. He needed sustenance if he was to escape. Looking pointedly at his comely captor, he bit into the frog leg. "Most fair eating," he commented the moment he'd forced the spice-laden piece of meat down his throat.

The wench gasped and tried to snatch the food from his fingers. "You cannot eat that.”

“Ah, but I already have, sweeting," he said, holding the foul-tasting tidbit above his head when she made another swipe for his wrist.

"I am not your `sweeting.” Irritation snapped in her amber-colored eyes.

"Nay, you are not," Donall agreed. He drew his brows together in feigned confusion. "But if the notion so distresses you, why should you care what I ingest?"

A huff of exasperation answered him.

Burying his own pique – for the moment -- he scanned the array of victuals, using the distraction to steel himself against the thousand-fold more magnificent bounty she presented.

"'Tis I who has reason to be grieved," he said. "Sore reason."

"That, sirrah, is a matter of opinion," she said at last, then pressed her lips together in a way that made them appear lush and soft-looking.

Kissable.

Donall focused on the lone freckle on her cheek rather than the temptation of her mouth. "Would you but listen to reason, I vouchsafe you would share my views."

"I will not be wheedled into releasing you." She returned his stare. "Not by your ludicrous ransom offers, silly tales, nor by your boorish airs."

Donall placed his free hand against his chest. "Fair lady, you pain me greatly."

"You will suffer worse sorrow if you persist in eating that frog leg," she said, the tumult thrumming inside her visible in the pulse throbbing wildly at the base of her throat.

To rile her, he took another bite. "I am famished," he said the moment he' d gulped down the odious scrap. He let his gaze drop briefly to her breasts. "Starving for nourishment, for-"

"I shall have other victuals brought up," she quipped, agitation staining her cheeks.

"Too late," he taunted, emboldened by the way she squirmed upon her chair. "I regret naught else will satisfy after what you have so generously offered me."

She clutched at her gaping bodice in a vain attempt to shield her exposed flesh and her trembling fingers confirmed what he already knew: she meant to seduce him yet did not possess the daring to try.

And she understood each and every bawdy intimation he shot at her. Did she not, were she wholly innocent, she would not appear so panic-stricken each time he indulged himself by egging her thus.

Without question a maid, she also seemed well versed in the subtleties of carnal passion.

A potent combination.

The innocent and the siren rolled into one wondrous package. Something deep inside Donall broke loose. An odd tugging and swelling that caught him unaware with its intensity.

"You have yet to take what I've offered," the temptress in her said, proving his assessment as soundly as the white-knuckled fingers still holding tight to the top of her gown.

Donall tightened, too.

His gut, his throat, and another part of him that war-growing increasingly difficult to control.

He watched her closely, his every nerve taut. Her fingers dug deeper into the black linen of her bodice. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and Donall's loins contracted in immediate response.

Merciful martyrs, she'd likely disrobe and do his bidding at the slightest indication he'd have her, yet her very willingness to do so seemed to terrify her.

Alarm of his own furrowed Donall's brow. Until this moment he had been able to deny his attraction to her. "Exactly what are you offering?" he challenged, daring her with words and the fierceness of his stare to admit what he already knew.

She lowered her hand from her bodice. "I believe you know."

The lilting cadence of her voice flowed over and into him,
soothing
him, even as its sweetness fired his blood.

He looked deep into her eyes. "And if I do?"

She held his gaze, her eyes pure molten gold. "Then I would ask you to oblige me."

"Oblige you how?" He wanted her to say the words.

Her cheeks bloomed scarlet, but she pushed to her feet. Though she held her back straight and her chin high, the glowing blush staining her creamy complexion revealed the cost of her boldness.

"Tell me what you want of me, Isolde of Dunmuir."

She lowered her gaze, but the haunted look he'd glimpsed in her beautiful eyes just before she had, sank into him like the sun's caress on a warm summer day, wrapping itself soundly around his heart.

Squeezed hard and unrelenting, yet with a gentle grace that shamed him for pushing her.

Cursing himself for the way his fool heart reacted to her, thumping hard and steady in his breast, he stared at her bowed head, a cascade of emotions tumbling through him.

Unwelcome emotions, every last one of them.

Saints, but she was beautiful.

Light from the cresset lamp bathed her with a luminous glow, glossing her coiled braids to a fine, richly burnished bronze. Her bodice once more gaped free, baring the elegant column of her throat, the soft shadows formed by the hollows beneath her collarbone, and other enticements as well: the lush swell of her breasts rising sweetly above the edge of her camise.

Breasts yet to know the pleasure of man's touch.

A camise wrought of transparent, filmy fabric such as he'd ne'er seen.

Donall shoved a hand through his hair. He could scarce breathe. And, by God's bleeding wounds, when had the chamber grown so warm? A film of moisture dampened his forehead and the back of his neck burned hotter than if a fork-tongued firedrake crouched behind him spewing him with flames!

He swallowed hard and rubbed his nape.

To no avail.

The dryness in his throat and the heat searing him inside and out remained. She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, shining, and so filled with trepidation he felt like ten kinds of a rotting varlet for what he was about to do.

As if the devil himself had absconded with his last shred of chivalry, he cast down the half-eaten frog leg and stood.

"Tell me, Isolde," he said, his tone a command. "What is your will?'

I want you to take me," she said softly.

Donall drew in a sharp breath, not as prepared for the expected answer as he'd thought. "
Take you?"
he mimicked, knowing he sounded like a simpleton, but unable to stay his tongue.

She nodded. "I wish to forge an irrefutable union with you in the hopes of ensuring lasting peace."

His jaw hung embarrassingly slack as he stared at her, but she stood firm, her lifted chin declaring her strength of purpose.

She wanted peace.

He wanted out of her clutches.

And he wanted her.

Donall swore and snatched up her tankard. A few dregs of ale remained, so he tilted back his head and let them slide down his throat. "Lady, you are full mad," he said, slamming down the empty drinking vessel.

"I wish you hadn't eaten those," she said, staring at the platter of frog legs, the cryptic words proving her addled state of mind.

Totally flummoxed, and sorely agitated at the way his heart still pounded, Donall glared down at the foul-tasting mound of roasted frog meat.

Would that he found the wench as unpalatable.

Would that he could have her and his freedom.

Unbidden, the image of her redheaded cousin rose in his mind. The frog legs loomed into sharp focus, too, while the giant's words, spoken to the strange lad called Lugh, rang loud in his ears.

He wants naught but a few frogs from the sacred well.

He'll hie his-self out of here once he gets what he's after.

For the first time since he' d been taken, true hope surged within him.

As did rampant desire.

Donall let his gaze roam over Isolde from head to toe. His hands ached to do the same. Something fine, warm, and
 
bright began to pulse deep inside him. Aye, giving her what she wanted might hasten his escape.

The beginnings of a smile touched his lips. Mayhap he could have her and his freedom. What better way to win her confidence than by bedding her?

Bedding her well.

His body tightened at the thought. And once he'd conquered her affection, she'd slacken her guard and he'd make good his escape. Something akin to guilt pinched his conscience, but he brushed aside the damning notions before they could form, concentrating instead on the supple curves of her body and the gleam of firelight on her hair.

As if she sensed his capitulation, or by the grace of God, his victory, she raised her head and met his gaze full-on. "You have decided," she said, the words a statement, her tone dull and fiat.

Resigned.

For the space of a heartbeat, Donall considered relenting. But too much depended on his swift return to Baldoon. He had to assure the well-being of those dependent on him by any means he could, fair or foul.

His mind made up, he cleared his throat. Feeling master of his destiny once more, he reached across the table and cupped her shoulder.

"Isolde of Dunmuir, you have convinced me," he declared, and the tiny smile that had been playing across his lips turned wicked. "I have decided to oblige you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Warmth From Isolde's shoulder seeped into Donall's hand and spread through him with all the melting languor of the most rare and precious Tuscan wine. Exquisite, proud, and yet utterly vulnerable, she roused him to the very core of his being, her allure slipping past his barriers to curl and pool in the most unexpected of places.

His conscience.

Donall's brow furrowed.

He attempted to withdraw his hand, but couldn't. His fingers remained pressed firmly against her shoulder as if they'd magically acquired the ability to ignore his will.

A black oath crept up his throat but he thwarted its escape by coughing. Her shoulder began to tremble. Or mayhap it was his hand that shook? He coughed again simply for good measure.

"Are you ill?" came her soft voice, cutting through his improvised hacking with the surety of steel slicing butter.

"Ill?" Donall cocked his head, momentarily confused.

She nodded. "You were coughing."

"I swallowed wrong," he said, fuming inside at the ease with which the lie had passed his lips.

Isolde Maclnnes was a bad influence
.

Her constant fibbing had him spouting untruths.

And the courage and grace she displayed when she wasn't spinning fabrications inspired yearnings that could only lead to turmoil and disorder.

"I have taken my ease with many women." The unexpected revelation leaped from his tongue before he could squelch it with another cough. "If you persist in following this ... path, I must make known to you that although having you would indeed be a pleasure, it would not be a rare one, would not enable you to bend me to your will."