Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Hearing the crunch of boots on gravel, Iseabal turned her head. Alisdair was walking between the ornate hedges, his destination obvious.

"Are you certain you will not reconsider my offer, my dear?" Patricia quickly said. "I would dearly enjoy you as a companion. Will you stay with me, Iseabal?"

Glancing over at the older woman, Iseabal smiled. "It's you who are kind," she said, wishing that she didn't suddenly have the urge to cry. She patted Patricia's hand, then stood, watching Alisdair approach. She didn't feel the least bit brave or daring at the moment. Regret, yes, she felt that, and a sadness that speared through her at the sight of him.

He was dressed formally, as he had been last night. Aboard the Fortitude he'd often been attired in nothing more than breeches and a shirt. Sometimes she'd seen him standing at the bow, the fabric of his clothing rippling with the breeze from the ocean. Once, Henrietta, the cat, had sat beside him, both watching the endless surge of waves. A companionable and charming memory she would hold in her heart.

Unbidden, another recollection flashed before her, of his shirt wetly plastered to his chest, his smile kind as Alisdair bent to dry her hair. She had wanted to put her hand on his chest and feel the beat of his heart even then.

Without his beard he appeared a different person, she thought. But the man who commanded the Fortitude was far different from this sartorial gentleman. She would never be a suitable wife for this man, but the captain touched something in her nature, drew her admiration and another emotion she dared not name.

He was all too human, her captain. Occasionally arrogant, certainly obstinate, he was also kind, protective, and caring.

Perhaps in time she might talk of him to matronly women she knew. I was married, she would say, to a comely man with eyes like the sky. A man of honor and loyalty. They would nod kindly, these women of her imagination, but perhaps not believe her.

He slowed, his footsteps oddly muted now. There was a smear of ink on his forefinger and thumb. He had signed away his heritage, then.

Go away, MacRae.

She focused her gaze on his boots, wondering how to say the words, thinking that they might well be the most difficult she would ever utter.

"Scotland," she said, forcing herself to face him. His blue eyes were now somber, his lips curved in a half smile. The closer he came, the harder it was for her to breathe.

"I want to go back to Scotland," she said before he could speak. "You promised that you would take me anywhere. Take me home, then, MacRae. I'll bear my shame in my homeland."

"You think it shameful to be married to me?" he asked, the amiability of his expression instantly vanishing.

"We are not married, MacRae," she said, forcing a small smile to her lips. "At least not in England. Evidently, the English do not recognize a Scottish ceremony."

Brushing by him, Iseabal held her head high.

His hand reached out, gripped her arm. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You wanted your freedom, MacRae," she said. "It seems you have what you wanted. Now take it."

He was becoming damn tired of being dismissed by his wife. Spearing his hands through his hair, he turned to Patricia. "Is that true?"

Slowly she nodded. "Regrettably," she said. "There is no need for an annulment, after all, Alisdair."

"Then get me a priest," he said, annoyed with English law.

He caught up with Iseabal at the maze, once again reaching out and gripping her arm. She flinched and he jerked his hand back. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, fearful that he had caused her pain.

She turned and looked at him, then glanced away as quickly. Her eyes were deep with tears, her face brushed with pink across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Like a butterfly, he thought nonsensically.

She wore her pale blue jacket today, he was grateful to see. Not something borrowed that revealed too much of her body and disregarded her true charms—eyes that sparked, a mouth that seemed made for laughter, a nature that hinted at both gentleness and strong emotion.

He turned her gently until she faced him, her back to the hedges forming the maze.

In the wake of her silence he spoke again. "What does it take to get you to speak?" he asked, frustrated that she would not answer him.

He placed his hands on either side of her face, tilted her chin up, and bent down to breathe against her lips.

"What must I do to coax you from silence, Iseabal? Should I feed you my own words, only to have you repeat them to me? Or," he said, placing his finger against her bottom lip, "shall I urge you to speech another way? Speak to me, Iseabal," he urged coaxingly, "and I will swallow your words so that they never breathe in the open air."

He lay his lips softly against hers, exerting no demand, simply familiarizing himself with the feel of her. Her skin beneath his fingertips felt like the softest silk from the ports of China, but warm and pulsing with life. Her lips were full and pillowy, immobile beneath his in an invitation as artless and intriguing as the woman.

"Am I supposed to be grateful for your permission to be free with my words?" she asked, pulling back. The question was surprising, uttered in a breathless tone but stinging all the same.

"I can say anything I wish, MacRae," she continued, frowning at him. "And have always been able to do so. It is the consequences of my speech that I must consider."

"Yes," he said, wondering if their kiss had loosened her words, testing the thought by bending forward to kiss her again. "But the consequences of your silences are even greater. I think I will kiss you each time you refuse to answer me."

She spoke against his lips, her hands smoothing up his arms before abruptly falling away. "Why?"

He drew back, glancing down at her with a rueful smile. "Because I've wanted to all this time. Is that not a good enough reason?"

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and her words, when they came, were oddly without emotion.

"I will not be your whore, MacRae."

"Stay my wife instead," he murmured, placing his lips against her cheek. Her skin was heated, but he felt her shiver as he kissed a path to her throat.

"We aren't married in England."

"Does that news please you?" he asked.

"No," she said breathlessly, the confession inspiring another kiss.

They could be seen from any window, he thought, smiling against her mouth. Alisdair MacRae, intent upon ravaging his wife in the gardens. Reason intruded. Here he was not a MacRae and she was not his wife.

He stared down into her lovely face. Her eyes had closed, her lashes long and feathery against her cheeks. In that moment she looked suspended and hesitant, poised upon a pinnacle crafted of both confusion and desire.

Cupping his hands around her face, he waited until she had opened her eyes and gazed up at him. To his delight, her cheeks deepened in color, her eyes widening as she stared at him. Speechless again, he thought, smiling down at her.

Brushing his thumbs against the corners of her mouth, he spoke again, his voice low and grave, the words those he'd never had a chance to speak.

"Marry me, Iseabal," he said.

She stepped back, her hands at her side. Her silence didn't surprise him. Nor did the fact that she seemed abruptly distant from him, as if she'd taken herself far away from this place and left only the shell of her body behind. He'd seen her do this before.

"Marry me, Iseabal," he said again.

She looked up at him, her face flooding with color. "Why?"

Her habit of restraint had unexpectedly become his. He wanted to know why her eyes looked sad at times, or what irritated her. Why she sometimes trembled when he stood near. What she thought of when she stared out to sea, and what her thoughts were when her gaze lit on him and her face stilled into a somber mask.

Curiosity, however, was not enough of a basis for marriage. Yet he felt that they had been bound to each other by ties neither understood. Not merely Drummond's command, or their mutual fascination for Gilmuir, but something else that he could not quite comprehend. Still, he could not tell her that, or explain his sudden confusion.

"Because you know how I awake in the morning?" he said, floundering for an explanation. "Or because we have such delightful conversations?" he added dryly.

She returned his gaze, her look as steady as his. By law they were not married, not in England or in his homeland. They were companions of a sort, only that. Escapees from a land that had nurtured her and beggared him. But he suddenly wanted more than that, and that was what he could not explain.

"What is your choice, Iseabal?" he asked again, impatient with himself. "Scotland or here? Marriage or no?"

"A woman has one choice," she said simply. "To be happy or not."

"And what would make you happy, Iseabal?"

"To be a decent woman. We are already husband and wife, MacRae. By Scottish law. How were your own parents married?"

She didn't look away and neither did he, stunned by the emotions she'd incited in him. Lust, shame, anger, and confusion.

"By decree," he admitted, beginning to smile.

"To think that Scots law is not valid, MacRae," she said, leveling a surprisingly stern look at him, "is to commit treason. What would the Raven think of that?"

Alisdair felt himself vacillating between an odd compulsion to comfort Iseabal and a wish to kiss her words from her. Her words had a way of puncturing his skin and his resolve with near-deadly barbs.

"My father doesn't belong here," he said, smiling. He reached for her, bending to kiss her again. "Not while I'm kissing my wife."

Her mouth fell open beneath his. One kiss and she'd learned to ensnare him. He smiled against her lips as he felt her arms looping around his neck. Softly, sweetly, Alisdair drew her closer to him, wondering how soon he could arrange another ceremony.