"We could dance here, you know," she suggested.
"Dance? In the stable?"
"Aye."
"There is no music."
She started humming and singing a lively jig in a captivating, high-pitched voice, then launched into a country dance. He chuckled at how silly and fun she was. She dragged him into the dance and he let himself be taken in. It was a dance he had done a few times, so he remembered the steps. His toe caught on one of the stone slates of the floor. He stumbled but caught her and braced against the stone wall of the stable so they wouldn't fall.
He found himself laughing more than he had in a long while. "I'm not so good at dancing, as you can see."
She giggled and, in the dim light, the flash of her white teeth and the sparkle in her eye were visible. Her lush rose scent in the midst of a Highland stable almost bewitched him. He hadn't remembered her smelling this way. Nay, two nights ago, she hadn't. Mayhap she'd bathed in a new rose-scented soap.
Was she even real? How could this be happening? It all seemed a mid-winter dream, a heated fantasy he'd concocted to drive off the cold.
A fantasy he could not resist indulging in for just one moment.
Chapter Eleven
Leaning against the rock wall next to the stall, Dirk lowered his head and found Isobel's lips. Mmm. She was sweet, her lips soft and delicate like warm rose petals after a summer rain. Her delectable female flavor mixed with strawberry tart stole his reasoning ability. He had to taste her more. What an enchanting surprise when she opened to him. He explored her mouth, loving the shy flick of her tongue against his.
Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing his head down and pulling herself up to him, her body sliding along his. He groaned, his hands finding her derriere and dragging her tight against his hard shaft. Pleasure and need tore through him. Her round arse in his hands, he lifted her higher, devouring her mouth. He moaned before he realized the sound had escaped.
Damned if this wasn't paradise.
Her tentative kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Her lips moved over his, her tongue stroked against his and she moaned. "Mmm, Dirk," she whispered. "So good."
What the hell am I doing?
Drawing back, he set her away from him. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." Growling the Gaelic oath, he tried to catch his breath and think with some logic while he listened to her ragged breathing.
"I've never… well…" she whispered, supporting herself against the stone wall. "Now we know what you're good at."
"Damnation, Isobel. Go back inside." He ached for her. He'd craved her for days, but never like this.
"Now you get surly?" she demanded. "After that?"
"Especially after that. I can't…" Pacing away, he muttered more Gaelic curses, his frustration knowing no bounds. "We can't do that. You're betrothed."
"Very well." She straightened, sounding prim and proper of a sudden and beyond vexed. "Blame it on me then."
"I'm blaming no one. Just… stay away from me." Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say.
"Bastard," she snapped.
He sucked in a deep breath, trying to rein himself under control. Aye, let her think whatever she wanted about him, so long as she didn't touch him again. Or allow him to touch her. When he did, his body was no longer under his own command.
Clearly she was an experienced widow who knew how to seduce him easily. Her future husband might not know the difference, but Dirk would. He had more honor and sense than to lie with a woman who was almost married to someone else.
She paced away from him, then back. "I but wanted to be friends."
"Friends do not kiss each other like that," he muttered, wishing he could do it all over again. Never had a kiss been so astounding for him.
"I know."
"For God's sake, Isobel, go back inside." He knew his tone was near begging but he couldn't help it. He had to fight for self-control around her. His mind latched onto how much she'd enjoyed the kiss, how she'd responded, kissing him back like a love-starved wanton, rubbing up against him. If she touched him again now, he might have her pinned to the wall in a matter of seconds, their clothing pushed aside and…
Nay, don't think of that. He shook his head, trying to clear away the erotic images.
When she came closer, he drew in a deep breath, craving the smell of her, the taste of her. He stiffened, refusing to move.
"I just wanted to say… I enjoyed that more than…"
"What do you think I am?" he growled, arousal rampaging through him. "A saint? A eunuch?"
She shook her head, then strode regally from the stable out into the courtyard.
What had she meant to say? She'd enjoyed the kiss more than any other she'd received? Had neither her betrothed nor her late husband ever kissed her as if they could devour her? Well… that's how he'd felt. 'Haps he should be ashamed of that, but he wasn't. She was delicious and damned arousing. If she'd stayed, she'd find herself spread upon a pile of hay in one of the empty stalls, her skirts flung to her waist, while he gave her exactly what she'd been asking for.