“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“When we were married,” he said in a low voice, “I never would have imagined mucking around in the dirt with you.”
The sentiment provoked a small laugh. “And I couldn’t have imagined spending a day in the kitchen with you.”
“I didn’t even know you cooked,” Marshall protested. “I might have joined you for some,” he waved a hand, “recreational culinary undertaking, had I known my wife could hold her own against the French chefs the ton dotes over.”
Isabelle lowered her eyes. Hearing the word “wife” come from him was like a knife to the heart.
“It wasn’t very long, was it?” His soft words were a caress, instantly soothing the hurt of his previous remark.
Isabelle looked up into his dark eyes. They smoldered like embers ready to flare up at the smallest breath of air or bit of tinder.
“No,” she agreed, “it wasn’t.” She clamped her teeth onto her suddenly trembling lip.
Marshall did not look at her with the scorn she was accustomed to when the topic of her supposed infidelity arose. Rather, his expression was sympathetic and warm, and — it was probably just her jumbled emotions wishing for something that wasn’t there at all, but his eyes seemed to convey wanting, as well.
“We had last night,” he said in a husky voice. He ducked his head and lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “And today, Isabelle.”
He stroked her chin lightly with his thumb. Isabelle felt like she was falling into the depths of his mesmerizing eyes. He tipped her chin up a little more and lightly covered her mouth with his own, a tender greeting. Then his tongue traced across her bottom lip. Little sparks of pleasure shot up her spine.
Alarm bells clanged in her mind, urging her to run away from this man — but it was already too late, and she knew it. As she opened her mouth, willingly deepening the kiss, she felt her reckless heart likewise opening to let him inside once more. She was being foolish. He would hurt her again. But her own silent protests found themselves drowned out by her hammering heart and the blood rushing in her ears.
Without breaking the kiss, she pulled off her gloves and buried her fingers in the thick waves of his hair. Meanwhile, Marshall worked the buttons of her smock. He lifted his head and shot her a smoldering look. Isabelle returned his seductive glance, gratified to know she was not the only one so affected by their kiss.
Marshall turned to the worktable. “Take that off,” he directed, kneeling to pull a folded canvas tarp from beneath the table.
Isabelle felt the slightest bit wicked as she pulled the smock from her arms, though she was still dressed in all her clothes.
“Come.” Marshall’s hand clamped possessively around hers as he led her a few yards to the edge of the clearing, where he spread the tarp in the shade of a towering elm. He rested his hands on her waist and squeezed. “What do you say, Isabelle? Do we have today?”
She dropped her forehead against his firm chest while she tried to pick through her tangled emotions. Isabelle knew she was dangerously, unwisely close to tumbling into love with him again. But here he was, wanting her like he used to. And that part of it felt so right.
He drew her into a close embrace, molding her soft curves against his unyielding, masculine body. “It was always so good between us,” he murmured against her ear. She shivered at the feel of his rumbling voice. “We had a little taste of it last night. Don’t you wonder?”
She nodded weakly, the thrumming desire already reducing her mental faculties to porridge. “I do.”
He cupped his hands over her bottom and tugged her hard against his arousal. “Then let’s satisfy our curiosity.”
She felt a brief worry that this might be just a game to him, but then his hands slid up her sides and claimed her breasts, and all her misgivings were overwhelmed by the storm of sensation building inside her.
Last night, Isabelle had neither seen nor touched enough of Marshall to slake her thirst. Now, she slipped her hands under the hem of his tunic and ran her fingers up his bare back; his skin was like warm suede. She lightly pulled her nails back down his spine. He lifted his head and made a sound like a satisfied lion before pulling the tunic off and tossing it to the grass. Isabelle stepped back to admire him. Instantly, she was drawn to the scar on his right side where he’d been wounded in the war. Had things gone worse for him then, she never would have known him at all. Fierce protectiveness blazed against the unbearable thought.