Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (17 page)

Quaking head to foot, she fumbled to unfasten her cloak.

“Here, let me do it.” Yancy nudged her stiff fingers aside.

The corners of her mouth tilted upward the merest bit, but misery shadowed her face. She quivered so hard, he feared she had already caught a chill.

Pushing damp tendrils off her cheek, he inclined his head. “There’s a bedchamber through that door. Get your wet clothes off. All of them.”

Chapter 21

“
All
of them?” Gaping, Isobel choked on an outraged squeak. Yancy could not be serious.

Eyes narrowed, she angled her chin. “And what, pray tell, shall I put on, my lord? I assure you, I’m not parading about naked for your enjoyment.”

A rather erotic image flitted through her mind. One in which she didn’t mind standing nude before him in the least.

She’d come across a book or two
or three
in the library she was confident neither her parents nor Ewan had the slightest notion existed as part of the immense collection. Books that had provided quite an
unusual
education.

Even weary-eyed with rough stubble covering his jaw, Yancy looked too tempting by far. A burst of warmth swelled from her pelvis to her breasts.

Blast the unfairness.

Tousled and disheveled, he roused enticing images of dashing pirates and gallant knights while she resembled a washerwoman scrambling from beneath a pile of soiled laundry.

His lips quirked into a crooked smile, and his heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her bosom.

Another flicker of awareness caused Isobel’s nipples to firm into hard pebbles. She trembled and crossed her arms. Her chilled state was to blame for her perky breasts, not his scorching gaze.

Fustian rot and rubbish.

“As much as I would enjoy the enchanting spectacle of seeing you nude, you are cold to the marrow. I don’t want you catching lung fever.” He strode to the table and after loosening the string, yanked a rough blanket free of the mound dumped atop the scarred surface.

“Here.” Extending the woolen cloth, a challenge glinted in his eyes.

Did he think she would refuse to comply? Saturated to the skin as she had been these past several hours, a tangible risk of fever existed. She wouldn’t jeopardize her health out of some misplaced sense of propriety or stubbornness. Besides, warmth and dryness were temptations not easily ignored.

Yancy gathered the cloths from the shelf, as well as one of the candles, and pressed the items into her numb hands. Placing his palms on her shoulders, he turned her in the direction of the bedchamber and gave a minute shove. “Go. I promise not to peek.
Much.
”

She spun to face him, prepared to give him a proper setdown.

Already at the door, he laughed, a rich, rumbling baritone, and hurried into the night.

Confounded man.

He had her in a dither, and he well knew it.

Isobel stomped into the bedchamber. Only one window, and the shutters dangled askew. The room smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been aired in some time.

Candle held high, she approached the narrow bed, wary of what might be crawling within. A relieved sigh escaped her. The bedding appeared reasonably clean. She bent and drew back the blankets, revealing coarse sheets that looked surprisingly fresh.

She spied a whisky-colored strand of hair on the pillow, and a hint of sandalwood wafted upward. Yancy had slept here.

After tugging the bedding back into place, she tossed the blanket and towels on the hand-stitched quilt. She set the candle on a triangular table beside the bed and shivered.

Scarcely bigger than Emira’s stall, chilly, outside air drifted into the tiny room through gaps between the stones. Isobel hastily undressed, leaving her sopped garments in a heap on the floor. Goose pimples puckered atop her clammy skin.

She rubbed a cloth over herself before wrapping the scratchy blanket around her back then securely tucking the edge underneath one arm.

Sitting on the bed, she briskly toweled her hair. Smoothing the tangles by running her fingers through the strands proved impossible. Perhaps Yancy had a comb or brush with him.

Shaking, she fashioned another blanket into a shawl. Holding it shut, she gathered her wet garments and boots. Cold spiraled up her calves from the frigid floor, and she wiggled her icy toes.

Would she ever be warm again? Other than those couple of hours at Dounnich after her bath, she had been colder than a witch’s heart for days.

Egypt is warm. So are Spain and the Caribbean and Greece.

No!

No more daydreaming and fantasizing about adventures—far past time she married and started a family. She’d made God a promise and fully intended to keep her word.

If
anyone would have her now.

Men had been eager to court her and take her to wife before this. However, the tiniest hint of moral scandal was enough to send them sniffing about someone else’s skirts and shun her.

Or else offer her a less than honorable proposition as a kept woman, complete with a written agreement detailing exactly what she could expect from her protector. Never mind that not a one of them could claim virginity, and yet her virtue remained intact.

Hypocrites
.

With a firm shake of her head, Isobel clutched the blanket tighter. There was naught to be done about her reputation now. She couldn’t change her circumstance any more than a molting chicken could shove a fallen feather back on its bald bum.

Why had Yancy come after her alone? Most foolish, though she would be a cretin to be ungrateful.

Isobel touched her uninjured cheek. He’d kissed her.

Momentarily overcome at finding her safe, or did the kiss mean something more? Now who was foolish? A kiss on the cheek hardly bespoke intense passion.

If Yancy weren’t already affianced, she might dare to follow her smitten heart.

Ifs and ands were pots and pans, there would be no need for tinkers.

“Yes I know, Grandmother,” Isobel muttered crossly.

Noises in the outer room announced Yancy’s return to the cottage.

Emerging from the bedchamber, she hesitated in the doorway.

He crouched before the roaring flames, prodding a log with the poker. He had removed his boots, coat and stockings. The latter two he’d draped across a chair to the side of the fireplace. Steam rose from his hunting jacket.

His wet shirt clung to the hard lines of his sculpted torso. The muscles flexed and bunched as he urged the fire hotter. The male perfection hunkered a few feet away lured her as much as the comforting crackle of the fire and the pleasant aroma of wood burning.

Glancing up at her entrance, his mouth curved into a roguish smile. He leisurely inspected her from her pink toes peeking from beneath the blanket, to her hair tumbling about her shoulders to her waist.

At the glint in his eyes, she almost turned tail and fled into the bedchamber. She might as well be standing naked as a robin, so ravenous was his expression.

His hot gaze didn’t veer for an instant as he stood upright. “I’ve managed to make some tea, and there’s an apple, two oat rolls, and a wedge of cheese left.”

Their fare sat atop the table, now placed nearer the hearth. He’d also lit two additional candles.

Yancy approached her. The expanse of dark, curling hair exposed by his parted shirt sent a ripple tingling along her spine.

Isobel forced her feet to remain planted, though every instinct screamed for her to flee. He was as dangerous to her untried senses as her abductors had been to her physical body. More so, since she seemed unable of summoning a whit of resistance to him, his ridiculous malachite eyes, or his superbly molded mouth.
Or deliciously sculpted chest muscles.

Stop staring and say something, Isobel.

“Your horse is well?”
Bleeding brilliant.
But the poor beast likely hadn’t been properly groomed or fed since this whole disaster started.

Yancy grinned as if he knew full well the tumultuous thoughts warring in her head.

“Yes, Skye’s none too happy with me at present. The old chap quite enjoys his oats.” He plucked the wet clothes from her arms, his long fingers brushing her bare skin.

Those bothersome sensations started up again, skipping across her nerves. The feeling quite muddled her mind and did the most erratic things to her breathing.

“Have a seat at the table while I lay these out to dry.” He lifted her garments and shoes.

Sinking onto a hard chair, discomfit heated her face as he padded around arranging her stockings, stays, and chemise about the pleasantly warm room as naturally as a husband would.

In the act of draping the last stocking across a chair, he stilled, his attention fixated on her calf.

Glancing downward, mortification seized Isobel. The blanket gapped open, revealing her leg from ankle to above her knee.

She tugged the ends together.

Yancy brought his gaze up to hers, and their eyes locked, their souls fusing.

She was no more capable of looking away than she could cease breathing.

Hunger tinged with something nameless shone in his cat-like eyes. His gaze caressed her across the distance as surely as if his fingers trailed her flesh.

The air left her lungs, and her limbs turned to jelly. Desire flooded her.

I’m in serious trouble.

Alone, stark naked beneath a scanty blanket, and reluctantly in love with a man whose mere glance had her willing to fling propriety aside and beg him to make her a woman—yes, she was in deep,
deep
, ruinous trouble.

“
Ma heid’s
mince,” Isobel muttered under her breath. She simply couldn’t think straight at the moment. Truth be known, the phenomenon occurred with annoying regularity in Yancy’s presence.

Desperate for something to do to distract her treacherous musings, her hands unsteady, she poured tea into the two chipped cups.

“I’m sorry. There’s no milk or sugar.” Yancy’s palms cupped her shoulders, his fingertips gently pressing into the flesh.

Isobel jumped, one knee hitting the table and jarring their scanty meal.

His bare feet silent on the worn floor, he’d crept up behind her.

She took a hasty sip of tea and burned her tongue. Rather than spew the hot liquid into the cup, she swallowed, singeing her throat.

Hell, Hades, and Purgatory.

Must she always act a complete goose in his company?

Gathering her tangled mane, he smoothed the strands down her back. “I found a comb. Sit sideway in the chair, and I’ll untangle your hair.”

Anticipation rendered her mute, but she obediently shifted her position.

“Go ahead and eat. I’ve had my fill.” Yancy pulled the other chair behind her then drew the comb through her tresses, the movements slow and hypnotic.

She took another tentative sip of tea, practically sighing in appreciation. The man brewed a superb cup. Had he really eaten or had he left the meager meal for her?

Taking a bite of cheese, she tried to ignore the wonderful sensations his gentle ministrations caused. She turned her mind to home. She couldn’t wait to reach Craiglocky and see her family, to assure them she hadn’t been compromised.

“Isobel?” Yancy’s voice grew hoarse. “Did they
harm
you?”

Did they despoil me, you mean
?

She picked at an oat roll, certain her cheeks flamed. “No. I count myself rather fortunate in that regard.”

His breath warmed the top of her head as he released a heavy sigh. “I was so afraid for you, that they’d force you.”

“The real danger lay in them discovering I wasn’t Lydia.”

He stopped combing her hair and drew his hand through the tendrils. “You have beautiful hair.”

He traced small circles below her ear with his fingers.

Every bone in her body must have gone soft because she couldn’t move. Not even when he replaced his fingers with firm lips, and his beard gently rasped across her skin.

Had anything ever felt so glorious? Wisdom shrieking in protest, Isobel bent her neck, offering him easier access.

Yancy eased the shawl from her shoulders and smoothed his palms across the bare flesh as he feathered kisses across her nape, drifting lower to her shoulder. “Isobel?”

She turned her head and met his eyes, dark with desire.

Did hers shimmer with the same intense yearning?

She traced his mouth with her fingertips. She wanted to kiss him, just one time to experience a kiss from the man she’d secretly loved for years. She was ruined already. What difference did it make if she created a memory to treasure throughout her life?

He sucked one finger into his mouth.

She gasped as sensation surged between her legs and the tips of her breasts. How could something so simple cause her core to contract? If this was passion, she had waited far too long to experience it. No, far too long to experience it with
him
.

Yancy drew her to her feet. The blanket covering her shoulders slithered to the floor and pooled there.

Holding the back of her head with his large palm, he drew her nearer, until her breasts above the blanket’s fabric met his hair-matted chest.

Isobel stood on her tiptoes and twined her arms about his neck, desperate to feel the friction of his crisp hair against her. Sweet euphoria sang through her veins.

This, now, with Yancy was all that mattered. Later, on her lonely mattress, she would examine her impetuousness and chastise herself to China and back.

As if sensing her desperation, he stepped from her embrace and tore off his shirt. His sculpted muscles bunched and flexed when he threw it carelessly on the floor.