The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘That is very true,’ he said, much struck by this. He smiled, revelling in the simple pleasure of looking at her for the first time without any barricades or withheld secrets between them. ‘You do know,’ he said, ‘that I haven’t been pretending all the time. I did not pretend to enjoy your company. I did not pretend to enjoy your conversation.’

‘Since we are in the business of confessions,’ she said, ‘I will admit that I, too, have very much enjoyed our conversations. Being alone with you, I have not had to pretend to be the dutiful, and frankly boring, Lady Isabella.’

Did she know how bewitching her smile was? Did she realise what it did to him, that smile? And the way she looked at him with those big eyes of hers... Did she know she was playing with fire? Almost without meaning to—almost—he pulled her closer. ‘Above all, you do know that I did not pretend to enjoy kissing you, don’t you?’

‘No? Why, then, did you kiss me, Major Urquhart?’

He tried to remind himself that she was an innocent, but the demure Spanish lady she purported to be was nowhere to be seen in this feisty, bold, brave, beautiful woman smiling seductively up at him. ‘I kissed you,’ Finlay said roughly, ‘for the very simple reason that you are irresistible.’

‘I think that is what is known as serendipity,’ Isabella replied, ‘for it’s the very same reason I kissed you back.’

‘Serendipity,’ Finlay said, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I’ve always wondered what it tasted like.’

‘Strawberries, and lavender, and vintage wine, I believe is how you described it.’

‘No,’ he said decidedly. ‘It tastes of nothing other than essence of you. The most intoxicating and delicious taste imaginable.’

* * *

There was a different quality to Finlay’s smile that excited Isabella. There was something different in the way he looked at her, too, a gleam in his sea-blue eyes, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. There was a very different quality to their kiss, too. This time it was he who was tentative, she who was daring. He kissed her as if he was not sure who he was kissing. She kissed him back with the boldness, the wild elation she felt at finally being able to reveal her true self.

Her response ensured he was not tentative for long. The pressure of his lips increased as she opened her mouth. The touch of his tongue on hers set her aflame. His hands slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her hard up against him. She slid her hands under his coat, flattening her palms against the smooth silk of his waistcoat, feeling the rippling of his muscles as she touched him, up the length of his spine, back down, to the waistband of his breeches.

His mouth was hot on hers. She closed her eyes, the sunlight dappling crimson inside her lids, and slid her hands over the smooth leather of his breeches to the taut muscles of his buttocks. He moaned, plunging his tongue into her mouth. She could feel the unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing between her thighs. Heat trickled through her. She felt potent, wild, that intense, fierce focus from the old days. The pinpoint of danger, though this time the threat was not of capture but surrender.

Still they kissed. His jacket fell to the ground. They were on the bench now, and she was splayed on top of him, her skirts rucked high, his erection pressing against her. She flattened her palms over his shoulders. His breath was ragged. His kisses grew wilder and more passionate. Her own lips pressed against his, as if they would meld. His hand on her breast made her gasp. Her nipple hardened sweetly, painfully beneath her corset. She wanted to moan with frustration for the layers that lay between them, his skin, her nipple. She dug her fingers into his hair, clutching the soft silkiness, tilting her hips to rub herself against him, panting as his mouth devoured hers, as his hand tightened on her breast, as something inside her tightened like a knot, too.

She tensed her thighs against his. More kisses. Behind her closed lids, crimson, blood red. Her blood hot. Danger. She remembered then, seeing him that first night at the ball. Dangerous. He was dangerous. He was so delightfully dangerous. And she was so unafraid.

Finlay muttered something soft in what she assumed must be Gaelic, and dragged his mouth from hers. Gently, he began to disentangle himself from her. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I— I didn’t mean to— And here, of all places. What the devil was I thinking!’

His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated. His hair was in wild disarray. The pins had come out of hers. Isabella knew she ought to be shocked at her own behaviour, but all she could think about was the tension inside her, the urgent need for release, the feeling of hanging on a precipice, desperate to let go, the slow realisation that she would instead have to clamber back down to reality. ‘I don’t believe either of us was thinking,’ she said, trying to herd her errant thoughts into some sort of coherency.