The Soldier's Rebel Lover

She put the first piece of paper into position, frowning hard. ‘The first press will soak up any excess of ink,’ she said, refusing to look at Finlay. ‘Now it is a case of turning this handle, and we will see.’

He turned the handle and the press rolled into motion. Isabella checked the results. ‘Almost perfect,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the page. ‘Now, if you will turn, I will set. We require at least two hundred copies.’

‘As well I’m a big brawny Highlander, then,’ Finlay said.

Without thinking, she lifted her eyes. He had flexed his arms. His smile was mocking, teasing. Why did he have to smile at all? She wished he would not. ‘Browny?’

‘Brawny. It means...’

‘Strong.’ Before she could stop herself, she touched his flexed muscle. ‘I thought so yesterday when—’ Isabella broke off, blushing foolishly and busied herself with the paper.

Finlay turned the press. Another sheet was spread out to dry. Another sheet inserted. He turned the press. They worked well together, their actions dovetailing seamlessly. He said nothing, though she was aware of him slanting her covert glances. He understood the power of silence. He had given her more than enough to think about. Too much. She couldn’t think. She didn’t want to think. She inserted another piece of paper. He checked the ink without her having to ask. The press turned and turned and turned.

It was hot work. Finlay took off his coat and waistcoat. They each drank a glass of the cool water that came from the well under the cellars. The press turned with metronomic regularity. Finlay removed his cravat. Isabella undid the top button at her throat. His shirt clung to his chest. She could see a smattering of hair, just as she had imagined. She could see the dark circles of his nipples. Her own tightened in response. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. Only twenty more sheets. Only ten.

‘Done.’

Finlay drew a fresh bucket from the well. They drank thirstily. He dipped his handkerchief into the icy water and ran it over his brow, his neck, his throat. Watching him, Isabella’s own throat constricted. He caught her looking, and heat of a different kind flared between them.

He dipped the handkerchief into the bucket again. He touched the cool linen to her brow. To her temples. To her cheeks. ‘Hot,’ she said.

‘Hot,’ he repeated.

Another dip. A trickle of water on the back of her neck. Then round over her collarbone to the damp skin at the base of her throat. Her heart was pounding. He must be able to feel it. Was his the same? She raised her hand to touch him, felt the damp of his shirt, heard the sharp intake of his breath, then he caught her wrist.

‘Wait,’ he said.

‘Wait?’ Isabella blinked at him stupidly. What was she doing?

‘This,’ Finlay said, ‘between us, I don’t want it misconstrued. I will not have you thinking I seduced you in order to persuade you to come away with me.’

‘I told you I had no intention of kissing you. You will never persuade me to come away with you.’

‘Never say never, is what you said.’

‘Do you think I would kiss you in order to persuade you to leave me alone?’

‘I’d like to think not. I’d be sore offended if I thought you were playing me like a fish on a line.’

Was he teasing her? She didn’t think so. ‘I wonder how a man who turns every head in a room can think such a thing possible,’ Isabella said. ‘Every lass would want to kiss you, I think. Even my very proper sister-in-law says that she would like to be your dinner. I asked her what she meant, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

Finlay still held her hand, but when she flattened it over his chest, he made no protest. ‘I wouldn’t describe you as a mere dinner,’ he said. ‘You are a feast. A banquet. Dinner doesn’t do you justice.’

His words conjured up such images, of his mouth on her breasts, of his tongue on her skin, tasting her, savouring her, relishing her. She imagined herself spread naked for him on a damask cloth, and a wrenching twist of desire made her shudder. ‘Consuela cannot have meant—that,’ Isabella said, shocked at her lurid imagination.

Finlay’s laugh was low, his voice husky. ‘Well, I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that, but I reckon she did.’

This assertion, Isabella found more shocking than anything. ‘She would not!’

He eyed her with some amusement. ‘You’re surely not thinking that your sister-in-law is one of these women who sees lovemaking as a marital duty without pleasure?’

‘Her husband is my brother. I have not thought of it at all.’

‘Have you not seen the way the pair of them look at each other?’

Isabella didn’t like the way Finlay was looking at her. It made her feel foolish. ‘You’ve heard the way Xavier talks. My brother is interested in Consuela as the mother of his children and nothing more.’