The Soldier's Rebel Lover

A couple of hours later, they were sitting side by side on a blanket, leaning against an overturned tree in a pretty glade at the edge of a forest located some distance from the estate. The sun had obligingly come out, and there were only the slightest, puffiest of clouds in the pale blue winter sky. Isabella opened the top button of her jacket and lifted her face to the warmth. Finlay had taken off his coat, and sat in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His leather-clad leg was not touching her skirts, his arm was not brushing hers, but she was so aware of him, it was almost as if they were. She didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

No, not yet. She hadn’t realised until he’d turned up out of the blue how lonely she had been. She had her cause but precious little else. She hadn’t realised how rarely she was her true self. Not even with Estebe could she talk as she did with Finlay, and she had never, ever thought of kissing Estebe. Now she seemed to do nothing else but think of kissing Finlay.

He shifted against the tree and she opened her eyes to find him studying her intently. ‘What is it? Have I dust on my nose?’ She brushed her face roughly, not for fear of dust but to conceal the effect his gaze had on her. She felt flustered and flattered in equal measure. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Has it gone?’

Finlay grimaced. ‘Stop being so endearing. For pity’s sake, it’s difficult enough having to say what I have to say, without...’

‘Then, don’t say it, Finlay.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Not yet.’ She knew, absolutely, that what he had to say would signal the end, and she so desperately didn’t want it to end. ‘Not yet,’ she said again, smoothing her hand over his hair, his cheek.

He turned his face, his lips brushing a kiss on her palm, then, taking her by the wrist, he kissed each of her fingers. ‘Why did it have to be you?’ he murmured. ‘Why do you have to be so irresistible?’

‘Then, do not resist.’ She caught his hand and did as he had done, brushing her lips over his palm, her tongue over each of his fingertips. His eyes flickered shut as he inhaled sharply. She pushed the cuff of his sleeve back, kissing the pulse on his wrist. And then his mouth found hers and she forgot everything save for the taste of him and his touch and his drugging, sweet, heady kisses.

He whispered her name as he kissed her. He said her name like no other did, his soft, lilting accent making a caress of it as his hands stroked her cheeks, her neck, unfastening the buttons of her riding coat to slide inside and cup her breasts. She kissed him back hungrily, her own hands roaming over his back, his shoulders. She held him tightly to her, pressed herself against him, for fear he would stop. She could not bear it if he stopped, not this time.

He kissed the tops of her breasts above the gown of her habit. She laced her fingers into his hair. Her corsets felt too tight. She was hot. Her nipples were hard under his caress, aching for more. ‘Más,’ she whispered urgently.

Finlay muttered some gentle endearment in his native tongue. His eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed. His neckcloth was undone, his waistcoat open. She could sense him wrestling with his conscience. She did not want his conscience to win. ‘Please do not stop,’ she said, made shameless with desire.

He groaned. ‘Don’t look at me like that. How am I to resist you when you look at me like that?’

‘Then, don’t.’ She pulled him back towards her. ‘Don’t resist,’ she said, and kissed him fiercely.

This time he obeyed her command. His kisses were harder, his breath became more ragged, his hands touched her more surely, cupping her breasts, making her arch up with pleasure. He slid his hand under the skirts of her habit, stroking his way up her leg, over her stocking, her garter, to the soft flesh of her thigh. Her body pulsed and throbbed. Her skin tingled. Inside her, the tension, the heat, pooled between her legs. Finlay’s skin was hot, too, under the linen of his shirt, his nipple hard against her flattened palm. His eyes, intent on hers, reflected the fire building inside her.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Si. Yes. Sure,’ she answered. Though she was not at all sure what he meant, she was sure she wanted it, and when his hand cupped her sex, when he slid his finger inside her, she was certain, whimpering with delight. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said as he touched her. ‘Yes.’

She surrendered to it, to him, to the exquisite pleasure of the tension his touch was building, lying back on the blanket, his body half-covering hers. She closed her eyes as he kissed her again, lost in the pleasure of his mouth, his tongue, his touch. Stroking. Thrusting. Stroking inside her, moving instinctively with him, clinging on to the knot until she could bear it no longer, and it exploded, forcing a strange, guttural cry from her as she shuddered and pulsed, clinging to his shoulders to anchor her, convinced that if she let go of him she might fly straight up into the pale blue winter sky and burst into flames like a firework.

* * *