The Soldier's Rebel Lover

She owed him so much. She owed him her life. She couldn’t bear to think that he’d be fretting about her once she had sailed. He had his own life to be getting on with. He would be off to fight another war soon enough. Or off on another mission for the Duke of Wellington. She hoped for Finlay’s sake that he would be given something constructive to do. Though she hated the idea of him being in danger, she knew he would be miserable kicking his heels in the officers’ mess. The Jock Upstart was a man who thrived on action. Her heart lurched at the realisation that she would never know what he was doing, who he was with, what country he was in, even.

Perhaps he would, after all, return to the Highlands and raise a family. She could imagine him, very easily imagine him, with a brood of children—bairns, as he would call them. She could imagine them surprisingly easily. Their bairns. Hers and Finlay’s. She had never really thought about children, never imagined herself as a mother. Now, for a fleeting moment, the notion filled her with some soft and warm emotion that she’d never experienced before. ‘Stupid,’ Isabella muttered to herself. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

She was torturing herself. Better to focus on the real future, whatever that would be. It would be empty of Finlay—that was the only thing she knew for sure. Perhaps she should suggest they correspond, once she had settled in America. But she dismissed the idea immediately. A consolation to her, those letters might be, but they would be a burden to Finlay. The break, when it came, must be clean. In a few more days, only a few more days, they would part, and she must make very sure that the parting was as painless for Finlay as it could be. As to herself—no, truly, there was no point in thinking about her feelings.

She flattened her palm on his chest. He was so solid. She had never lain like this with a man. Slept with a man. It was such a very intimate thing to be doing, despite the fact that they were both more or less fully clothed. Asleep, even Finlay was vulnerable. In a sense, sleeping together was more intimate than making love. Not that anyone would believe that all she had done was slept in his arms. If it were discovered, her reputation would be ruined. If she had any left to ruin, that was. Though her reputation would not matter at all in the New World she was headed towards. No one would know anything about her past history. They would not know that she had spent the night alone, in a Highlander’s embrace. It was a terrible pity she had not anything more scandalous to conceal. Almost a waste.

Somehow her hand had slipped inside the opening of Finlay’s shirt. The rough hair of his chest prickled her palm. His nipple was unexpectedly hard. Was it as sensitive as hers? When she touched it, did it tingle the way hers did? Was there that shivering connection between his nipple and his—his arousal? There was certainly a connection between his nipple and her arousal. If she turned her head just the tiniest fraction, she could put her lips to the skin of his throat. It was a very, very appealing idea, but she dared not move lest she wake him. Though it was so very tempting. But it would be wrong. He had made it clear, very clear, that he would not make love to her. She was under his protection. She was an innocent. He was not a seducer of virgins.

In a few days’ time, she would be alone on a boat, and she would never see him again. No one save Finlay cared about her virginity. She would certainly be more than happy not to have to take it with her. Without her dowry and her pedigree, her virginity was not even a marketable asset. She turned her head a tiny fraction. Just a kiss. But she did not want to wake him. Just one tiny kiss. What was the harm in that?

Her lips touched his throat. His skin was warm. She licked him. He tasted slightly salty. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. She kissed his throat again. She could feel his pulse beating against her lips. His hand tightened on her rump, and she knew he was awake.

She froze, horrified. She lifted her head to apologise, but Finlay smiled softly. ‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘lovely Isabella. You’ve no idea how lovely.’

‘Finlay.’ In the moonlight, his skin was pale, his eyes dark. She reached up to touch his hair. ‘The colour of autumn leaves,’ she said. ‘All that time ago, when first we sat under the stars like this, that’s what I thought. That your eyes were colour of the summer sea. And your hair the colour of autumn leaves.’

He laughed softly. ‘I wanted to kiss you, that night. Under that blanket. Under those stars. I wanted very much to kiss you.’ His hand was caressing her bottom, the flat of his palm smoothing delightful circles. ‘I regretted the fact that I didn’t,’ he said.