A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

That night he danced with Ilsa Ramsay again.

She wore red, her bodice cut low over her perfectly plump breasts. Her coal-dark hair streamed around her shoulders as he lifted and spun her around in his arms, letting her down slowly, so she slid along his body. Her eyes shone with promise, as potent as the sheen on her rosy lips, parted invitingly.

There was no one else in the room. It was only the two of them, moving about each other more and more slowly and deliberately, every touch lingering, every glance heated. Then there was no music, just the thud of his heart and the husky invitation of her whispers as she tugged at his clothing, pressing against him as he undid the laces on that scarlet gown and tasted her skin . . .

Until a pistol went off behind him.

Drew startled awake, rearing straight up into the low ceiling and cracking his head. Cursing, he erupted out of bed and had his sword in hand before he realized the gunfire was actually Felix Duncan banging on the door.

“St. James,” came his low, urgent voice. “Get up, man! You have a caller.”

Pulse racing, head aching, it took a moment for the words to sink in. “What?” he croaked, wincing as he pressed one palm to the lump already forming on his skull.

“Your mother is here,” said Duncan, his lips right at the keyhole from the sounds of things. “Come out and face the enemy.”

He let out a shaky breath. Quietly he resheathed his sword. “Aye, aye,” he called to his friend. So much for the intensely erotic dream he’d been having of a dark-eyed siren about to take him by the hand and lead him to . . .

“Idiot,” he said under his breath. He was a sinner just for thinking of her that way. In penance, he dunked his whole head into the basin of cold water.

He didn’t know what to make of Ilsa Ramsay; that was the only explanation for his fascination. In his mother’s drawing room she was as reserved and polite as Miss Kirkpatrick, the duchess’s very proper companion. She pretended not to remember the searing kiss they’d shared under the oyster cellar stairs and made a point of mentioning her abrupt dismissal from MacGill’s office in his favor.

Did she despise him? Blame him? Think about that kiss every hour, like he did?

He ought not to think of her at all. Not only was she bewitching and inscrutable, he needed to focus his thoughts on his future duties to Carlyle—and a future duchess. Getting twisted up by a Scottish temptress would not help him with either.

Hastily dressed, he went out to the tiny sitting room. True to Duncan’s word, there sat Louisa St. James, straight and proper on the battered sofa. At his entrance Duncan gave a hasty bow and practically ran from the room.

Drew didn’t blame him. He also did not feel up to facing his mother at the moment.

“Good morning,” he said with forced cheer. “What brings you here at this hour?” A second thought struck him. “And what about the shop?”

“I’ve told Mr. Battie to open it in one hour,” she said, naming her bookkeeper. “I needed to speak to you.”

Since he’d been at her house just last night, with ample opportunity to speak, he knew it wouldn’t be anything pleasant she had to say. She’d waited to catch him alone and off guard.

“This house in England,” she said directly.

He ran his hands over his head. “Aye. I never meant to force you or the girls to go, but I cannot avoid it.” She frowned, and he hurried on. “Carlyle is a huge estate, Mother. Thousands of acres across counties. There is a vast deal I must learn, and no time to lose.” He hesitated. “The duke is in poor health. The solicitor warned me he might not last the year. He advised me not to delay my education, and there’s no way I can do that from Edinburgh.”

“But your sisters,” she said gently. “They have lives here.”

“Aye, as I had a life at Fort George. Lives change.”

“You’ve resigned your commission?” she gasped.

He peered at her, puzzled. “I will—of course I will. Why would I remain a lowly captain when I’ll have a dukedom to manage?”

“Of course.” She pressed one hand to her forehead. “I didn’t think that far ahead.” She sighed. “When your letter arrived, I hoped it meant a legacy—more fool me! A thousand pounds, Andrew. That was all I hoped for—two thousand, in my wildest dreams. That, I thought, would be very welcome. We could take a better house in the New Town, perhaps expand the shop. With two hundred pounds each, the girls might make good marriages.”

He said nothing. According to Edwards, the Duke of Carlyle had an income in excess of fifty thousand pounds per annum, and that with some effort and modernization it could reach seventy. Carlyle’s expenses were considerable as well, but Drew would wager the duchess spent a thousand pounds on her wardrobe alone every year.

“I did not expect this,” went on his mother in growing distress. “This—this upheaval! I never imagined it would overturn everything in our lives, pull us out of Scotland, make us English.”

Englishwas the worst part of the inheritance, Drew knew. One of Louisa’s cousins had died at Culloden, and in the bloody aftermath her father had been imprisoned and barely survived. George, Drew’s father, had used to say that it was a miracle she had married a man with a single drop of English blood.

“Mother, you won’t become English,” he tried to say, but she gave him such a look, he stopped.

“You will.” She laid her hand on his cheek. “You cannot become an English duke and not change.”

“Do you want me to refuse it?” Not that he could, if it were granted to him. Edwards had been very clear on that point.

She sighed. “No. I know you cannot. And in truth, I suspect we will all come to like it far more than we think now. ’Tis just so sudden.” She looked at him questioningly. “But I’ve not asked what you think of it.”

He stirred uncomfortably. “Never mind that . . .”

“Are you pleased, then?”

He set his jaw. “Thanks to Carlyle, I can take care of you and the girls as you deserve. And I’m not sorry at all to resign my commission in the miserable army. So yes, I would say I am more pleased than not.”

Instantly she clasped his hand in hers. “Of course. We’ve not forgotten how you sacrificed for us all these years. And I am happy for you, truly I am . . .” She smiled, more determined than joyful. “Give me a few days to acclimate my mind to it and I will begin to see the advantages, as well.”

“The duchess hoped you might.”

“Did she?” Some of his mother’s pride returned. “What did she think of you, as the heir?”

He made a face. “Not much at all. She bestowed an income on me with a stern admonition to make myself worthy.”

Louisa frowned. “My son, not worthy! Of course you are. And a fair sight more capable than she had any right to expect, given their coldness to your father and grandfather.”

He laughed. “That’s it—amuse yourself thinking of a sober, parsimonious Scot inheriting the magnificence of Carlyle Castle.”

At that his mother laughed. “You, sober and parsimonious! You’ve not been away that long, laddie. I know you better than that.”

Still grinning, he squeezed her hand. “And that’s why you shouldn’t worry, Mother. You know me.”

Ilsa was joined by all three St. James girls on her morning ramble.

Bella and Winnie rushed to Robert with cries of delight, and he shamelessly wallowed in their fawning attention. Ilsa rolled her eyes at Agnes, who laughed.

“Has something befallen the shop?”

“Mama wanted to speak to Drew,” said Agnes. “Alone.”

“Rip into him, you mean,” called Bella, still stroking Robert’s neck.

Ilsa raised her brows in question, and Agnes grinned. “She’ll be giving him what-for about that house in England.”

“And then?” Ilsa knew enough nobility to know that a title—any title, but particularly a dukedom—had a mighty pull. She would wager it took Mrs. St. James no more than a few weeks to warm to the idea.

“And then we’ll go live in it,” exclaimed Winnie. “Drew said he would take us to London for a Season—can you imagine, Ilsa?”

“I cannot,” she said, smiling even as her heart suffered a pang.

“Winnie just fancies a new wardrobe.”

Winnie made a face at her older sister. “Aye, and the entertainments in London, and the society, and most of all a chance to meet people I’ve not known all my life!”

Ilsa laughed. “You’re braver than I, my dear. I would fear making a terrible fool of myself there.”

“You’re not a fool, Ilsa,” declared Winnie. “Never!”

“I have my moments,” she murmured.

“You know a Season would require a proper chaperone and sponsor,” Agnes told her sister. “And you think Mama scolds you for being too boisterous. Imagine a proper lady in charge of you!”

Bella looked up. “Aye, we would need a sponsor, but Winnie and I have a plan for that.” She left Robert’s side and hurried over, drawing a slim book from her pocket. “Look what we found.” Agnes and Ilsa put their heads together and opened it.

The Widower and Bachelor’s Directory, read the front page. An exact listing of Duchesses, Peeresses, Dowagers, Widows, and Spinsters in Great Britain, with their places of Abode and reputed Fortunes.

“Where on earth did you get this?” demanded Agnes.

“From Drew’s coat pocket the other day.” Bella grinned.

“What?”

“Don’t you see? He intends to find a bride, and she would be our sponsor in London.” Winnie’s eyes grew dreamy at the thought. “We shall see Vauxhall, and the Theatre Royal, and Bond Street, and ever so many balls and parties . . .”

Agnes scoffed. “As if an English lady would be eager to sponsor three wild Scottish girls in London.”

“Perhaps she won’t be English,” said Ilsa quietly. She had paged through the book, just to see, and found her own name listed. Madam Ramsay of Edinburgh, with twenty-four thousand pounds and two thousand in stocks. There were several other names she recognized.

Agnes read over her shoulder and bit her lip. She began scolding her sisters about stealing from their brother’s pocket while Ilsa riffled the pages again. Who wrote this? A Younger Son, was the only author given.

She handed it back to Bella. “Invaluable intelligence,” she said lightly. “I commend your pocket-picking talent. How shall you use it?”

Winnie ignored Agnes’s disapproving frown. “Most of the ladies listed are English, aye? But not all. I propose we undertake to put as many Scottish ladies in front of him as possible before he goes back to Carlyle.”

“As you said, Agnes, Drew’s choice of wife will affect us as well, so why shouldn’t we try to help him to a lady we like, too?” chimed in Bella. “Who will like us in return.”

“If he’s looking up ladies in this book, why shouldn’t we?” Winnie gave them a dimpled smile. “Drew has no experience of Edinburgh society, let alone London. He would be hopelessly lost if he tried to decide by himself. He probably thinks one chooses a wife the way one chooses a horse. Really I think he must need our advice desperately.”

“And did he ask for your help, Winifred?”

Bella hooted. “He’s too stubborn to do that, but he certainly ought to.”

“Why should he depend upon some silly book to help him, when he has three devoted sisters who know him?” Winnie smiled coyly.

“Some silly book,” repeated Agnes wryly, “which is also central to your own plot.”

“You know he’d be happier with a Scotswoman,” put in Bella. “Just as we would.”

“Not to mention Mama. Really, it is our duty to our entire family to do this, Agnes . . .”

Ilsa strolled after Robert, who had wandered off. It was nothing to her. Let him marry a Scotswoman or an Englishwoman or an American or anyone else. She told herself the pit in her stomach was due to the prospect of her dear friends leaving Edinburgh forever. Not that she didn’t long to leave Edinburgh herself at times, but they would be going together, while she had no one with whom to explore the world. She laid her hand on Robert’s back and he nuzzled her affectionately. At least she had him, even if he could be won away from her side by a handful of carrots.

The others caught up to her, and they took their walk. Bella and Winnie kept up a patter about which ladies they should introduce to their brother, with Agnes periodically pointing out flaws in their plan. Ilsa smiled at their fantasies but said nothing—not because she didn’t like to think of Eileen Murray or Lady Milton with the captain, no indeed not, but because she would really miss the captain’s sisters.

A distant shout made them stop and turn. “Drew,” gasped Bella. She flung up her arm and waved as Winnie hid the troublesome little book in her pocket.

The captain was not alone. To Ilsa’s surprise a tall man with ginger hair was at his side. She glanced at Agnes, whose face was pink but serene.

“What are you doing here, Drew?” demanded Winnie as the men reached them.

He winked at her. “Mother sent me. She wondered where you’d all gone this morning. I’ve been searching dress shops and milliners all over town.” His gaze settled on Ilsa. “Good morning, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“Captain.” She curtsied. “Mr. Duncan.”

The redheaded fellow removed his cap and bowed. “Ma’am.”

The captain cleared his throat. “Duncan, I hope you remember my sisters. Miss Agnes St. James, Miss Isabella, and Miss Winifred. Sisters, this is my friend Mr. Felix Duncan, and mind you don’t frighten him off with your usual pestering.”

Mr. Duncan bowed to them all in turn. Bella and Winnie responded brightly, eyeing him with interest, but Agnes barely bobbed a curtsy.

“We were on our way home,” said Ilsa. “You must forgive me, Captain, if I’ve kept them too long and inconvenienced Mrs. St. James.”

Bella laughed. “Drew wishes we’d all gone with Mama this morning, I wager!”

“Did she scold you something fierce?” Winnie wanted to know.

Mr. Duncan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the captain. Agnes’s face was now pale and stony, her gaze fixed into the distance.

The captain gave Winnie an exasperated look. “No, she did not.”

“Then we’re going to England? When?” demanded his sister.

“Nothing is decided yet.”

“Oh? How long do you plan to stay in Edinburgh, Drew?” asked Bella. “Surely you must want a holiday, after spending a month or more at Carlyle.”

His sharp hazel eyes narrowed on his sister. Like Ilsa, he was not fooled by her innocent expression. “I have some things to see to here in Scotland, aye. A month or so, was my intention.”

Wide smiles bloomed in perfect unison on her face and Winnie’s. “Excellent! Shall we go to the Assembly Rooms, then? Do say you’ll come with us! It’s been so long since we’ve been, and you did say you wanted to get out.”

Ilsa was shaking with suppressed laughter. They really meant to parade a string of wealthy Edinburgh ladies in front of him. Over Bella’s head, the captain shot her a quizzical look. She gave him a gleeful smile in reply, imagining his consternation.

“Mama wants us,” said Agnes abruptly. “Ilsa, I will see you later. Drew . . .” She hesitated, then gave him a nod. She did not glance once at Mr. Duncan, although his eyes tracked her departure.

Bella blew out a sigh, and Winnie nudged her elbow. They bade everyone farewell and followed Agnes.

Mr. Duncan cleared his throat. “It appears you’ve got this well under control, St. James. You didn’t need my help at all, aye?” He clapped one hand to his chest and swept a gallant bow. “Au revoir, Madam Ramsay.”

Amused, she let him kiss her hand. “Au revoir, Monsieur Duncan.”

He strode off, whistling, his kilt flapping around his knees. Fine knees, now that she’d got a good look at them. She wondered why Agnes could no longer bear to look at the man.

That left her alone with Captain St. James. Suddenly the empty, windy field felt small and—when she met his gaze—even intimate.

Without asking, rather as if it felt as natural to him as it did to her, Captain St. James fell in step beside her as she headed back toward town. He did not offer his arm, for which she was glad. He was so big and mesmerizing, she didn’t trust herself to touch him.

“I didn’t realize you were acquainted,” said the captain. “With Felix Duncan.”

“We have met a handful of times in the coffeehouse, nothing more.”

His broad shoulders eased. “I apologize for running off all your companions.”

“But you have not.” He blinked at her, and she gave him a teasing smile as Robert trotted up to nudge her hip. She laid her hand on his head. “Not only do I have my dear Robert, sir, you are still here.”

“That’s Robert?” His lips twitched.

Ilsa stroked Robert’s ear. “Yes. Isn’t he a handsome fellow?” She glanced up to catch a flicker of relief in his face. “Who did you think Robert was?”

The captain laughed, a little shamefaced. “I thought he might be your son, when Bella mentioned him the other day.”

Ilsa sighed, bittersweetly. “I love him as much as any child, but he is only a pony.” Robert nibbled the end of her shawl in retaliation, and she had to snatch it away from him. “A naughty pony.”

“There’s nothing wrong with naughty,” murmured the captain, his gaze on her.

“No?” She arched a brow, intrigued.

“At the proper time and place, of course.”

Ilsa clicked her tongue. “But if it’s proper, how can it be naughty?”

“Being naughty at the wrong place or time might be misconstrued as . . . wicked. Certainly scandalous. But at the right time and place . . .”

“So a scandalous or wicked act is merely naughty if no one knows you did it?”

He considered a moment. “Yes, that’s about the sum of it.”

Ilsa choked on a laugh.

He flashed a roguish smile. “Some acts require a willing partner, of course, who would obviously need to know what you did. You must be certain they can keep a secret.”

“Goodness, Captain,” she said with an admiring glance. “You surprise me.”

He just looked at her, a little smile playing around his mouth. He had a gorgeous mouth, the sort that could tease a woman to no end, pleasure her and torment her and break her. The sort of mouth she could almost feel, pressed up against her ear, crooning wicked promises as his hands did scandalous things to her very willing body . . .

Stop. She had to stop thinking things like that about him. Remember the English lady he would wed, or even the wealthy Scottish one, if his sisters had their way. Remember that he would be an English duke and was leaving Edinburgh in a matter of weeks.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” she told him. “I’d no idea your family had such illustrious connections.”

His eyes darkened before he dropped his gaze. “Thank you.” His tone expressed the opposite.

Yes, that was better. She was much safer without his glinting regard on her. “Is it a tender subject?” she teased. “Surely not—one of the most elevated titles in the land! It is my deepest honor to walk humbly by your side, Your Grace.”

He stopped. Ilsa turned to walk backward, her fingers in Robert’s mane to keep her moving away from him. “Don’t,” he said.

“Why?” She widened her eyes. “Is it not the sort of good fortune all men dream of?”

“Not if it spoils the conversation we were having.”

Her steps slowed. “Does it?” she said evenly. “How odd. Why would mention of your grand and glorious expectations spoil a friendly conversation?”

“It does if you use it to declare ever so subtly that we are different.” He opened his arms. “Regardless of what I may be in years to come, today I am just an ordinary fellow, a lowly soldier.”

She laughed in surprise. “And that means we are . . . what?”

He came closer. “Friends. I hope.” Despite the words, his glance was heated. “We ought to be, at any rate, since my sisters think you are one of them.”

“Ah,” she said. “So you think of me like a sister.”

His eyes flashed. “I never said that.” And he offered his arm.

She thought about it, told herself not to do it, and then slid her hand around his elbow. Goodness, he was strong. His forearm flexed under her palm and a shudder of appreciation went through her. Malcolm had been tall but lean, a rangy fellow always humming with nervous energy. The captain was as steady and solid as a rock.

She knew she ought not to have touched him.

Robert wandered off, cropping the grass as he went, and the captain stepped closer, shielding her from the breeze and making her suddenly very warm and restless.

Friends friends friends, she reminded herself. Friends did not want to kiss each other.

“I suppose,” she said as they began walking again, “that your visit to Mr. MacGill’s office was related to your inheritance.” It made sense, after Agnes’s revelation.

A hesitation. “Yes.”

“Agnes has heard me mention Mr. MacGill several times, and she never mentioned he was your family’s solicitor.”

The captain cleared his throat. “He certainly is not. He’s the duke’s solicitor.”

She nodded. “Then, as your friend, may I ask you something about him?”

It had been festering in her mind, the way MacGill treated her. Aunt Jean had told her that she was the problem; she ought not to have gone to see him alone, or questioned his judgement, or tried to make decisions about her money at all. It put people off, Jean scolded. Papa waved his hands and said he would deal with MacGill, suggesting that she was unable to do so herself, and that she was probably being a hysterical female about it anyway. And Papa would most likely tell the solicitor simply to be gentler with her, not to treat her as any sort of intelligent, capable being.

“Of course,” said the captain.

Ilsa kept her gaze on the spires of town. “My question is this: What would you expect Mr. MacGill to do if you asked him to do something of which he did not approve?”

He frowned. “Something unethical? Or illegal?”

“No!”

“Then I’d expect him to nod his head and do it.”

“And if he protested?” she asked. “If he told you to wait six months and refused to do it sooner?”

He blew out a breath and thought. “If he made sound arguments against the action, I would consider them, of course. One never wants to charge headlong after a stupid idea.”

“But if he did not offer any,” she persisted. “If he said it was a silly whim, and refused to act until you came to your senses and changed your mind.”

Now he was frowning at her. “Is that how he treats you?”

“What would you do?” she asked again, feeling her face grow hot.

“I’d sack him on the spot. I wouldn’t put up with that from another officer, let alone a man in my own employ.”

Ilsa nodded, squinting at the sunlight glaring off the windows of the town as they drew nearer. “I thought so.”

“I was told you had concluded your appointment that day,” said Captain St. James cautiously. “But I fear . . .”

She gave a short laugh. “Oh, I suppose my appointment was over before it began. I’ve no doubt Mr. MacGill viewed your arrival as a gift from heaven above, offering him an excellent excuse for bundling me out the door as soon as he could.”

“So he tossed you out.” Now the captain looked and sounded quite grim.

Ilsa wiggled her shoulders to release their tension and took a deep breath. “Never mind about him. Thank you for answering my question, Captain.”

He glanced at her, still frowning in that appealingly stern way he had. “Sack him, Mrs. Ramsay. I intend to.”

She blinked. “Do you, now?”

“As soon as I can do so, at any rate.” He sighed, then forced a smile. “Which might not be for many years.”

He could do nothing until he was the duke. Ilsa still smiled. His outrage for her was more comforting than it ought to have been.

“Your sisters are very curious about your future position,” she said on impulse. “If I may offer a suggestion, as a friend, you could win their hearts with a little effort.”

“Ah,” he said, his mouth easing. “Agnes has spoken about it.”

Agnes had railed furiously against any move to England and declared her brother could go alone for all she cared. But no matter what she said, Ilsa knew her friend would be despondent if the rest of her family went.

“All of them have,” she told him. “Just this morning, in fact.”

He heaved a sigh so weary, so afflicted, she laughed in spite of herself. “It is the greatest trial I could inflict upon my family, apparently.”

He wouldn’t think that if he’d heard Winnie waxing eloquent about the parties and ball gowns she looked forward to in London. “Less than you might think. Once they realize the benefits and advantages it will confer, that is . . . Naturally, each will find something different appealing.”

“What do you mean?”

Ilsa didn’t even know why she was saying this. It was much more in her interest to keep her friends in Edinburgh. And yet. It was rare to have a happy family of siblings. The St. Jameses had not had it easy in all the time she’d known them. Ilsa loved the girls like sisters, and she wanted to see them happy. She hoped they would write to her from distant, elegant London.

“Edinburgh hasn’t nearly the elegant sophistication of London,” she said, pushing aside her own wishes. “They are intrigued by it, but also wary of the unknown. Perhaps a glimpse of how things will be would help set their minds at ease and even make them eager.”

A thoughtful frown knit his brow. “So . . . if I were planning to visit a ducal estate not far from here, to make certain it’s in good order?”

“If it’s a fine, elegant house, likely to impress and please, you might make a party of it,” she suggested.

He gave her a look so warm with admiration and gratitude, it nearly bowled her over; her knees felt weak. “A splendid thought. I’m in your debt, Mrs. Ramsay.”

Heart thudding, she waved one hand. “A trifle!” And then, before she could stop herself, she added, “Invite Mr. Duncan, too.”

He stopped short. “Why?”

Ilsa cursed herself for a meddling busybody who ought to stay out of Agnes’s personal affairs. “You have the look of a harried stag when your sisters swarm you. Another man might deflect some of their teasing. I thought only of your comfort, sir, in suggesting it.”

Now his gaze was searing. “Did you, now?”

“What else?” She blinked at him artlessly.

The slow smile that crept over his face sent a ripple of heat through her. “I’m grateful for every moment you’re thinking of me.”

“The only gratitude I want is for your sisters to be pleased with their future.” She was gazing back at him like a coquette; she knew it and somehow still couldn’t stop herself. Friends friends friends . . .

He laughed. “Then we want the same thing.”

“How fortunate,” she murmured, knowing what he meant.

Each other. They wanted each other. Saints above, how they wanted each other.

Good Lord. What had come over her? She closed her eyes for a moment, giving herself a brief mental scold. “Here is where we must part, Captain. Good day to you.”

He accepted the dismissal; with a lingering warm look, he bowed and turned away. Ilsa slowly let out her breath, covertly admiring his legs even more than Mr. Duncan’s.

After a few steps, the captain turned around. “I’ve been wondering about one thing for some time . . . What you said to me that night in the oyster cellar.”

Another flush of arousal went through her. That still felt like a moment in time too vivid to stare directly at, as if doing so would cause it to dim or fade, and she was just barely keeping to the safe side of the line she mustn’t cross with him as it was. Friends, she sternly told herself. “What any woman would say, in the midst of such a crush,” she replied lightly. “A polite thanks for your assistance.”

He came a little closer. “Then I seriously misheard. I thought you said . . .” His gaze dropped to her mouth.

For a moment she felt again his arms around her, his fingers in her hair, strong and commanding. She tasted his mouth on hers, hot and seductive. She felt again the wild spike of longing that it could mean something . . .

“What?” she said, hating that her voice had gone breathy. “What did you think I said?”

He was an arm’s length away; her feet were rooted to the ground. “Whaur hae ye been aw ma life?” he whispered in a deep Scots purr.

Her lips parted. Her knees almost buckled. Saints help her, she wanted to kiss him again. She wanted him to swing her into his arms and hold her close and laugh with her before he kissed her senseless.

“But if I heard wrong,” he went on, his voice even lower and rougher, “’tis right sorry I am.”

He gave a very proper bow and strode away, his drapes swinging with every long-legged stride. And Ilsa could only cling to Robert for balance, speechless and breathless with wanting.