Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

Five

Kerr stared at the back of Isobel’s neck—long and strong, yet also vulnerable and tender-looking. Her hair shone brightly in the sun, and damp tendrils curled around her hairline from their midday ride.

His fingers twitched, wanting to touch the silky tresses, and his mouth watered, wanting to kiss below her ear.

She was Eve to his Adam. Delilah to his Samson.

She was Isobel and he was Kerr, and she would never entice him to her side. Ever.

Unless she wants me there for a reason.

He looked at the ground and saw nothing out of the ordinary—leaves, grass, a few twigs—nothing to indicate anything was amiss. He stepped forward carefully, feeling first with his foot, dipping his toes down…and then he stopped.

There.

He grinned and looked back up at her exposed neck, tempting him closer. Who was he to refuse her? Without another thought, he leapt forward and landed directly behind her—almost on top of her.

Her shriek of alarm pierced his ears as he clamped his arm around her waist and squeezed her against his chest.

So worth it.

“Kerr!” she yelled, her hands clutching his forearms.

Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck.

Her skin was warm and soft, and despite the strong smell of manure around them, she smelled sweet like wild roses when he inhaled.

And wasn’t that like the dichotomy of Isobel herself? The Beauty of the Highlands was the same woman who made traps filled with animal dung. The Lady of Clan MacKinnon, hostess to great lairds and ladies, also dug through abandoned hedgehog dens to find quills to dump on people’s heads.

“What are you doing?” she squealed, her words strained. She rested heavily against him, as if she couldn’t hold herself upright.

He brushed his lips along the side of her neck to her ear and nipped the lobe. The air shuddered from her body.

“Exactly as you wanted, am I not?” he asked.

“No, I—”

He nipped her ear higher up. “Truth, Isobel. You lured me across. You wanted me to walk toward you. I succumbed.” A hint of amusement laced his voice, and he knew she would hear it, would react to it.

“I did no such thing. You’ve lost your bloody mind.” She regained her strength and pulled his arms away from her middle, then stepped forward and turned to face him. A hectic flush covered her chest and cheeks. Her lips had reddened, and her blue-green eyes glittered at him brightly. They looked like jewels, almost too stunning to be real.

He placed his fingers over the vein that pulsed madly in her neck, fascinated and buoyed by all the signs of her arousal. His heart raced too, and his lips still tingled where he’d touched them to her skin—the first time he’d kissed her anywhere that was remotely sensual.

She glared at him and batted his hand away from her throat. He raised his palms upward in surrender, his grin unhidden now, and lifted his foot as if to take a step backward. “Och! I canna go that way, can I?” He stepped forward instead. She refused to give ground when he crowded her, and her skirts brushed against his legs.

“When did you see it?” she demanded, her head tilting back to meet his eyes.

“See what?”

“The second trap,” she huffed.

“I didn’t. You hid it well. I saw you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know you, Isobel. I know the sounds of your excitement and the expressions on your face—down to every flicker of your eyes. I know the different ways you hold your shoulders and how your mind works. I know the pace of your walk and what that means about your mood and your intentions.”

“Am I so predictable, then?”

“Nay, the opposite! You continually surprise me. You are the most complex, fascinating woman I’ve e’er met. And you may not want to hear it, but you are mine.”

Her eyes narrowed on him, but for a moment, uncertainty had flashed in those blue-green depths. Her body had softened, almost imperceptibly, and she’d arched toward him.

Her jaw, however, remained clenched in anger.

“Did you miss me when I was gone, Isobel? Did you worry about me?”

She dropped her eyes, stared at his chest, and then very softly said, “Aye.”

He barely held back a groan.

“But you say I’m yours like you own me, Kerr. I’m not a cow. I’m a woman.” Her voice dropped. “I have my own wants, my own needs.”

“And I’ll meet every one.” The blood pounded in his veins, engorging every inch of him.

“You canna. No one can be everything to another.”

“I can. To you.”

“Not when you annoy me so much.”

“You’re not annoyed now.”

“I am.”

“Nay, Isobel. Your body is roused, and your mind is stimulated. As is mine. You’re enjoying yourself even if you’re feeling confused and vulnerable.”

She stiffened at his words.

He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he let her think about everything he’d declared—about the connection between them and his desire for her…his need for her.

She placed her hands on his waist and slowly pushed them up his body until her palms rested against his ribs. His linen shirt felt as light and thin as a cloud between them.

“Then prove it,” she said. “Show me why I should be with you.”

His eyes jumped to hers, but she’d lowered her lids. His Isobel was brave and strong. Why, if she really wanted what she’d asked for, would she not look at him?

He grasped her waist and took a step backward, sliding one heel over the edge of the pit.

“Are you asking me to kiss you, dearling?”

“Aye,” she said, and then closed the distance between them until he felt the swing of her skirt against his legs.

He smiled. “As you wish,” and then he slowly lowered his head.

How long would she last? Long enough for them to kiss?

Their first kiss?

She’d softened in his arms, like her resistance was melting, and she leaned into him more heavily…as if she anticipated his touch.

For a moment he let himself believe it, and then her muscles bunched beneath his hands and she shoved hard on his chest, harder than he’d expected. He’d known Isobel was strong, but not quite that strong. Still, he was able to grasp her waist as he tumbled backward, and the triumphant expression on her face turned to horror as she realized she was being pulled into the manure trap with him.

At the last possible second, he bent his knee and shoved off the edge of the pit, propelling them both backward over the trap. He wouldn’t know until he landed if he’d gone far enough, and for the first time, he regretted his decision—not because he would land in a little cow dung, that had happened many times before and would again, but because Isobel would land in it too.

He would have hurt her.

When solid ground slammed into his back and her soft body slammed into his, he was filled with relief…and other feelings too. He grunted and squeezed his arms more tightly around her waist, her face tucked against his throat, her breasts pressed against his chest. Small puffs of air warmed his skin as she tried to catch her breath.

God’s blood, she was soft against him, so warm, and she smelled so good.

The edge of the pit cut into the backs of his thighs, and he pulled his knees up, his heels on the edge, which forced her legs to straddle his hips. His plaid bunched up between them, his sporran having fallen to the side. From underneath, the open air cooled his privates, so close to hers.

He was as hard as a bloody mountain, and he groaned again as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, her pelvis grinding down on his. Their eyes clashed, and for a moment, lust flared hotly in her gaze. His hands slid down to her hips, and his fingers dug in. Her mouth opened on a wee gasp, and he could see the tip of her tongue behind her teeth, enticing him. She looked undecided, like she was tempted to rock against him.

He was about to lift his hands, to thread them through her hair and pull her down for that kiss she’d requested, when a gruff voice asked from the edge of the clearing, “Lady Isobel, do you need assistance?”

She stiffened, her face flushing a rosy pink as she yelled out, “Nay!”

Brow furrowed, she shoved off his body. When her knee jabbed into that engorged part of him, he groaned—and not in a good way. He breathed through the pain that knifed through his stones and thighs, even into his belly, knowing it was worth every minute as he watched her straighten her clothes, her cheeks still burning, her eyes cast down.

’Twas Lyle who had spoken. Kerr sat up and glared at him. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought he saw the stony-faced warrior smirk before disappearing back into the forest, leaving Kerr with the illusion, once again, that he was alone with Isobel.

She hurried away from him toward her horse.

“Dearling!” he called out. “Doona forget your manure.”

When she made a rude gesture toward him and kept walking, he burst out laughing. “At least take your poor pony. He doesn’t deserve to be abandoned.”

She untied her mare, and he sat up, grinning. By God, she was magnificent. He loved everything about this woman.

“It’s time, Isobel!” he said, his voice deepening and sounding possessive. He didn’t want the words to come out commanding, but they did anyway. “We canna keep dancing around like this!”

She stopped, her foot in the stirrup ready to mount, and lifted her gaze to his. “’Tis your own little jig you’re dancing, Kerr. I ne’er agreed to accompany you.” Then she turned her horse and urged it into a gallop back down the trail.