The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite Kaye
do you mean?’
‘I mean you don’t find the idea of kissing him appealing. You see, that’s the difference between you and your brother’s wife. While I’m more than happy to look at her, I don’t feel the slightest inclination to kiss her.’
Isabella’s mouth went dry, and her pulses fluttered. The Scotsman’s fingers circled her wrist loosely. She could easily free herself. His other hand rested on her shoulder. She seemed to be standing very close to him. ‘I am very glad,’ she said, ‘because I think Xavier’s hospitality has limits.’
He laughed softly. ‘You know that I would very much like to kiss you, don’t you?’
‘I think you wanted to, two years ago.’
‘It’s something I’ve often regretted, that I did not.’
Her heart was pounding wildly. She was playing with fire, but she was enjoying it far too much to stop. She was so rarely afforded the freedom to be herself. It was exhilarating. ‘It is something I, too, have regretted, that you did not,’ Isabella said daringly.
She had surprised him. She could see from the way his eyes darkened that she had also aroused him, and that knowledge heightened her own awareness of him. ‘There is nothing worse than regret,’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ she agreed.
He made no move for a long moment, and despite the longing twisting inside her, she had reached the limits of her boldness. If he did not kiss her now, he never would. If he did not kiss her now, she would always wonder. If he did not kiss her...
He kissed her. His lips touched hers with the softness of a whisper. She closed her eyes and stepped forward into his embrace. A hand slid around her waist, another cupped her cheek. His kiss was so gentle, she hardly dared move lest he break it. His mouth was warm on hers. It felt odd, different, in the nicest way possible. She angled her head. She slid her arm around him. He gave a tiny sigh and pulled her closer and kissed her again. Not so gently, but still carefully.
She had never been kissed like this before. She let him coax her mouth open. It didn’t cross her mind that her ignorance would betray her or make her seem foolish; she thought only that she wanted to kiss him back, and so she did. His fingers curled into her hair. Her fingers curled into his coat. She could feel the hardness of his body against hers. He was so much bigger than her, but it didn’t make her feel weak. He felt so warm; she felt so secure against the solid bulk of him. He was making her feel very hot. His tongue touched hers, and she leaped back in astonishment.
He cursed. At least it sounded like a curse, though the language was foreign to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, raking his hand through his hair again. ‘I didn’t realise...’
Isabella flushed with mortification. He would think her a child. ‘Please,’ she said, turning away, ‘let us forget about it.’
Any other man would be happy to do exactly what she asked, to spare himself the embarrassment of an apology if nothing else. This man, she ought to have remembered, was not like any other man. He caught her arm, pulling her back to face him. ‘I am truly sorry. I went too far, and mistook your experience.’
Isabella was too proud to look at the ground, and she could not bear pity. ‘No, you mistook my enjoyment,’ she said, giving him a haughty look. ‘I think it is not always true that good things come to those who wait.’
For a split second, he looked as if she had slapped him and then, to her astonishment, he burst out laughing. ‘That’s me told, then. I must be more out of practice than I realised.’
‘I do not think a man like you lacks women to—to practise on.’
‘Now that, señorita, was quite uncalled for. I remember quite clearly that one of the things I told you that night was that I’m not the kind of man who has a taste for kissing any and every available woman. Not that it’s any of your business, but in the two years since last we met, there has been only one woman in my life, and that fleeting affaire ended in Brussels nearly four months ago.’
There was not a trace of humour in his voice now. He released her, taking several paces back. The look he gave her would be quite intimidating if she was the kind of woman to allow herself to be intimidated. The kind of woman she pretended to be. But Isabella was beyond playing such a part for now. ‘Your women—or your lack of women—are none of my business,’ she said, anxious more than anything to close the subject.
But the Scotsman seemed determined to prolong it. ‘No, they are not, save that I wouldn’t have kissed you if there had been any woman in my life, and I would sure as hell have stopped kissing you if you’d given me the least bit of an idea that you didn’t want me to. I told you—another thing I remember telling you very clearly—that I never, ever force myself on a woman.’
He was angry, though he was trying very hard not to show it. She had to acknowledge that he had a right. ‘I’m sorry.’ Isabella closed her eyes. ‘You were right. I have not... I lack—I lack the experience you attributed to me. I’m sorry. It was my fault, not yours.’
* * *
She was blushing. It had cost her dear, that admission, and she shouldn’t have been forced to make it. His anger dissipated like melting snow. Finlay touched her cheek gently. Her eyes fluttered open. ‘No, you are too generous. It was my fault. I got carried away, and forgot that you are not the woman I spent the night with two years ago, but a lady whose innocence I quite forgot to take account of. Will you forgive me?’
‘There is nothing to forgive.’
‘I took advantage. Your brother...’
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