Page 39 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
“Ye didnae fail. I’m here. I’m safe,” she said. “And that’s because of ye.”
He appreciated her words but still felt the sharp twinge of shame that for a moment, he had failed to keep her safe. And that for another moment, he had considered leaving her behind.
He lowered his head, unable to look her in the eye, feeling unworthy of her grace. But she put a gentle hand, warm and smooth, on his cheek and raised his head and was immediately jolted by a punch of emotion so powerful, it drove the breath from his lungs.
It was in that moment that Struan realized the growing depth of feelings he had for her. He had never intended to let himself feel anything for her. He’d made a bargain with her. And that was supposed to be it. But as he stared into the depths of her blue eyes, he felt like he was drowning in a pool of emotions.
“I’m all right, Struan. Ye saved me life,” she said. “Again.”
“Ye all right?” he asked.
“Aye. I’m fine.”
He raised his eyes, and their gazes met. Struan’s heart thundered in his chest and as he stared into her eyes, the pain that had gripped him faded. In that moment, he felt nothing but gratitude that Isolde was alive, unhurt, and now back with him. Overcome by emotion, he pulled her to him and kissed her. Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that was so desperate and raw, it stole the breath from his lungs.
Isolde leaned into him, gripping his tunic as their tongues lashed one another, feeding each other’s need and desperation. Struan’s head spun and his body lit up. A powerful heat roared through his veins, filling him with a profound desire he’d never felt for anybody before. And the way she kissed him back, it seemed that she felt the same.
Slowly, they parted, left breathless by the power of their kiss. Isolde pressed her forehead to his chest, still gripping his tunic in a death grip, as if she was afraid of letting go of him. He gently stroked her hair, needing to feel her, needing to know she was really there with him. Her blue eyes glittered in the fading daylight as she turned her face up to him. They both remained silent, neither of them seeming to know what to say.
“Are ye sure ye’re all right?” Struan spoke first.
“Aye. I’m fine,” she said as a tremor passed through her body. “But I saw ye get injured. I was afraid?—”
She bit off her words and Struan laid a gentle hand on her cheek. “I’m fine.”
As her hand grazed the wound in his back, he winced, a low groan passing his lips. With the adrenaline from the fight fading, the pain came flooding back in and she stared at him, worry etched into her features.
“Ye’re nae fine,” she said.
“I’m—”
“If ye say ye’re fine again, I’ll box yer bleedin’ ears,” she said.
A crooked grin crossed his lips. She gnawed on her lower lip as she stared into his eyes.
“Now, come on,” Isolde said. “Let’s see tae yer wounds.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“That ‘tis more like it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Stop fussin’,” she chided him.
“It stings.”
“’Tis nae supposed tae feel good,” she replied.
They sat on a log beside the river where they’d first stopped to rest before they were ambushed. Struan sat with his shirt off staring at the flowing water before them, grimacing. Beneath the fabric of his tunic, she could see the long slice that cut across his back. Thankfully, it wasn’t a deep gash, but blood still seeped from it, staining the back of his tunic a ghastly shade of crimson.
“Ye need tae take yer tunic off,” she said.
“Cannae wait tae see me without me shirt on again, eh?”
She scowled at him. “’Tis nae a joke, Struan. If I’m goin’ tae treat yer wound, I need tae see what it is I’m workin’ with.”
“If that’s what ye need tae tell yerself?—”
