Heat rushed over him. Not simply embarrassment, but also sexual awareness. "You are no helpless female."

"I was basically… when you found me."

"'Haps." He stroked the horse's muzzle, his mind struggling for a response. But he was in no mood for a conversation. All he could think about was Isobel's lushness. The memory of carrying her back to bed was imprinted on his mind and body. He recalled exactly how her light weight and curves felt in his arms, and the tingle of excitement that raced over him when she'd kissed his neck.

"Did I thank you?" she asked.

"Aye. And you're most welcome."

"This is Tulloch, is it not?"

"Aye."

She lifted her hand as if to pet the warhorse, which was far taller than she. "Will he bite me?"

"I hope not."

"That's reassuring," she said dryly.

Dirk snickered, not realizing until this moment that talking to a woman could be entertaining.

"Was that a laugh? Are you laughing at me?" she demanded in a mock severe tone.

"Nay. Not at you." But something about her, now that he was alone with her, did make him feel the urge to smile more than normal. He was unsure what it was.

"I think I should like to see you laugh," she said in a husky female tone.

Damnation, she was teasing him. He knew not how to deal with flirtatious women, especially ones he wasn't supposed to touch. He knew what he would like to do—lift her into his arms and press her against the wall. But, nay, he couldn't do that to a lady betrothed to a neighboring chief.

"I suppose I will have to think of something funny to say more often so you'll laugh. In the meantime, Tulloch, do not bite me." She sidled even closer to Dirk as she reached up for the horse. The animal sniffed her palm then lowered his huge head. She stroked his muzzle gently.

"He's naught but a pet," she said with amazement.

"He's on his best behavior before a lady, but he's sometimes more high-strung and untamed."

"Could the same be said about you?" she asked in a low, intimate voice.

"Doubtful." Heat and chills raced over his skin, making him crave… Damnation! She was trying to spur a response from him. But he couldn't give it, no matter how he ached for her.

"Oh, I'm guessing you can be untamed at times."

Hell, she could not possibly mean what he thought. Untamed in bed? He hardened fully and all words fled his mind.

She was a widow, he remembered suddenly. Had her former husband not pleased her in bed? This had been the case with a few of the widows he'd dallied with in the past. To think of Isobel unfulfilled and yearning… And he wondered if she remembered anything about the night she sleepwalked and he carried her back to the bed. She'd made no mention of it.

"You're a descendant of those wild, invading Norsemen, are you not?" she asked.

"In part." He sucked in a deep breath of icy air to cool his burning need. Mixed with the scent of hay, he caught a faint whiff of her sweet floral fragrance. It only magnified his lust. "You shouldn't be out here, Isobel."

"Why not?" She turned to him. In the dim reflection of light from the torches outside, he could only see the curve of her cheekbone and the prim but sensual shape of her lips.

He cleared his throat and turned away, needing to adjust his trews in the worst way. "I wouldn't want you to catch an ague from the chill wind."

"I won't. I've lived in the Highlands all my life. I'm accustomed to the cold."

"Aye, but Rebbie will wonder where his dance partner slipped away to." Had he said that with more bitterness than normal?

"Nay. I told him I wanted to talk to you."

"What did he say to that?" Dirk asked, actually wondering what she wanted to talk to him about. Or why.

"He wished me luck."

"Hmph. Rebbie is ever full of wit, aye?" Dirk grumbled.

"You have no need to be jealous of him," she said in a soft voice.

How had she known he'd been jealous? He wanted to deny it, but that would be a sure-fire lie. Rebbie could talk to any woman all day, and have her laughing every five seconds. Dirk envied him that.

"We could dance here, you know," she suggested.

"Dance? In the stable?"

"Aye."

"There is no music."

She started humming and singing a lively jig in a captivating, high-pitched voice, then launched into a country dance. He chuckled at how silly and fun she was. She dragged him into the dance and he let himself be taken in. It was a dance he had done a few times, so he remembered the steps. His toe caught on one of the stone slates of the floor. He stumbled but caught her and braced against the stone wall of the stable so they wouldn't fall.

He found himself laughing more than he had in a long while. "I'm not so good at dancing, as you can see."

She giggled and, in the dim light, the flash of her white teeth and the sparkle in her eye were visible. Her lush rose scent in the midst of a Highland stable almost bewitched him. He hadn't remembered her smelling this way. Nay, two nights ago, she hadn't. Mayhap she'd bathed in a new rose-scented soap.

Was she even real? How could this be happening? It all seemed a mid-winter dream, a heated fantasy he'd concocted to drive off the cold.

A fantasy he could not resist indulging in for just one moment.

Chapter Eleven

Leaning against the rock wall next to the stall, Dirk lowered his head and found Isobel's lips. Mmm. She was sweet, her lips soft and delicate like warm rose petals after a summer rain. Her delectable female flavor mixed with strawberry tart stole his reasoning ability. He had to taste her more. What an enchanting surprise when she opened to him. He explored her mouth, loving the shy flick of her tongue against his.

Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing his head down and pulling herself up to him, her body sliding along his. He groaned, his hands finding her derriere and dragging her tight against his hard shaft. Pleasure and need tore through him. Her round arse in his hands, he lifted her higher, devouring her mouth. He moaned before he realized the sound had escaped.

Damned if this wasn't paradise.

Her tentative kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Her lips moved over his, her tongue stroked against his and she moaned. "Mmm, Dirk," she whispered. "So good."

What the hell am I doing?

Drawing back, he set her away from him. "Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." Growling the Gaelic oath, he tried to catch his breath and think with some logic while he listened to her ragged breathing.

"I've never… well…" she whispered, supporting herself against the stone wall. "Now we know what you're good at."

"Damnation, Isobel. Go back inside." He ached for her. He'd craved her for days, but never like this.

"Now you get surly?" she demanded. "After that?"

"Especially after that. I can't…" Pacing away, he muttered more Gaelic curses, his frustration knowing no bounds. "We can't do that. You're betrothed."

"Very well." She straightened, sounding prim and proper of a sudden and beyond vexed. "Blame it on me then."

"I'm blaming no one. Just… stay away from me." Hell, that had been the wrong thing to say.

"Bastard," she snapped.

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to rein himself under control. Aye, let her think whatever she wanted about him, so long as she didn't touch him again. Or allow him to touch her. When he did, his body was no longer under his own command.