“Stop,” she said. “I can’t fight you now.”
“I know.” Mac rested his cheek on her hair. “I know.”
She heard the break in his own voice, turned her head to see his copper-colored eyes swimming with tears. It was his tragedy too, she knew. Their shared grief.
“Oh, Mac, no.” Isabella rubbed a drop from his cheek. “It was so long ago. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“I do.”
“Let’s not talk of it. Please. I can’t.”
“I won’t make you. Don’t worry.”
His eyes were still wet. Isabella slid her arms around his neck, rubbing under his hair, knowing he found that soothing. A tear trickled to his upper lip, and Isabella instinctively kissed it away.
Their mouths met, touched, warmth on warmth, clung. Mac’s lips parted, and she tasted the sharp sweep of his tongue, the salt of his tears. This was no seduction; he kissed for comfort, hers and his own.
Even after more than three years apart, everything about Mac was familiar. The rough-silken feel of his hair, the texture of his tongue, the burn of whiskers on her lips, all were the same.
But there was one difference. Instead of being overlaid with the bite of single-malt, Mac’s mouth tasted only of Mac.
Mac eased away, but his lips lingered on hers like mist on glass. Another light brush of mouths, and Mac sat back, tracing her cheek. “Isabella.” It was a whisper, filled with sadness.
“Please don’t.”
He knew what she meant. “This will not be a weapon in our game,” Mac said. “I’d never, ever do that to you.”
“Thank you.”
Their breaths mixed as she gratefully exhaled. Mac smiled a little and touched another kiss to her lips.
“My coat, on the other hand . . .”
“Morton is having it cleaned,” Isabella said quickly as she accepted the handkerchief Mac handed her. “You’ll soon have it back.”
Mac leaned on his elbow on the back of the seat. “I meant the story that you kept my coat in your bed with you all night. Lucky garment. You forget how swiftly gossip runs between our houses. Our servants have a messaging system that Prussian generals would envy.”
“Nonsense.” Isabella’s heart thumped. “I put the coat down on the bed last night, is all, then I forgot about it and fell asleep.”
“I see.” Mac’s eyes glinted with his knowing smile, despite the tears that hadn’t yet dried on his cheeks.
Isabella gave him a haughty look. “You know what staff can be like when they get an idea into their heads. The story grows with each retelling.”
“Servants can be quite perceptive, my sweet. Far more intelligent than their masters.”
“I only mean that you shouldn’t take everything they say as absolute.”
“Of course not. May I beg a glove from you so I can lay it on my pillow tonight? You can refuse my request, of course.”
“I do refuse. Most emphatically.”
“I wish only to entertain the servants,” he said.
“Then send them to a music hall.”
Mac’s smile widened. “I like that idea. I’d have the house to myself for an evening.” He ran one finger down her arm. “Perhaps I could invite someone to call.”
Isabella strove not to jump. “I am certain that your chums would enjoy a night of billiards and a generous amount of Mackenzie whiskey.”
“Billiards. Hmm.” Mac’s look turned thoughtful. “I might take pleasure in a game of billiards, with the right companion.” He took her hand, traced a design on her palm through her tight kid glove. “I could think of a few interesting wagers we could have. Not to mention the double entendres I could make about thrusting cues and balls and pockets.”
Isabella snatched her hand away. “You do like to hear yourself talk, Mac. Now, I must insist you tell me why you have no interest in the forged paintings.”
Mac lost his smile. “Drop the topic, Isabella. I banish it from our game.”
“This isn’t a game. It is our lives—your life. Your art. And I’d be a bloody fool to play any game you invented.”
Mac leaned to her as the carriage slowed. Isabella had no idea where they were, and she didn’t have the energy to lift the curtain to find out.
“It is a game, my love.” He held her gaze. “It is the most serious game I’ve ever engaged in. And I intend to win it. I will have you back, Isabella—in my life, in my house, and in my bed.”
Isabella couldn’t breathe. Breathing meant she’d inhale his scent and his warmth.
His eyes were hard, the copper irises still and cool. When he looked at her like this, she could believe that his ancestors had ruled the Highlands and swept nearly all the way through England in attempt to wrest it back for the Stuarts. Mac was a decadent man who went to parties in the finest houses, but the gentlemen who hosted the parties would quickly back down from the look in his eyes at present. Mac was determined, and when he was determined, ’ware all those who stood in his way.
Isabella lifted her chin. Betraying weakness to him would be fatal.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I intend to pursue the forger. If I play your game, I must make up my own rules.”
He didn’t like that, but Isabella had learned enough about Mac to know she should never let him have it all his way. She’d go down swiftly if she did that.
To her surprise, he made a conceding gesture. “If you must. Do your worst.”
“I said that about you after you left me at the ball.”
By Mac’s sudden, blazing smile Isabella realized she’d miscalculated. She hadn’t meant to say the words— they had slipped out before she could stop them. But she’d hugged herself on the cold terrace as she huddled there in Mac’s coat, angry, unnerved, lonely, scared, and angry again. “Do your worst, Mac Mackenzie,” she’d breathed in frustrated rage. “Do your absolute worst.”
“A fine invitation.” Mac cupped her face between his hands. He was strong; she’d never forgotten what natural power Mac had.
He kissed her, not tenderly this time. It was a hard, rough, hungry kiss, one that mastered her and bruised her lips. She realized with dismay that she kissed him just as hungrily back.
Mac pulled away, leaving her lips parted and raw. “I promise you,” he said. “This is nothing compared to my worst.”
Isabella tried to answer with a cutting remark, but her voice no longer worked. Mac gave her a feral smile, snatched up his hat and stick, and flung open the door of the now-still landau.
Isabella saw that they had halted in a snarl of traffic on Piccadilly, the landau perilously close to the posts that separated road from buildings and people. Mac leapt to the ground without bothering with the step.
“Until next time.” He clapped on his hat. “I look forward to another engagement on whatever battlefield you choose.”
Whistling, Mac strolled away. Isabella followed his broad back as he moved smoothly through the crowd until the footman slammed the door, cutting off her view. She peered through the rain-streaked window, but the familiar form of her husband was lost to the mist and crowd.
Feeling bereft, Isabella fell back against the seat as the landau jerked to roll on through Piccadilly.
Mac thoroughly disliked formal musicales, but he made an exception and dressed to attend the one at Isabella’s house two nights later. Two nights of restless sleep, twitching as he relived the kisses in the landau. In his fevered visions he would continue, loosening her bodice and licking her creamy breasts as they welled over the top of her corset.
He mused that lusting after one’s own wife was far more frustrating than lusting after a stranger. Mac knew exactly what Isabella looked like under her clothes, exactly what he was missing. He had many times undressed her during their marriage, liking to dismiss Evans and take over the servant’s duties to prepare Isabella for bed. As
