She expected Mac to make a quip at her statement, but his eyes held wariness. “Do you truly mean that, love?”

“Of course I do.”

She’d told Mac once that he never did anything by halves. He tended toward extremes, which made him interesting but highly uncomfortable to live with.

The entire Mackenzie family tended toward extremes. Hart with his focus on politics and his rumored dark appetites; Cameron with his fixation on horses; Ian being able to remember every word of a conversation years after it took place yet unable to understand the subtleties of it, let alone participate in it.

If Mac hadn’t been exactly who he was—charming, outrageous, funny, seductive, sensual, and unpredictable—Isabella would never have fallen in love with him. She edged a little closer to him and rested her hand on the warm expanse of his chest.

Mac’s eyes darkened. “Isabella, don’t play with fire.”

Isabella moved closer, leaned down, and kissed him.

Chapter 16

The Marquis of Dunstan showed several pictures in his drawing room on Thursday last, paintings of Venice so vivid that the viewer was certain to hear the splashing of water and the songs of the gondoliers. These exquisite paintings are the work of Lord Mac Mackenzie, although his lordship has retired to the country in Scotland, and it is assumed that he has finished with painting pictures of Venetian canals. —September 1878

Mac’s heart beat swiftly as he slid his hand behind Isabella’s heavy braid and pulled her into the kiss. My dearest darling, don’t do this to me.

Her mouth tasted of sweet tea, and her body was wonderfully bare under her prim-looking nightdress. The little ruffle at her throat scratched his chin, and he wormed his fingers in to undo the buttons.

Isabella’s kiss was desperate, her lips parting his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. The idiot Payne had scared her out of her senses, although Isabella would never admit it. She was strong, his beautiful lady, but she felt things deeply. She was kissing him to seek solace.

Mac wasn’t too proud to give her that solace. He gathered her to him, chilled to think how close he’d come to losing her today. If he hadn’t been following her . . .

But he had, and he’d stopped Payne, and now he had Isabella in his arms. And damned if he would ever let her out of his sight again.

Isabella started to pull away, as though coming to her senses.

“Don’t,” Mac said. “Stay with me.”

Isabella’s throat moved behind the buttons he’d parted. “I’m very tired.”

“So am I.” He broke off, touched the bruise on the side of her mouth again. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Isabella.”

She smiled suddenly, the abrasion pulling her mouth into a crooked line. “Afraid of you? I’ll never be afraid of you, Mac Mackenzie.”

Mac didn’t laugh. “I meant that I don’t want you thinking that I’m anything like him.”

“Like this Payne fellow?” Isabella shook her head, the end of her braid brushing his chest. “Of course I don’t.”

“He looks like me, and he’s decided to try to steal my life. But I won’t let him have it, any part of it.” He tightened his arms around her. “Especially not this part.”

Isabella’s eyes softened, becoming the shade of a misty Scottish meadow. “If I do decide to throw you out of my house, Mac, it will be because I want to, not because Payne has upset me.”

“That’s my Isabella.”

He tugged her to him and swiftly undid the rest of the buttons on her nightdress.

Warm, supple woman waited for him inside. Mac kissed her lips, fingered the weight of her breasts, eased her on top of him. On their wedding night, he’d pulled her under the covers while she still wore the dressing gown he’d lent her. He’d wanted to spare her the discomfiture of baring herself the middle of the room—he suspected she’d never been naked in front of another human being in her life. She’d probably been taught to bathe in her undergarments. Prudery at its most ridiculous.

Then, as now, he’d unbuttoned her once she was on top of him under the blankets and tugged off the dressing gown. That night, Isabella had kissed him clumsily; tonight, her kisses held the skill of experience.

Darling, darling Isabella. Men were fools not to make mistresses of their wives. What need did Mac have for courtesans when he had beautiful Isabella? What’s more, he could fall asleep with her and wake up with her, spend the day with her, go to bed with her, and begin the wonderful ritual all over again.

His thoughts broke off as she glided one hand around his very aroused cock.

“Don’t tease me, sweet,” Mac whispered, voice grating. “I need you too much to hold back.”

Isabella’s answering smile was hot. She stroked him once. “I need you, Mac,” she said.

All thoughts of his foolish game, of resisting Isabella until their reconciliation was complete, fled his head. To hell with that. Mac caught her hips and half-lifted her to straddle him. She guided Mac to her very wet opening, and closed her eyes as he slid into her.

Oh, yes. Isabella’s sheath closed around him like a tight fist. My beautiful, beautiful darling. Nothing else mattered when Isabella’s scent and lovely slick opening surrounded him, nothing. The first night making love to her had shattered him, and Mac still hadn’t found all the pieces.

“It’s like heaven inside you,” he whispered.

Isabella kissed his lips, the bridge of his nose. “You once said you married me because you thought I was an angel.” Her lips curved into the wickedest smile he’d ever seen as she wriggled her hips.

“Little devil,” he growled.

She splayed her hot hands on his chest, tilting her head back as she rode him. He was going to die of this. Firelight touched her slim body, her nipples dark against cream-colored skin. Her hair trickled over her body, loose now, like a gossamer cloak of fiery red.

Isabella’s face softened, her eyes dark as her moist lips parted. The sight excited him. He thrust high inside her, and they swayed together for a long time, this coupling driving away all fear, all anger, all grief. Nothing mattered but the two of them joining, no longer two but one.

Isabella crooked one arm across her breasts, resting her hand on own shoulder as she lost herself in the pleasure. He knew she was thinking nothing, hearing nothing, only feeling Mac inside her.

He knew when she was drawing to climax, and that excited him even more. He rocked up into her, his own cry of joy ringing with hers as they peaked together.

Isabella collapsed to his chest, her loose hair covering him like a river of red. “It feels so good. I’ve never felt it like this. It’s so . . .” She trailed off, incoherent.

“Good?” Mac wanted to laugh, but his body shuddered with release, and his laughter came out a groan.

They fell silent, Mac burying his fingers in the warmth of her long, silken hair. Mac loved this part, stillness settling between them while his body went heavy, every muscle loose. He’d missed the afterward almost as much as he’d missed being inside her.

“We did this in Scotland,” said Isabella after a time, her voice sleepy. “It was glorious then. But this is better. I wonder why.”

Mac didn’t give a damn why this time seemed even more intense than it had been in his studio, but Isabella wanted an answer. Mac simply wanted to close his eyes and hold her.

“Comfy bed,” he murmured. “Difficult day.”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Isabella whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. “And then you were there, pulling me out of danger.”

“That must be it. I was a hero. I swept you off your feet and made you want me.”

“Don’t joke.” Isabella frowned. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, love. No, it’s not a laughing matter.”

He kissed the line of her hair. Mac had been in time to prevent the abduction, or whatever Payne had been planning, but it had been a close thing. It made him ill to think how close.

No, he couldn’t go on thinking about what if. He’d brought her home, safe and sound.

Relatively safe and sound. Mac thought of her bruised lip and rage trickled through him again. Payne would answer for that.

Isabella lifted her head. “Mac.”

“Yes, sweet angel?”

“I don’t want to sleep yet.”

“Fancy a game of cards, do you? Lawn tennis, perhaps?”

“Don’t be silly. I want to do some of the things we used to do. You know.”

Mac’s thoughts scattered as his pulse quickened. “I do know. Wicked lady.”

Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. “I was taught by a wicked, wicked lord.”

He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

Isabella showed him. They tried something they’d enjoyed before—Isabella straddling him, facing his legs instead of his face, and then leaning back until she lay full length on him, her back to his chest. Every muscle in Mac’s body tightened in pleasure, the arousal incredible.

This position let Mac cup her where they joined. The feel of her wet heat, the sounds of pleasure she made as he stroked her there aroused him all over again. They climaxed together, their shouts mingling in the stillness of the night.

Still hard, Mac rolled Isabella onto the bed and entered her again, face-to-face. A conventional position, but the best, he thought, where he could kiss Isabella’s lips and watch her green eyes sparkle with passion. If he could ever capture on canvas her expression as she rose to climax, he would treasure that painting above all others. And show it to no one, of course. It would be his own private, decadent pleasure.

Mac made love to her until both of them were limp with exhaustion. Then he blearily pulled the covers over them and fell asleep in a nest with his beautiful, incredible wife.

When Isabella came down to breakfast the next morning, a bit sore from the night’s activities, she was pleased to find a letter from Ainsley lying by her plate.

Mac read the paper at the head of the table, the pages hiding him while he crunched his usual buttered toast. Isabella thanked Morton for the coffee he poured and opened the letter.

She made a faint noise, and Mac’s paper came down. “What is it, love?”

Isabella’s face heated as she met his gaze. She’d begun her shameless behavior last night because she’d been too restless and anxious to sleep. She’d needed to drop off from exhaustion of the kind that only Mac Mackenzie could provide.

She’d sought oblivion but found pleasure so great it was indescribable. By the glint in Mac’s eyes, he understood and was gleeful that he’d been the cause.

“Mrs. Douglas,” Isabella answered. “She says she will try to contrive another meeting between myself and Louisa, but she’s not certain yet when she’ll be able to.”

“When she does, I will accompany you,” Mac said.

“You can’t. Ainsley is finding it difficult enough to invent excuses to take Louisa out alone, without my mother. Louisa might be too afraid to go through with it if she knew you were involved.”

Mac folded his paper and set it aside, his face stern. “Isabella, my lovely, I am not letting you out of my sight. Don’t mention to Ainsley that I will be there if she thinks my presence would confound the scheme, but I am going.”

“Mac.”

“No.”

Mac rarely asserted husbandly mastery. He’d told her the first day of their marriage that he thought it nonsense that men presumed to dictate to their wives—what if the husband was a fool? Wouldn’t the wife be even more of a fool to obey him? Isabella was to be given complete freedom, because, Mac said, he suspected that Isabella had far better sense than he did.

Isabella saw now that Mac simply had chosen not to assert his rather formidable will. The look in his eyes told her he would not back down, no matter how much she argued.

Isabella tried anyway. “She’s my sister.”

“And there is a madman lurking in the streets waiting to do who the hell knows what. You go nowhere without me.”

Isabella swept her lashes down. “Of course, my dear,” she said meekly.

“And don’t you dare pretend to capitulate and then sneak away when my back’s turned. Your servants agree with me and will tell me if you attempt anything so rash. If you try to leave the house without me, I promise I will drag you back home, chain you up in the cellar, and feed you bread and water with my own hands.”

The trouble with Mac making idiotic declarations was that there was a good chance he’d carry them out. Also, he was right. Payne was a danger. Isabella recalled his terribly strong hands on her and suppressed a shiver. She never, ever wanted to feel that helpless again.