“Love.” His voice caressed her. “Please don’t.”
Isabella angrily brushed away her tears. “I am happy for Beth. I want her to be happy.”
“Hush, now.” His arms came around her, Mac shutting her away from anything that wanted to hurt her.
“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.