Page 64 of Isabel and the Rogue

“I’m sorry, Isabel,” he breathed, burying his face in her hair. “You deserved to have your first time in a bed, surrounded by comfort and luxury. And all I offered you was this uncomfortable settee in my dark library.”

Running her nails up his arm, she pressed a finger to his hand. “Sirius, I can’t think of a better place for my first sexual experience. I’m surrounded by the things that have brought such solace and joy to my life. I am more comfortable here, with you, in front of all these books than I would have been in the grandest bed.”

She craned her head to meet his gaze. “This is poetic, don’t you think? Every one of our most contentious encounters occurred within studies and libraries. First at the Meadows ball, then at Dancourt Abbey, and then in Westhope’s library.” Prickles of guilt spread like ripples down her spine, but Isabel aggressively pushed the sensations away. “And now here, at your home.”

His throat worked for a long moment. “I don’t quite understand why you would grace me with such an honor. You’ve seen the worst side of me, over and over again. I’ve felt your disdain—your disappointment—so often. And though I’m used to disappointing people, it always hurt more acutely knowing it was you whom I had displeased.”

Sirius was used to disappointing people? What does he mean? He continued before Isabel could voice the question.

“But you’re here with me now. Why, Isabel?”

Why indeed? Isabel didn’t know how to respond. Should she tell him the truth? The truth that she was in love with him, despite her future in Mexico and his roguish life here in London. And yet Isabel did not know how to tell her heart not to love him.

But knowing better than to admit as much, and already feeling vulnerable in his presence, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed.

“Because I want to be.”

16

When had Everhart ever looked so young?

The thought pinged in Sirius’s mind as he grasped his old friend under his arms and hauled him to his feet. Without a word, the pair dashed through the underbrush away from the pounding of horse hooves and ring of cannon fire.

“You should have left me, you daft idiot,” Everhart panted, limping along beside Sirius. “I can’t possibly outrun these Russian bastards with my ankle in this shape.”

“Perhaps if you stopped complaining and focused on surviving, you’d have no trouble outrunning danger,” Sirius bit back, pressing them to an oak tree and peering around its broad trunk.

They were being pursued, but try as he might to peer through the surrounding murkiness clinging to the forest floor, Sirius could not make out the enemy. Prickles of unease crept like spiders’ legs across his neck.

“It’s not complaining to speak the truth,” Everhart had tossed back on the acrid breeze, his devil-may-care tone unchanged despite the threats lurking like unseen monsters around them. “And even if I can’t outrun them, I know you’ll be there to protect me.”

Suddenly, without warning, the oak tree Sirius had been hidden behind shifted under his hands, and he stumbled back and fell on his arse as the largest serpent he had ever seen uncoiled from the ground before him. Yellow eyes glared down at him, and a scream froze in his throat as Sirius scrambled to grab his friend. But Everhart lay prone and unmoving on the ground, his complexion waxy and pale. The serpent lunged for him, and Sirius dove to block it, his fear fleeing as bloodlust surged through his limbs like opium. He wrapped his arms around the beast’s neck and squeezed—

“Wake up, Sirius.”

He moaned in the back of his throat, confusion cutting through the vision before him like a hot knife through butter until the serpent dissipated. With frantic jerks of his head, he searched for Everhart, but he was nowhere—

“Sirius, you’re dreaming. It’s just a dream.”

A dream? Sirius attempted to open his eyes, but it was a herculean task, for while his mind screamed at him to awaken, his body refused to do so.

A solid, warm hand pressed to his chest, and heat spread through his blood, yanking him back to reality like a shepherd’s hook.

Kisses rained down upon his brow, a familiar vanilla scent descending over him like a springtime shower, washing clean the memories. Blinking his eyes open, Sirius found Isabel staring down at him.

“That’s it, cariño. You’re here with me, at your library in London. I’m so impressed with your collection.”

Sirius moved until he could bury his face in the crook of her neck, his arm going around her waist and pulling her flush with his chest. Wishing dearly that he could soak her into his skin.

“It must have taken you years to build it up,” she said, her breath shifting the hairs along his temple.

Licking his dry lips, Sirius tried to attend to her words. He knew why she had mentioned it. Or rather he thought so. If Isabel was attempting to anchor him to the moment, she had succeeded. “Since I was released from the hospital after I returned to England.”

Her breath hitched for a moment. “You were in the hospital?”

Sirius nodded.

“What happened?”