Mystic Mountains

muscles as taut and firm as those of a thoroughbred horse.
    He chuckled as his hands roved over her, from the curve of her shoulder, across the tip of her peaked breast to the rounded line of her hip. "Men aren 't beautiful, love. But you are. Your skin is so soft; softer beneath my fingers than anything I've ever touched before. It's so pale, so smooth." He bent to circle her nipple with his hot tongue and Isabella bit down on a cry. One last vestige of apprehension made her stiffen, but then he muttered, "Don't fight me, Bella. This was meant to be, love."
    His husky words enticed her. He was right. From the moment she 'd laid eyes on him she'd known in some deep part of her heart he would change her life.
    "I don 't wish to fight you, Tiger."
    Her words seemed to break something inside him, and with a growl his great golden body covered hers. His mouth claimed her while his hands explored her, then both hands and body roused her to a wildness that was untamed, almost savage in its intensity as she spread her thighs and welcomed him between them.
    "Dear God, Bella!" he bit out in the moment before he possessed her. Then his mouth covered hers, muffling her cry.
    He began to move and sensations urged Isabella to join with him in the rhythm he set. When her world finally exploded in a burst of dazzling light she instinctively squeezed, encasing the man inside her. For one moment in time, or was it an eternity, they were as one.
    He let out a soft groan, his grip on her tightening as she lifted her hips from the bed. Her name burst from his lips in a voice she barely recognized. In the moment when his seed burst from him and he pulsed inside her, Isabella knew without a doubt that she was helplessly in love with this man; he would hold her heart in his hand until the day she died.
     
    * * *
     
    Tiger watched Isabella as she slept.
    Ye Gods, what had he done? In the warm drowsy aftermath of their coupling she 'd murmured words of love.
    The heavy scent of passion hung in the sultry air, a reminder of his foolishness.
    His fingers shook as he ran them through his hair. He groaned. Hell! What was he to do now? It had been a long time since he'd let his senses rule his head. Personally he wouldn't regret what happened between them this night, but knew what it would mean to Isabella. She would lump him in with the Englishmen she so despised, the one who had taken advantage of her mother, and the other who raped her and left an unwanted child in her womb.
    Taking great care to not waken her, Tiger eased away from the arm pressed so endearingly on his chest. A pang of something like shame shot through him as she let out a soft sigh and murmured his name.
    With his feet on the floor he stared down at her, then rubbed his face with his hands, muttering a curse. At himself, not her.
    Rum had a lot to answer for. If he hadn 't drunk so much he wouldn't have succumbed to her irresistible charms. That's right, Timothy, blame drink. You're a mature man who prides himself on his honesty. Admit you've wanted her from the first. He had no excuses to offer. But Lord, he dreaded facing her in the morning, probably more than he'd dreaded a lashing when first transported.
    What to do? Let the morrow decide. Let her take the lead. Perhaps she 'll not remember, or perhaps she'll think it a dream. Yes, and pigs might take to the air along with the birds.
    Tiger rubbed his nape, then paced back and forth before pulling on his breeches. The temptation to touch her silken flesh once more proved too much for him and he leant over her, tracing a path over her shoulder, down her arm. She made a small sound of pleasure and whispered his name again, her soft lips curving in a smile.
    A stab of self-loathing tore through him. She didn 't deserve to be treated like a whore. But there could be no future for them. His future was planned. Mistress Prudence Bacon might not set him on fire, might be as plain and ordinary as a bag of beans, but possessed what he coveted most: the entrance to a world so far denied him. True, he was wealthy, and the Governor allowed men such as he to own land and property, but still he was on the outer edge of society. A society he craved to be a part of. Even if only to thumb his nose at them.
    Isabella was the type of woman who would expect love and devotion from the man she wed; a marriage of convenience would not suit her. Dougal was the one for her. The man worshipped her, could make her happy.
    With that thought in