wcEND.rtf (7 page)

"I see," he said with that enigmatic look of his.

Did he really?

Hunter's tolerance was crucial to Isabel's plans of making as few waves as possible until she could undo this bizarre situation. She wanted to disappear as if she'd never been here.

Though she knew little about the intimate details of D
é
tra's and Hunter's lives, they seemed well suited for each othe
r
—
i
n appearance, at least. They matched in color, she in a vibrant brightness, he in a dark sort of way.

Isabel's own pale coloring would contrast too sharply with him. They also seemed well matched in size; Hunter stood only a head taller than his wife did, though he was very ta
l
l indeed. Isabel's petite form would be dwarfed in his presence. And surely Hunter appreciated Détra
'
s roundness and fleshy bod
y
—
n
o doubt the female ideal of many centuries before and yet to com
e
—
u
nlike Isabel's small and trim frame.

And doubtless, Détra also appreciated Hunter's masculine handsomenes
s
—
i
deal in any century. And so did Isabel. What woman wouldn't? There was nothing soft about the man. From the impenetrability of his black onyx eyes, to the rough-looking stubble
that
shadowed his bronzed face, to the great breadth of his shoulders, Hunter was the picture of a medieval warrior in all his glory.

Defined by his ability to physically defend himself and what was his, willing to go to any lengths to achieve his goals, most probably capable of unbelievable acts of bravery guided by some unspoken code of honor... .

What was she trying to do? Brainwash herself? Isabel shook her head to dispel the idealized image her mind created. Hunter was just a man, albeit a very alluring one. A man married to the body she now inhabited. She repressed a growl of frustration at the undeniable truth.

"I beg your understanding, Hunter, if at times I should act a little . .. odd. Hopefully this forgetfulness will only be temporary." She watched him as she waited for his response. When the seconds strung along, his silence began to weigh on her. Her body tensed, her stomach churned, and her mouth went dry.

After an interminable stretch of time, he finally broke the unsettling silence. "I am an understanding man."

Relief washed over Isabel. "Thank you," she said si
mply.

He lowered his head a little as if about to impart the greatest of secrets. Isabel caught herself leaning toward him.

"I am pleased you got rid of your sodden chemise," he said, picking up a curl of her hair and twisting it around his fingers, his hand close enough to touch her face. "I wish no ill fate befalling you." He brought the strand of hair to his nostrils and inhaled deeply
.

His confession and the intimate gesture unsettled Isabel. She straightened her back, looking for something to say that would dissipate the intimacy of such a personal moment. Noticing he still wore his wet clothes, she seized her chance to separate them. "
I
s your life less important than mine?" She stared pointedly at his clothes.

He cocked his head, as if unsure of her concern. His face assumed a serious demeanor, his penetrating gaze seeking her sou
l
. And then a half grin slashed his handsome face, dispelling his a
ll
-too-serious fa
c
ade, making him look younger than she'd first thought he'd be. How old was he, anyway? Suddenly Hunter was not the medieval warrior anymore; he was just a man. A man who belonged to another woman and to whom she was very much attracted.

"My lady's concern lightens my heart," he said, letting go of her hair and taking a step back.

Without warning, he undid his sword be
l
t and let it fall to the ground. Pulling his shirt over his head in one sweeping move, he unveiled a muscled, bronzed chest generously sprinkled with dark hair.

The tantalizing view of his sinewy body pushed Isabel into action. She skittered back, snapping her mouth shut and lifting her hand in warnin
g
—
a
s if the gesture had the power to terminate his shameless striptease.

"What're you doing?" she asked. "I didn't mean for you to undress." In her agitation she even forgot not to use contractions.

If he noticed it, he ignored it. He shot a perfunctory glance around before returning a daring gaze to her. "There is no one here but you and me, husband and wife."

Husband and wife!

Isabel swallowed hard at the reminder. She was in Détra's body and Détra
was
Hunter's wife. Good God! What a mess she'd made of things. What if Hunter and Détra often rendezvoused in the orchard? Isabel almost groaned at the possibility.

At the sight of Hunter's hand reaching for her, Isabel got ready to bolt, but instead of grabbing her as she'd expected, his hand reached above her head to pluck an apple from the tree. Letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding, she
c
hided herself for feeling like an uninitiated teenager and not the twenty-five-year-old woman that she was.

With what she thought was a nonchalant pose, she stood her ground, but when Hunter offered her the apple with a daring, tempting gaze, Isabel knew she should've run when she had the chance. Excitement skimmed down her skin. She hadn't felt that way in a long time and she was tempted to accept the offerin
g
—
n
ot the fruit, but the promise behind that dangerous gaze.

Was that how Adam had fallen for Eve's trick?

Isabel refused to submit. She shook her head.

Hunter shrugged at her refusal and took a deep bite of the fruit. His teeth tore the crimson skin, sinking with gusto into the ripe meat, then his lips closed over the morsel. A drop of juice escaped from the corner of his mouth, drifting down his chin. The tip of his tongue reached for it, partly recovering the runaway droplet, then gliding over his lower tip, until it disappeared again inside his mouth. Isabel followed the trajectory with mesmerizing interest.

Unabl
e
—
m
ore like unwilling, she silently admitted to hersel
f
—
t
o turn her gaze away from his mouth, Isabel watched as Hunter continued to devour the forbidden fruit until all that was left was the core. With a flip of his wrist he tossed it to the ground, then licked the sweet juice off his finger.

Isabel knew she was gaping. She snapped her mouth shut for the umpteenth time, but when he reached for the drawstrings of his pants she knew she could either run or face the music
.

She simply wasn't ready to dance right now.

"I believe it is time I returned to the castle." She stumbled over her long skirts in her attempt to flee. How she missed her blue jeans! "A lady's duties are never done, you know." She almost groaned at her witless remark. She must have
l
ost her brain somewhere between his mouth and the waist of his pants.

Hunter caught her wrist and brought her flush to his body. "What of your duty to your lord husband?" he whispered against her cheek, the sweet scent of fresh apple mingled with his manly scent wafting to her, more delectable than any exotic fruit she'd ever tasted.

Trying to free herself from his hold, she said. "Certain duties should be reserved for more private quarters." She almost rolled her eyes at her prudish words. Phony as they sounded to her, sure
l
y they wouldn't to him.

"A moment ago you thought the orchard private enough." Hunter deposited a soft kiss behind her ear before wickedly licking her earlobe. By a miracle Isabel managed not to squeal, her weak knees a telltale sign that it
'
d been too long since she'd last made love to a man. And Hunter was no ordinary man.

She must get him away from her ears. There was just so much she could take.

Isabel pushed against him, swallowing hard as she noticed how his pants hung precariously on his narrow hips.

If he took a deep breath, the damn garment would plunge to his ankles. The image disturbed her the more because she couldn't erase it from her mind.

Dismissing the treacherous wanting forming inside her, Isabel averted her gaze from the growing evidence of his desire. Desire directed at Détra, not her, she reminded herself once again, gaining some control over her stumbling heart.

"Would you deny your husband a kiss?" Hunter whispered as he refused to let her go. His mouth traveled the oversensitive skin of her neck.

Trying to get her mind clear of the fog enveloping it, Isabel pondered that a kiss might not be too high of a p
ri
ce to appease him. Maybe he would be satisfied with that. Surely he wouldn't expect to make love in the orchar
d
—
a
fter a thunderstorm no les
s
—
i
n the middle of the day? These were medieval times! The sexual revolution was centuries away.

Isabel realized she was mind babbling. Desire had transformed her brain into mush, and yet the longer she took to answer him, the longer his body pressed against hers, the longer he inflamed her desire with his touch, and the more difficult it was for her to think clearly. She should allow him one kiss and then he'd let her go, and she wouldn't be forced to cross the thin line between necessary duplicity and downright deceit.

"A kiss," she whispered, pulling him away with a final effort. Her gaze drifted from his inflamed eyes to his parted lips. Oh, whom was she kidding? If Hunter's kiss were half as good as she anticipated, she knew
she
wouldn't want to stop at only one kiss. "One kiss," she repeated, more to herself than to him, then closed her eyes and waited for the world to end.

* * *

A KISS FROM HIS BRIDE, WILLINGLY GIVEN, EAGERLY accepted. The tremble began in the pit of Hunter's stomach and journeyed up to his heart. He shook with the exhilarating prospect of Détra's surrender. Her acceptance, her love, the possibility of realizing that vision of happiness, meant everything to him, and now with Détra's lack of memories, it all seemed possible.

With a deliberate slow motion Hunter stepped forward and burrowed his hands underneath the soft mass of curls, resting his thumbs on her cheekbones. Her eyes flared open and she measured him with her gaze.

Eager to take from her what she promised, what she had forever denied him, Hunter was unprepared, however, for the desire flickering in the green depths of his lady
*
wife's eyes.

Détra had usually avoided looking at him altogether, until this morning before the advent of the chalice, when she didn't hide the disdain in her gaze. And yet, there was no denying the desire revealed through her half-lowered eyelids, her parted lips, her sweet womanly essence mingled with the faint scent of rosemary that wafted to him, curtailing his breathing and making his body coil tightly. Hunter forced himself to take a deep, calming breath, lest he fall at her feet like a drooling idiot.

Surely his bride had not followed him to the orchard for a midday tryst, though the thought cheered him mightily. Could his mother's magical chalice be powerful enough to warrant such drastic change in Détra? A fool he was not, and yet he could not deny she was different. There was a new touch of daring mingled wit
h
vulnerability about her that he found quite becoming.

His rough thumbs caressed the soft skin of her face and to his delight she did not recoil from him. For a wife who had avoided her wedding night, Détra's acceptance of his touch was a much-welcomed relief.

"Are you going to kiss me," she asked, cutting into the fog of his thoughts, "or are you going to stare me to death?"

The merriment in Détra's voice confounded Hunter. The twitch of impatience grounded him some. His mind doubted her metamorphosis, but his foolish heart eagerly embraced it. It was too early to know whether she played him for a fool or not.

"Though your beauty enchants me and I would stare at you forever," he said, feeling giddy like the fourteen-year-old lad he once was, gazing at the unattainable object of his affection, "your kiss is a pleasure I would be a fool to forgo."

Giving in to the carnal invitation of Détra's plump lips, Hunter lowered his face to hers. There had been too many stolen kisses for him. He wanted this one to last forever. He grazed her lips ever so lightly and was unprepared for the jolt of intense pleasure the contact afforded him. He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other. He caught her lower lip between his and suckled it, savoring the sweet nectar. She did not pull away; instead, she inched closer. Encouraged, Hunter slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue slipping between the sweet seam, daring, hoping she would open to him.