Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

Chapter 12

The coolness between our Lord and Lady in Mount Street has apparently thawed, like welcome spring after a harsh winter. The Lord announced to all and sundry that a small Mackenzie was due to make his debut at the start of the next Season. —May 1877

Mac prepared his canvas and the setting well in advance, wanting to be ready when Isabella arrived so she wouldn’t have time to change her mind.

If she came at all. Isabella hadn’t spoken directly to him at supper, though she hadn’t bathed him in the frosty silences she’d given him in Doncaster. She chattered with Beth, exchanged opinions with Hart, pulled Ian into the conversation.

Mac had watched Ian, marveling at the change in him. His soul-wounded younger brother, who could withdraw into himself until no one could reach him, had been talkative—for Ian—a smile touching his mouth whenever he looked across the table at his wife.

True, Ian still had trouble meeting anyone’s gaze but Beth’s; true he hung on Beth’s words, watching her lips as though he liked the shape of them. But he followed the threads of conversation with the rest of them better than he had before. No withdrawing, no “muddles,” as he called them, no sudden tantrums. He gazed at Beth in undisguised love, Ian who’d always had trouble expressing his emotions. Beth had rescued his little brother, and Mac would always be grateful to her for that.

Ian caught Mac watching him as they ate and threw him a triumphant glance. Bloody cheek. After his brothers had struggled to reach Ian for years, two beautiful women had opened the world to him—Isabella with the love of a sister; Beth with the love of a wife. And damn it, wasn’t Ian smug about that?

Mac retired to his studio after supper and started preparing for the next morning. He snatched a few hours of sleep on the divan he’d set up there, then rose and dressed in his painting kilt, boots, and kerchief to protect his hair long before Isabella was due to enter.

When, at precisely nine o’clock, Isabella did open the door without knocking, Mac was bent over his worktable mixing paints. He didn’t look ’round as she closed the door. Something silken rustled, and his hands started to shake.

“Good heavens, it’s actually warm in here,” Isabella said in wonder. “I wore my warmest dressing gown, but it seems you stoked the fire.”

Mac kept his gaze resolutely on the paint he mixed. “Bellamy did. Can’t have her ladyship catching her death, can we? Lock the door, love, unless you want members of my family blundering in to catch you in your altogether.”

The lock clicked, and Isabella’s dressing gown whispered as she crossed the room. “Am I to sit here?”

Mac busied himself mixing the exact shade of yellow that had made him famous. “Mmm hmm.”

“I’ll just make myself comfortable until you’re ready, then.”

Mac worked his palette knife through the paint in hard strokes. He dribbled in some green—far too much. Damn. He threw the batch into a scrap bucket and started again.

“My ride this morning was quite fine, thank you,” Isabella said, the blasted dressing gown rustling some more. “Such brisk weather. Refreshing.”

A touch more cadmium yellow and it would be perfect. “Mmm hmm.”

“Hart rode with me. We had a long conversation. He asked me if I thought it a good idea if he married again.”

Mac’s muscles worked as he kneaded the large glob of paint to just the right consistency. Anyone who claimed painting wasn’t hard work was a bloody fool.

Isabella went on. “We also saw a few pigs flying. Which likely explains what I’m doing up here with you in nothing but a dressing gown.”

Mac finally turned.

Isabella was sitting on the edge of the chaise like a debutante at her first tea party. She had her feet primly on the floor, her hands in her lap. Her red hair was pulled into a simple knot, a few tendrils escaping it. The dressing gown was voluminous, but the silk clung to her bare body, and a curve of breast peeked coyly from the opening.

Oh, God.

Mac had set the backless chaise in front of a crimson brocade curtain. One end of the chaise was raised so a lady could recline, half-sitting, half-lying. Mac had piled it with white silk draperies and cushions of brilliant gold. A bowl of bright yellow roses stood on the table next to it. Some of the rose petals had already drooped and fallen.

He drew a sharp breath and made himself turn away. “Lie down and pull the white cloths over your middle. I’ll begin in a minute.”

He’d barked similar instructions at many a model, feeling nothing as they slid out of their garments and draped themselves over whatever piece of furniture he’d provided. To Mac models were things of light and shadow, lines and colors. The best ones could breathe life into those lines and colors—without talking, wriggling, whining, or trying to flirt with him.

He moved to his easel with his charcoal pencil, keeping his gaze on the canvas. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isabella calmly undo the fastenings that held her gown closed. His heartbeat rocketed.

You’ve painted her before. This is a picture, nothing more.

“Like this?”

He had to look—how was he supposed to paint her without looking at her?

Mac looked. And stifled a groan.

Isabella lay propped on one elbow, her body half-turned toward him, the white sheet trickling across her abdomen. Her creamy breasts were tipped with dusky red, and coppery orange prickled from between her thighs. When they’d first married, Isabella had been eighteen, and her breasts had been high and round, firm little peaches. Six and a half years later, her breasts hung a little lower and her hips were rounder—womanly curves replacing the straight lines of the girl. She was so beautiful he wanted to weep.

“Mac?” Isabella lifted her hand and snapped her fingers. “Are you still here, Mac?”

“Mesmerized.” Mac made himself give her a clinical glance, as though she were a bowl of fruit he’d set up to paint. Fruit. Lord help me. “This is an erotic picture. Your pose is too tame.”

“Well, I don’t know much about erotic pictures, do I?”

Mac steadied his voice with effort. “Pretend you’ve been ravished repeatedly by your lover and then left on your own.”

“Ah.” Isabella sat up, tucked her feet under her, and mimed writing something on her lap.

Mac stared. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Writing a letter to my solicitor, naming my ravisher in a suit, and outlining the amount I expect to receive in damages.”

His heart started thumping again. “Amusing, love. Now lie back down. And sprawl.”

Her brows arched. “Sprawl? How does one sprawl?”

“Do you mean to tell me that the art of sprawling was never taught at Miss Pringle’s Select Academy?”

“Neither was taking off one’s clothes to be painted,” Isabella said. “Nor how one looks after one is ravished. Perhaps I should speak to Miss Pringle about amending the curriculum.”

Mac laughed. “I dare you. And please let me be there when you do.”

“I imagine that by ravished, you mean disheveled.” Isabella rubbed her hand through her hair. More tendrils fell from the bun and straggled across her cheek.

She was going to kill him. They were speaking rapidly and lightly, as though none of this truly mattered, but both of them were nervous. Or at least Mac was. Isabella, as always, looked cool and composed.

“More than disheveled,” he said. “You have been thoroughly spent by a night of grand passion.”

“I will have to use my imagination then. I’m not sure what that is like.”

Her sly smile and the sparkle in her eyes snapped Mac’s control. He tossed down his pencil and came around the easel to stand over her. “Little devil.”

“I said it in jest, Mac. I suppose I’ve had one or two nights of grand passion.”

“You, my dear, are coming dangerously near to . . .” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

Isabella’s lips curved. “Dangerously near to what, my lord?”

A morning of grand passion? She was his wife, his other self, and they’d thrown off their clothes and their restraints. Why should he stop himself?

“A tickling,” he finished. “You should be tickled until you can no longer make fun of your doddering old husband.”

Her glance moved down his body like a lick of flame. “I would never apply the adjectives doddering or old to you.”

Mac found it difficult to breathe. Or talk, or think. He seated himself on the edge of the chaise and yanked the crumpled sheet across her stomach. “I did promise to have these pictures done before Michaelmas. Now, sprawl, my dear. Arm overhead like that, leg hanging like this, sheet tangled and pushed aside.”

Isabella let him move her arm and leg without a murmur. Mac’s hands shook as though he were palsied.

“If a lady were truly sleeping after a grand passion,” Isabella said, “she’d bundle up in the sheet so as not to catch her death of cold. After warming herself with a nice cup of tea.”

“You are far too exhausted for that. Barely awake at all.” Mac patted her hip. “Move that a little off the edge.”

“That? Are you implying that I am stout, Mac Mackenzie?”

“The word never left my lips, my petite angel.”

“Humph. Plump, perhaps? Portly, even?”

He wanted to tell her how much he adored her voluptuousness, her body that had grown even more beautiful since he’d seen it last. She’d actually become a little thinner since her departure, and he’d noticed that her appetite had lessened a bit, which worried him.

But Mac had been painting women since age fifteen, and he knew how sensitive they could be to any even imagined change to their waistline. A wise artist never mentioned it unless he wanted to lose a day’s work. He’d always been thankful that Isabella was much more sensible about her body, but even joking as she was, he knew better than to tell her he preferred her curves to the bodies of women who slimmed themselves into sticks.

“My love,” Mac said, “you have the finest, as the French say—derriere—imaginable.”

“Liar.” Isabella hooked her finger on the waistband of his kilt. “Take this off.”

Mac froze. “What? Why?”

“You have seen what I have become. Perhaps I would like to see whether your derriere has grown broader with time.”

What she would see was a cock that had elongated into a rigid pole. She could hang her St. Leger Ladies’ Day hat on it . . . and oh, Lord, why did he just think of that?

“You saw me in the bath, at your house in London,” he said. “And I lifted my kilt for you in your drawing room.”

“A brief glimpse, both times.” Isabella tugged harder on the waistband. “Come now, Mac. Turnabout is fair play.”

Mac decided he’d strangle whoever had invented that saying. He drew a deep breath, unpinned and unfastened the kilt, and let the woolen folds drop to the floor.

Isabella’s eyes grew round. “Oh. My.”

Mac put his knee on the chaise, swung himself on top of her, and lowered his face to hers. “Did you think you could lie here like this without me responding? I’ve been hard for you, my dear, since you barged into my house and actually spoke to me after three and a half years of silence.”

“That was a few weeks ago. You must have found it a bit inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient? It’s been absolute hell.”

Her eyes flickered. “You’ve borne up well.”

“I’m dying for you. I’ve managed to keep myself from you for all these years. Because you wished it. Well, I can’t do it any longer.”

Isabella’s slender throat moved in a swallow. Mac expected her to make another joke, to push him away, to mock him.

She touched his face. “You are with me now,” she whispered. “And the door is locked.”

Mac growled. “Hell, I wish I were a saint. I’d be able to leave the room if I were a saint.”

“If you were a saint, you’d never have married me in the first place.” Isabella’s voice went soft. “And that would have never done.”

“Why not? I made you miserable.”

She stroked his skin, her touch feather light. “You saved me from ordinary marriage to an ordinary man who spent his days at his club and his nights with his mistress. I’d have nothing to do but buy new dresses, have teas, and hostess fetes.”

“You do buy new dresses, have teas, and hostess fetes.”

She shook her head. “I bought gowns I thought you’d like to see me in. I gave tea parties for your friends, so they would be my friends too. I ran fetes to help people who needed help, because I wanted to emulate the way you helped poor artists.”

“I left you alone aplenty. Just like an ordinary husband.”

“Not to your club or to a mistress, which would have been intolerable.”

Her look was tender, her eyes so green. Mac brushed a kiss over her lashes, feeling them lush and full against his lips. “Clubs are rotten places. Gaming hells and cabarets are so much more entertaining. And I mean I’d leave you for weeks at a time. To run off to Paris or Rome or Venice—whatever took my fancy.”

“Because you thought I needed to be alone,” Isabella said. “Away from you.”

Mac swallowed. “Yes.”

Marriage to him had been hard on Isabella; Mac had seen that. After a month or so in his constant company, her eyes would grow strained and her face lined with exhaustion. Their tempers would fray, and they’d quarrel about the most inane and trivial things. Mac had realized early on that the best gift he could give Isabella was peace and quiet. He’d pack a few things and disappear. He’d write to her from wherever he ended up—Paris or Rome or Zurich, telling her gossip about friends and sending her picture postcards. Isabella would never write back, but then, Mac lived a gypsy-like existence, so there wouldn’t have been much point. A letter likely wouldn’t have reached him.

He’d return after several weeks to her welcoming smile, and all would be honeymoon-like again. Until the next time.

Mac saw in her eyes that Isabella didn’t believe that this time would be different. If he were a wise and practical man, he’d leave this room now, indicate that he was ready to take things slowly, to give her a calm, steady, sensible marriage, not one rife with ups and downs.

But he wasn’t wise, or practical, and definitely not sensible.

He kissed her.

His entire body came alive. He was aware of his blood boiling through his veins, his muscles tightening, Isabella’s mouth softening under his.

“God, you’re sweet.” Mac licked across her lips, tasting her morning tea laced with sugar. “Sweet little debutante I stole from under Papa’s nose.”

His sweet little debutante twined her arms around his neck and pulled him down to the chaise, on top of her naked, delectable body.

The feel of her husband on her made Isabella swallow a groan. He smelled of sweat and paint, and his mouth aroused her, promised, taunted. It had been too long, too long.

He pulled back, his eyes dark. “Isabella.”

This was different from Mac teasing her in the tub in Doncaster. Then he’d been fully clothed, playing with her, the master of the situation. Now he kissed her, equally naked, their bodies pressed together except where the bunched sheet separated them. Right now, they were man and wife.

“Just kiss me, Mac,” she whispered.

“This is not what I want.”

Isabella widened her eyes, trying to keep her voice light. “Goodness, you truly have embraced abstinence.”

His smile could have melted the hardiest ice floe. “Oh, no, my dear, I want you. I want to couple with you for hours on end. Days. Weeks. But I don’t want this and nothing more.”

Isabella touched his sandpaper whiskers on his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning. “You said that before. But you want everything, all at once. Can we not simply take things as they come?”

“I’m very close to coming at this point.”

She laughed, and his brows drew together.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t laugh and look so beautiful.”

Isabella laughed still more.

“Hell.”

Mac stood and lifted her into his arms. “This chaise is a damned bloody nuisance.”

Isabella noticed he didn’t ask her to go downstairs with him to his bed or hers—she knew that by the time they rose and adjusted their clothing and descended the stairs, they might come to their senses.

Isabella didn’t want to come to her senses. Not yet.

Mac laid himself on the backless chaise and pulled Isabella onto his lap. Holding her in his strong arms, Mac brushed warm kisses to her throat, moving his skilled mouth between her breasts. His hair tickled her chin, and she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He held her securely across his thighs, the blunt hardness of his erection pressing her bottom. As he kissed her, Mac slid his fingers between her legs and smiled broadly when his thumb sank into wetness.

“You’re ready, Isabella, never doubt that.”

“I know.”

“I might die on the spot if I don’t have you,” he said.

Isabella turned in his arms, moving to straddle him, her legs spreading wide over the chaise. “I don’t know if I can,” she said worriedly. “It’s been a long time.”

“It is not something you forget, love.”

Her sudden panic dismayed her. She’d thought she’d moved beyond this. But Mac hadn’t touched her since she’d pushed him away after her miscarriage nearly four years ago now. He’d never insisted, never cajoled, but as the months had drifted by, she’d watched the anger build in his eyes. Isabella had longed to go to him, to comfort both of them, but her fear had not let her.

Now Mac held her gaze. “If you want to stop . . .”

Those were the most generous words he’d ever given her. Isabella knew Mac could barely contain himself, but even now, he was willing to not press her, to walk away if she wanted it.

She lay her hands against his cheeks and gave him a long kiss. “I don’t wish to stop,” she said. “I want this.”

Mac’s eyes darkened, black spreading through copper. He kissed her as he pressed fingers to her opening again, and then she felt the hard bluntness of his tip.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded, still nervous. Mac kissed her as he slowly eased her onto him, holding her hips as he entered her. Her eyes widened, the feeling of him inside her at once strange and wonderfully familiar.

“You’re so tight,” Mac whispered. “Why are you so damn tight?”

“Because I’ve been living like a nun.”

“I’ve been living like a monk. I think we just broke all our vows.”

Isabella laughed, then drew in a sharp breath as she settled onto his full length.

It did not hurt at all. Isabella smiled in joy and relief. He was a tight fit, but she was so slippery he slid in without strain. It was beautiful.

So long since they’d joined, and yet Isabella remembered the exact way he felt inside her, as she had from the very first night. He’d imprinted himself on her that long-ago night, and her body had never forgotten.

Mac raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it from the knot until it flowed loose down her back. “I belong here,” he murmured.

Yes.

Mac stroked her with gentle hands, and she began to rock on him, the feeling of him inside her blotting out all other thought.

“I love you,” Isabella heard herself say.

“I love you, my Isabella. I’ve never stopped loving you, not for one single second.”

The room quieted but for the sound of their breathing as they moved against each other, noises of pleasure, the chaise creaking a little.

Mac was right; he belonged inside her. They fit together so well, each having learned the other by heart. Memories of so many nights with him rose in her mind—Mac’s firm body pushing her into the mattress, his hands all over her, his hot mouth arousing her again and again. Loving with Mac could be turbulent and exciting, and then it could be slow and hot, as it was this sunny morning in his studio.

Her skin was warm all over, from the stove and Mac’s hands. He studied her with half-closed eyes, his face relaxed in pleasure, a sinful smile on his mouth.

“Scandalous debutante,” he said. “With her legs around a wicked lord.”

“A loving lord.”

“Never doubt that,” he said. “But still a wicked lord, very wicked. Wanton minx.”

“I was seduced.”

“A likely excuse. You were seduced by this?” He pushed into her a little harder. Isabella gasped with pleasure. “What about this?” Another thrust, this one harder, as he grasped her hips and expertly drove up into her.

“Yes. Mac, yes.”

He broke off, his face twisting. “Ah, damn it, not yet.”

He started shuddering, and sweat filmed his skin. Mac thrust his fingers to where they joined, playing, rubbing, teasing her toward climax. Isabella already felt stretched and hot, but his touch sent her into a frenzy. The friction rippled joy through her body, and her voice rang in the big, bright room.

Mac’s breathing was hoarse, his arms supporting her with a firm strength. He thrust into her and she arched back, pulling him deeper, deeper.

Her climax swept her into a river of darkness, and when she opened her eyes, Mac was watching her, his face soft, laughing.

“You are beautiful,” he rasped. “My love, my joy. You are so beautiful.”

Isabella kissed his hot mouth as he pulled her down to him. He lay back on the chaise and gathered her on top of him. They were still joined, Mac as hard as he’d been when they started. And he kept laughing.

They wound down together, the coals in the stove hissing as they burned, warming the room like summer sunshine. It was doubly warm on top of Mac, who was finer than any mattress she’d ever lay on.

Mac drew his finger across her cheekbone. “I’ve rubbed charcoal pencil all over you. It must have been on my fingers.”

Isabella gave him a smile. “I’m used to it.”

“I always adored seeing you covered in charcoal pencil.”

“Or smeared with paint?” Sometime Mac would turn a wild session of painting into a fury of lovemaking if he and Isabella happened to be alone in the studio.

“I liked that best of all,” she said.

She hadn’t felt this contented, this eased, in a long, long time. The love was there; it rose up out of him and embraced her.

“We’re good together,” Mac rumbled beneath her ear. “Every gossip sheet in the country talked about our marriage, but they never knew how truly good it was.”

“The newspapers printed such rubbish.” Isabella kissed his cheek, loving the taste of his whiskers.

He chuckled. “I especially liked the one that speculated that I took a wrong turn and ended up in Rome instead of at our soiree.”

“That was my fault. When I was constantly pestered about where you’d got to that night, I told all and sundry you must have lost your way home. I remember being quite annoyed.”

“At me?”

“At them. It was none of their bloody business where you were. Only yours and mine.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he said softly.

Isabella wriggled her hips, feeling Mac rock-hard inside her. “You certainly are.”

A warm sound issued from his throat. “Here to stay. For always.”

“That would grow uncomfortable in this position, even for you.”

“I don’t know.” Mac kissed her lips. “I like it here.”

Isabella started to answer, but Mac pushed one slow thrust inside her, and Isabella’s words died into pleasure. He had always done that, made her pliant and sleepy, then surprised her with a burst of lovemaking so wild they ended up exhausted and sore. He’d leave her breathless, hot, laughing, and well pleasured.

He did it again. By the time they climaxed together a second time, they were on the floor, Isabella still on Mac, the red brocade drape ripped from its hanging and tumbling around them. Mac laughed, his voice low, and then his eyes grew dark, as they did when he was about to release. Mac’s hands roved Isabella’s sweat-slick body, the odors of lovemaking mingling with that of paint. Oil paint was Mac’s smell—she couldn’t catch a whiff of it without being plunged into memories of him.

Mac gathered her against him as they quieted, both trying to catch their breath. They lay without talking for a long time, while the sun rose higher outside the long windows.

“Mac,” Isabella murmured. “What happened to us?”

Mac smoothed her hair with his palm. “You married a Mackenzie. You must have been mad to do that.”

“But I wasn’t.” Isabella raised her head, looked down at his strong face. “I knew it was the right thing to do. I’ve never doubted that.”

“It was a damn fool thing for me to do. I couldn’t resist teasing the little debutante in white, but should have left you the hell alone.”

“But I am glad you did not. I knew what sort of man my parents wanted me to marry—my father had picked out three likely gentlemen already. They thought I didn’t know, but I did. When you whispered to me on the terrace that you didn’t think I’d have the courage to elope with you, I saw my escape, and I took it.”

“Escape?” Mac’s brows drew together. “I was your escape? Isabella, you wound me.”

“I chose you, Mac. Not for your riches—Miss Pringle emphasized that money is no reason for a lady to marry; the richest husband can be stingy and make you miserable.”

Mac’s scowl deepened. “Miss Pringle ought to have been a preacher.”

“She did sermonize, rather. But she wasn’t wrong.”

“Were you thinking of the moral Miss Pringle when you decided to run away from your family and live in scandal with me?”

“We didn’t live in scandal; we married.” Isabella traced his lips. “If a bit improperly.”

“Nothing improper about it. I made damn sure it was a legal marriage, because I knew your father would come sniffing around, trying to annul it.”

“Poor Papa. I dashed all his hopes. It made me unhappy to do it, but if I had to choose all over again . . .” She looked straight into Mac’s eyes. “I would do the same.”

Isabella saw his confusion, his hope, his sadness. “I ruined your life.”

“Do not be such a martyr. Do you know why I agreed to marry you, Mac Mackenzie? I’d never met you, but I did know about you—everyone talks about your family. I’d heard all about Ian in that horrid asylum and about Cam and Hart and their unhappy marriages, and about you painting naked women in Paris.”

Mac’s eyes widened, copper outlined with black. “Gracious, such scandal to touch a maiden’s ears.”

“I’d have to have been buried in a hole to not hear the gossip, scandalous or no.”

“Hart’s and Cam’s marriages were unfortunate, I grant, but why on earth would that make you want to marry their brother?”

“Because their wives were cared for. Elizabeth was cruel to Cameron, I know she was, but he never says a word against her. And Sarah frustrated Hart by being so timid, but he, too, never said a word. He gave up his longtime mistress to be faithful to her, no matter that Sarah was clearly afraid of him. But he took care of her to the end. Not just to hide the dirty linen, but because he cared. I saw Hart when she and the child died. He was grief-stricken, not relieved as some malicious people put about. Mrs. Palmer’s death was the last nail in the coffin. Hart is so lonely.”

Mac groaned. “Isabella, if you start making Hart barley tea and knitting him slippers, I will become ill.”

“Selfish of you. He needs looking after.”

“He is the great Duke of Kilmorgan. I need looking after.” Mac closed strong arms around her. “I am the man who had all the happiness he could handle before he went and lost it. You need to knit me slippers.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. He caught her by the back of her neck and pulled her down for a serious, long kiss. The discussion, she realized, was over.

Mac had rolled her over onto the fallen curtain, his body positioned between her legs, when someone thumped on the door. Bellamy’s gruff voice sounded through it.

“My lord?”

“Bloody hell,” Mac growled. “Go away.”

“Ye said if it were urgent . . .”

“Is the building falling down?”

“Not yet, my lord. His Grace wishes to see you.”

“Tell His Grace to lose himself, Bellamy. In a land far, far away.”

Bellamy paused, clearly unhappy. “I think ye should speak to him, my lord.”

“Blast you, man, you work for me, not my interfering brother.”

“In that case, my lord, I wish to give notice.”

Mac heaved an exasperated sigh. The brothers were used to Hart summoning them peremptorily, but Isabella saw that this time, Hart might have gone too far.

“It’s all right,” she said. She ran her fingertip down Mac’s nose to his lips. “It might be important. I won’t run away.”

Mac gave her a long, intense kiss. The heat of it made her close her arms around him and nestle against him. She somehow knew that when this moment was gone, she’d never have another like it. She wasn’t certain how she knew, but the feeling gripped her and made her hold hard to Mac.

Mac himself would have stayed there, she knew, but Bellamy knocked on the door again and coughed.

“This had better be damned important,” Mac muttered as he rose from Isabella, snatched up his kilt, and made his way to the door, giving Isabella a fine view of his still-trim derriere.