He nodded, then set to work removing her footwear. Laird MacRaeh handled Isobel’s foot as if it were made of blown glass. He pulled her boot off with painstakingly slow movements and set it in the grass. He was so gentle with her, that Isobel forgot all about the pain momentarily and simply focused on his hands and fingers as they gingerly touched her ankle.
“Does this hurt?” he asked as he pressed lightly near the ball of her foot.
“A little,” she conceded.
He moved his fingers around her ankle deftly, probing with care. Through her stockings, Isobel could feel the warmth of his hands, and she leaned into his touch, relishing it. Her knees continued to tremble, and her breathing hitched when he moved closer so that only a few inches separated his face from hers. Her eyes locked on his mouth, and she wondered what he would say if she dared to touch his lips with as much tenderness as he examined her ankle.
“May I remove this stocking?” he asked softly.
Isobel’s whole body turned to mush. She nodded numbly. “If you think that’ll help.”
“Lay back,” he instructed as one of his hands rose and cupped the back of her head. Gently, as if he did this sort of thing all the time, Laird MacRaeh helped Isobel recline in the tall grass while holding her foot aloft, supporting the ankle so that it never touched the ground. “Are ye comfortable?”
She swallowed a lump that had risen in her throat. “I’m afraid if I say yes, you might think that I regularly let gentlemen lift my skirts and remove my stockings.”
“I daenae think that of ye, Isobel.”
Her heartbeat accelerated when he uttered her Christian name.
“And even if ye said it was true, ye had lain like this before another man, I wouldnae believe ye.” He smirked at her. “I can feel yer whole body quakin’ beneath me touch.”
“I…oh…” Humiliations galore flitted through Isobel’s insides. She was so embarrassed that she lifted her hands and buried her face in her bruised palms.
“Ahk,” he grunted. “There’s no need for that, Isobel. I havenae even removed yer stockings yet.”
Isobel peeled her hands slowly from her face, then watched as Laird MacRaeh worked one hand up her thigh, slid his finger underneath the clasps of her stockings, and freed the fabric with a flick of his wrist. Her heartbeat grew louder as he exposed one inch of her thigh, then another. By the time the stocking was pulled to her knee, Isobel was certain that the Laird must be able to hear the sound of her racing heart.
“Just a bit more,” he murmured as he tugged the stocking over her ankle, careful not to aggravate her injury by twisting the appendage. A second later, the stocking had been removed entirely and the Laird of Dunalasdair held Isobel’s foot in his hands. She panted as if they were still running a race.
“I…what now?” She could hardly formulate any words at all.
The Laird turned her ankle slowly over in his massive hands. Small worry lines continued to ring the corners of his lips as he bent closer and examined her. “Ye’ve got a lump here,” he said. “It’ll likely bruise.”
“Okay…” Isobel said slowly, waiting for him to add more.
“But…” he continued, “I daenae think ye broke the bone.”
“That is good news, right?” Absentmindedly, Isobel lifted her hand to her mouth and began nervously chewing on her thumbnail.
“Aye.” He nodded once, then lowered his head and brushed a kiss over the injured spot he’d just indicated. Isobel held very still. All the sensations that had rattled her body moments before when he peeled away her stockings paled in comparison to what she felt now when his mouth touched her bare skin.
“What…what are you doing?” Her voice came out in a tremulous gasp.
He bent forward again and brushed another gentle smooch onto her ankle. “I will kiss away yer pain, me Lady.”
Isobel gulped noisily and gnawed at her thumbnail with renewed efforts.
A slow smile covered his face then as the Laird lowered her foot to the dry grass, then reached up and took her hand away from her face. He twisted her wrist ever so slightly, then pressed his mouth to the ragged, torn thumbnail. “I kiss yer hurts, me Lady, and make them me own.”
“I…we…” Isobel wished she knew what to say but as the Laird’s gaze lingered on her and his mouth gently caressed first her thumb, then her fingertips, she found that no words would coalesce. “We should…”
“Aye,” he murmured as he took her hand and placed it atop her own knee. “We should return to the castle. If we stay here, others might come looking for us and that would be…”
He trailed off and Isobel tried to finish the statement for him. “Fortunate?”
The Laird suddenly emitted a startled bark of a laugh. “Ye want someone to find us out here…sprawled in the grass like this?”
Isobel had to resist the urge to lift her thumbnail to her mouth and chew nervously on it. “I do not wish to walk back to the castle. I am not sure I can manage it and…”