sophistication. A fierce Highland warrior in the sober garb of a gentleman.
She smiled at herself for being so fanciful and then flushed as she caught the echo of her smile returned from across the table. For a second she met his glance haughtily, amber clashing with cobalt-blue. An almost tangible current of awareness crackled between them. She dropped her eyes.
“Madam?”
Mrs Bradley’s voice recalled her to her purpose. Isabella pushed all of her counters onto the table. The watching crowd craned ever closer for a better view.
The banker’s card was a six of diamonds. The carte anglaise, the winning card, was hers.
“The lady wins,” Ewan Dalgleish said softly in his husky Scottish burr, pushing her counters back towards her and adding the same amount again from his own supply. He had just lost a fabulous amount, yet it seemed he was content to do so. A quirk of his mouth, a quizzical eyebrow formed the unspoken question.
Isabella took a deep breath and returned the entire total to the table, raising an audible gasp from the audience. It took all her courage, such a fortune as she had before her, but it would not yet suffice. Coming up short was not an option. A life depended upon it. Heedless now of everything but the game Isabellaclenched her hands together. One more turn of the cards. Just this one.
Ewan did not take his eyes from her. Her face was a mask of concentration, her eyes focused on Mrs Bradley’s hand, which rested on the dealing box. Whatever she was playing for, it was not the thrill of it. He was conscious that a part of him wanted her luck to hold, no matter that he would be the poorer by thousands.
The cards were dealt and the colour drained from Isabella’s face as they landed face up on the baize. A small sound, like steam escaping from a pot, hissed round the table.
She had not even a stake left with which to continue. Blindly, Isabella got to her feet. The gilded chair on which she had been seated fell backwards. The lace at her elbow had become entangled with her fan. Her gloves…where were her gloves?
Suddenly, he was there in front of her, handing her the gloves and her wrap. He took her arm firmly. “Come with me.”
“No, no, I…”
But it was to no avail. A strong hand guided her away from the curious faces of the onlookers. She was propelled out of the crowded room and into an unoccupied one across the passageway.
Ewan closed the door behind him and pressed her onto a chair by the fire. A glass of fiery spirit the same colour as his eyes was handed to her. “Drink this,” he said firmly.
Isabella drank. The brandy made her gasp, but italso revived her spirits. She took another gulp.
“Slowly, take your time.”
The amusement in his voice served to rile her. Defiantly, she drained the glass. “What does it matter if I’m drunk? You’ve already made me penniless.”
“It was your choice to play so high, not mine,” he said pointedly. “If you are now penniless, you have no-one but yourself to blame.”
The truth of the remark hit her like a deluge of ice-cold water. Isabella slumped back in the chair. What had seemed, when she started out tonight, like an inspired solution to her problems, had left her worse off than before, for now she did not even have her pearls.
“You are right. I beg your pardon,” she said, shakily placing the empty glass down on a side table. “You are the winner, and I the loser.” She rose to leave.
“You don’t have to be.” It was a crazy notion, but he felt fate had sent her to him. He could see his own concealed desperation reflected in her beautiful eyes. And something else. Defiance in the face of defeat. He recognised that, too, from the battlefield. Unusual in a woman. Admirable. And very, very desirable. Like a call to arms.
Isabella eyed him uncertainly. “I’ve already given you all my winnings. I have nothing else to offer.”
He towered over her. There was an animal grace in the way he moved. She was
She smiled at herself for being so fanciful and then flushed as she caught the echo of her smile returned from across the table. For a second she met his glance haughtily, amber clashing with cobalt-blue. An almost tangible current of awareness crackled between them. She dropped her eyes.
“Madam?”
Mrs Bradley’s voice recalled her to her purpose. Isabella pushed all of her counters onto the table. The watching crowd craned ever closer for a better view.
The banker’s card was a six of diamonds. The carte anglaise, the winning card, was hers.
“The lady wins,” Ewan Dalgleish said softly in his husky Scottish burr, pushing her counters back towards her and adding the same amount again from his own supply. He had just lost a fabulous amount, yet it seemed he was content to do so. A quirk of his mouth, a quizzical eyebrow formed the unspoken question.
Isabella took a deep breath and returned the entire total to the table, raising an audible gasp from the audience. It took all her courage, such a fortune as she had before her, but it would not yet suffice. Coming up short was not an option. A life depended upon it. Heedless now of everything but the game Isabellaclenched her hands together. One more turn of the cards. Just this one.
Ewan did not take his eyes from her. Her face was a mask of concentration, her eyes focused on Mrs Bradley’s hand, which rested on the dealing box. Whatever she was playing for, it was not the thrill of it. He was conscious that a part of him wanted her luck to hold, no matter that he would be the poorer by thousands.
The cards were dealt and the colour drained from Isabella’s face as they landed face up on the baize. A small sound, like steam escaping from a pot, hissed round the table.
She had not even a stake left with which to continue. Blindly, Isabella got to her feet. The gilded chair on which she had been seated fell backwards. The lace at her elbow had become entangled with her fan. Her gloves…where were her gloves?
Suddenly, he was there in front of her, handing her the gloves and her wrap. He took her arm firmly. “Come with me.”
“No, no, I…”
But it was to no avail. A strong hand guided her away from the curious faces of the onlookers. She was propelled out of the crowded room and into an unoccupied one across the passageway.
Ewan closed the door behind him and pressed her onto a chair by the fire. A glass of fiery spirit the same colour as his eyes was handed to her. “Drink this,” he said firmly.
Isabella drank. The brandy made her gasp, but italso revived her spirits. She took another gulp.
“Slowly, take your time.”
The amusement in his voice served to rile her. Defiantly, she drained the glass. “What does it matter if I’m drunk? You’ve already made me penniless.”
“It was your choice to play so high, not mine,” he said pointedly. “If you are now penniless, you have no-one but yourself to blame.”
The truth of the remark hit her like a deluge of ice-cold water. Isabella slumped back in the chair. What had seemed, when she started out tonight, like an inspired solution to her problems, had left her worse off than before, for now she did not even have her pearls.
“You are right. I beg your pardon,” she said, shakily placing the empty glass down on a side table. “You are the winner, and I the loser.” She rose to leave.
“You don’t have to be.” It was a crazy notion, but he felt fate had sent her to him. He could see his own concealed desperation reflected in her beautiful eyes. And something else. Defiance in the face of defeat. He recognised that, too, from the battlefield. Unusual in a woman. Admirable. And very, very desirable. Like a call to arms.
Isabella eyed him uncertainly. “I’ve already given you all my winnings. I have nothing else to offer.”
He towered over her. There was an animal grace in the way he moved. She was
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