MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  She blinked and shrank back under the intensity of his glare. "Why can't they stay here until the war is over? At least they are useful to me here."

  "That's not how it works," he stated flatly. "Where are they now?"

  "In the carriage house."

  Flinging his coat over his shoulders, he stalked past her toward the door, pistol in hand.

  In a panic, Lydia darted forward and, grasping his arm, hung on tight. "Captain, you mustn't! At least let them sleep till morning—please? They put in such a hard day's work."

  "Is that so?" His gaze, as cold as the howling blizzard outside, fell on her again. The firelight flickered over his dark features, making her afraid, as he proceeded to pry her fingers from his arm. "This is my house, madam, and I am not about to lend aid and comfort to the enemy. Are you aware that by keeping them here, you are breaking the law?"

  Lydia stuck out her chin defiantly, matching the stubborn thrust of his jaw. "I-I meant to contact the authorities. I just never found the right moment to do so."

  Suddenly noticing where his hands rested, on her bare shoulders, Bruce released her abruptly. "Do you know the consequences, if it gets bandied about that you're a Tory sympathizer?"

  "I'm no more a Tory than you!" Her eyes glittered with indignation. "I know how it looks, Captain, but they are only boys!"

  "Tell that to a group of overzealous townspeople." Leading her back to the fire, he forced her to sit. He believed her, but that didn't alter the fact that Lydia had placed herself in a devilishly tight spot.

  Already Adam Fenton knew about the deserters. Judging by the man's current mood, it wouldn't surprise him if a vigilance committee came knocking, clamoring for justice and eager to make a public example of her. The sooner he rounded up these sailors of hers and delivered them to General Burbeck or the Colonel the better.

  He struck a match and lit the lamp on the mantel. The room softly aglow, he stared down at her, wondering what action to take. The pulse in her neck was tripping like the heartbeat of a wild thing caught in a snare.

  She lowered her gaze to where her fingers twisted the sash on her nightgown. "I've rather made a mess of it, haven't I?" she admitted, barely audible.

  "I doubt you and those English lads will enjoy being dragged from your beds and hauled before the magistrate." An exaggeration to convince her of the seriousness of her actions.

  "And Mr. Fenton will have his revenge, won't he?" she mused.

  "Revenge?" he echoed softly.

  Lydia looked up, startled, realizing she'd spoken aloud. She nodded. "He made improper advances, and when I rebuked him, he swore he'd get even."

  "He also means to implicate me, if he can."

  "Oh, but that would be so unfair! Suppose I wake the boys, explain the situation and drive them into town tonight?" she suggested, grasping at straws. "That way you won't be involved."

  "Have no fear, madam. My loyalties are well known." Not particularly concerned for his own reputation, Bruce moved to the window, where he observed the snow falling heavily in the faint moonlight. "Besides, you wouldn't get far in this storm."

  "What shall I do then?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent.

  Bruce chuckled; he wasn't that naive, to be taken in so easily. Most women were a crafty lot, and that included the enigmatic Mrs. Masters. From what Mrs. Rafferty had told him some months back, Lydia Masters tended to be a loner. Perhaps she did have something to hide. But a spy? Unlikely as it seemed, he'd be a fool to be taken in by this beautiful creature, staring up at him with her big innocent lavender-blue eyes, her hair tumbling around her shoulders—and those perfect breasts! Look at her, dammit! She made no attempt to cover herself. Could she be bombarding his senses, in hopes that he'd help her conceal British deserters?

  Drawing a shaky breath, Bruce rejected being drawn into her little game. Perhaps the widow sought to beguile him; perhaps not. Whatever the case, 'twas best to exercise caution.

  "Find a robe, Mrs. Masters," he told her in a stern tone. "With the storm, we can't go anywhere until morning." He took up a commanding position, both hands clenched behind his back. "Meanwhile we both do with some sleep. And to make certain you don't try anything, I'll take your pistol." He held out his hand imperiously.

  "Of course." Giving him a puzzled look, she handed it over without protest.

  He placed both pistols, his and hers, on the mantel. Then he picked up a straight-backed chair and angled it under the closed doorknob. Crossing back to where she sat before the fire, he pulled her to her feet, turned her around, and pointed her toward the bed.

  "Climb into bed where I can keep an eye on you," he ordered curtly.

  "That's hardly necessary, Captain. I already told you, I'm no Tory." Lydia glanced at him over her shoulder with a mixture of injured pride and pique.

  Bruce looked down at the sweetly pouting lips and accusing violet-blue eyes. The shimmering cascade of silver-blond tresses flowing over her shoulders drew his gaze down to her nipped-in waist, the swell of womanly hips, and the suggestive cleft between the luscious little cheeks of her trim derrière, all clearly visible through her sheer peignoir.

  Clearing his throat, he adopted menacingly growl. "Where your sympathies lie remains to be seen, ma'am. Now, do as I say." He gave her a gentle shove, and she moved away, regarding him uneasily.

  Damn! he thought. Whichever way she faced the result was disastrous for a man trying to maintain his equilibrium.

  Lydia defiantly hunched her shoulders, not about to budge. "If you intend to remain in this room, I prefer to sleep sitting up in a chair."

  "Dammit, woman! I'm too bloody tired to argue." In two long strides he scooped her up and deposited her none too gently on the right side of the bed. Then he walked around to the other side and lay down with all his clothes on, planting his muddy boots on her satin comforter.

  Lydia gave a cry of astonishment and fright—and yes, exhilaration. "How dare you, sir? Coming into my room and behaving like an uncouth barbarian!"

  She leapt up, only to be yanked back down. A scream died in her throat, as he threw a heavily muscled arm across her waist, pinning her to the soft mattress.

  "I've never struck a woman in my life, madam," Bruce warned, his lips to her ear. "Don't tempt me now, unless you want to be the first."

  From his tone, Lydia knew better than to move. Her heart was slamming against her ribcage, her stomach doing flip-flops. Unable to quash the strange tingle of excitement inside, she stole a quick sidelong glance. Even scowling like a thundercloud, he was incredibly handsome.

  "Ohh!" Lydia wrenched herself away from his spellbinding gaze and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what would happen if she fainted.

  "Well?" he demanded. "Are you going to lie still and behave, so I can get some sleep?"

  "This is most unseemly," she told him.

  "Aye, but needful. I've had a long, difficult day." His arm lay across her like a heavy anchor. She felt his body shift, as he made himself more comfortable, and she went stock still.

  After a pause, Lydia said hesitantly, "By your leave, Captain. I should like to snuff the lamp."

  "Do you think me a complete fool, madam? Both our pistols are on the mantel. Just let the lamp burn out."

  "It was only a thought," she admitted glumly.

  "Don't even think of moving without my permission," Bruce said and closed his eyes.

  "Not even for a call of nature?" she squeaked.

  "What?" He cracked an eye and raised his head slightly to regard her. Though she looked uncomfortable, he wasn't convinced that her question arose from any great sense of urgency.

  "Not even for that. Now go to sleep."

  "I can't sleep like this," Lydia protested, squirming.

  "Why not?"

  "For one thing, I am not used to sleeping with a man in my bed," she said softly, "and for another, there is too much light."

  "Oh, yes, I forgot. You and your husband didn't sleep together." He grinned, watching her
face redden.

  "That's none of your business!" she flared. "Take your arm off me." She tried to lift his arm, but it was as solid and immovable as a fallen log.

  "It's either this, or I shall have to tie you up," he said calmly. "Take your pick."

  "You think I'm a British spy, don't you?" Her eyes filled with tears of frustration.

  He was strangely unmoved. "Honestly I'm not sure what I think," he admitted, "but I'm not taking any chances."

  "If I promise not to move, will you take your arm off?" she asked, still pushing at his arm.

  "Woman, shut up, so I can sleep." He closed his eyes and tried to ignore her squirming.

  Finally Lydia maneuvered so that her back was toward him, but his fingers grabbed the sash around her waist, so she couldn't slip out of his grasp.

  Lydia lay waiting for his breathing to begin a regular cadence. When she was fairly certain that he slept, she slowly began to pry his big rough fingers loose from her ribbon sash. Just as she unwound the third muscled digit, his chuckle behind her made her freeze.

  His hand entwined with hers, and he rolled, pulling her close, and wrapped both arms around her. A wild shiver shot through her, as he pressed his rough beard against her cheek. "No more wiggling around, Lydia, or you may wind up under me, instead of just under my arm."

  Never had she been held so close in her life. A thrill rippled through her, both rousing and shockingly intense. She was afraid to breathe, lest he make good his threat. Yet his masculine strength and salty scent produced a heady sensation, not at all abhorrent . . .

  Desires long repressed surfaced, making her wonder . . .

  But, of course, it was out of the question! Nerves snapping, Lydia prayed he would fall asleep before she died of embarrassment or fright. She didn't know which was worse, being curled like two spoons wrapped in the black velvet of night, or the heat their two bodies generated. She knew it was an utterly wicked thought, but if it weren't for the compromising position she was in, she might even enjoy the hard length of him next to her, and his close embrace.

  Her face burning, she lay there, waiting for the lamp to burn down and swallow her up in darkness. She only hoped that, like some enchanted bird in a medieval tale, she could vanish into thin air before daybreak.

  Chapter Eight

  Lydia awakened, plagued by the oddest sensation. She could not imagine what was poking her, yet it felt like an enormous finger or rod-like object prodding her lower back. She tried to move away, only to find herself firmly wedged—

  Oh, dear Lord! Captain MacGregor! She gulped, remembering last night.

  Alarm bells were going off in her head, as she cracked open an eye and stared down at herself. Sometime during the night, his hands had moved. A shockwave swept over her, as she studied the two enormous hands gently cupping her breasts. For a long second she held her breath, permitting this indignity while she tried to figure out the best way to extricate herself.

  Maybe if she rolled toward him? No . . . That would be—oh, help!—much worse!

  Cautiously she lifted her head to spy on him over her shoulder. Thank God for small favors, he was asleep. And so she spent some time examining her captor's swarthy features and rough beard in the morning light. A faintly sensual smile played across his lips. His thick tousled hair lay on the pillow in sharp contrast to her own. At least the frown was gone, she noticed with a sigh of relief.

  As her hip received another poke through her robe, it dawned on her what part of his anatomy was most likely responsible for making her feel unhinged. Sleeping, Captain MacGregor looked harmless enough. But she was trapped. His hands held her breasts prisoner, and he was poking her with that thing! What else might he do to her in his sleep? Fighting off a rising prick of fear, Lydia slammed her elbow into his ribs, as hard as she could.

  "Wake up, Captain," she ordered crisply, delivering another punch to his midsection.

  He cracked one eye, recognized her, and smiled. His arms flexed, dragging her closer. Nearly smothered, Lydia began to kick and punch him under the covers.

  Wearily responding to her flurry of blows, he wrapped both arms tightly around her and threw a long leg over both of hers, making her struggles virtually of no effect.

  Furious, Lydia turned and bit at him, but only came up with a mouthful of woolen shirt, tasting faintly of salt brine. Her next bite went deeper, and she managed to yank his chest fur as well. This made him curse softly and slap her rump.

  "Be still, woman," he commanded, a trifle grumpy. "Has anyone ever mentioned what a violent person you are?" He held her in a vise that threatened to cut off her circulation.

  "Let me up!" she sputtered.

  He grinned, rubbing his chin whiskers against the top of her golden curls. "What's your hurry? I still have to figure out how to save your pretty little neck."

  "I am sure we could both do a much better job of . . . thinking, if we weren't in this ridiculous position," Lydia said hotly.

  "Hush, woman. You talk too much," he said with drowsy good humor.

  "Let me go! Captain, please. . . I need to . . . uh, answer a call of nature."

  Believing her, he released her, and Lydia flew across the room to the dressing chamber and slammed the door behind her.

  Bruce relaxed in bed a few minutes, but when she didn't return in a reasonable amount of time, he rose and walked to the dressing room. Knocking, he received no answer. And the door was locked. Clearly she had made her escape through the connecting bedroom on the other side.

  "Damnation!" he swore softly and, arming himself with both pistols, headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard Brun barking animatedly at the back of the house. Following the sound to the kitchen, Bruce found Lydia pumping water into a tea kettle as if her very life depended upon this simple act to save her.

  A fire crackled on the hearth, as she turned and greeted him casually. Nothing in her manner betrayed the fact that they'd shared a bed the night before. "Good morning, Captain." She breezed past him, placed the kettle on the metal arm suspended over the fire, and gave his black beard a fleeting glance. "Will you be needing water for shaving?"

  "I left my shaving gear and clothes on board ship." With a shrug, Bruce moved toward the window to see what Brun was barking at. Three lads, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, were shoveling snow off the path between the carriage house and the kitchen.

  "Your prisoners?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows. "Do they know I'm here?"

  "Yes, they're my prisoners, and, no, they don't know about you. Take a look, Captain. Do they seem like a threat to the American war effort?"

  "I've seen lads their age on the business end of a musket. But even if they're as harmless as you claim, you should have informed Colonel Rathbun. Now there will be hell to pay."

  He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to restore a semblance of order, while he watched the trio pelt each other with snowballs. Intermittently they left their play to attack waist-high drifts with their shovels. Snow flurries were swirling in the air, so likely there'd be more snow before the storm died out.

  "Coffee or tea?" she asked, being the ever efficient housekeeper.

  "Coffee, if you have it."

  "Certainly. And while I prepare breakfast, perhaps you could give the boys a hand?"

  "They seem to have the job under control," Bruce said, content to remain in her warm cheery kitchen.

  "Suit yourself." Making a point of ignoring him, Lydia busied herself with mixing bowls and spoons, always careful to keep the kitchen table between then.

  Bruce smiled at her skittishness. Baiting her to see what she would do, he deliberately puttered, placing himself in her way, so that everywhere she turned, she ran into him.

  Finally she pulled out a chair. "Please be seated, Captain. Otherwise I shan't get a thing done," she said, her rosy cheeks looking flustered.

  "Just tryin' to help." He chuckled, watching her beat up a batch of biscuits with unusual vehemence.

  Actually Lydia was in the throe
s of a major crisis. It was all she could do to ignore Captain MacGrergor, lounging with his elbows on the table, especially after such a harrowing night. Wait till she saw Mr. Harris, she thought. That conniving little man! Why, he had practically tricked her into accepting employment in this man's house!

  If he hadn't looked so surprised when he walked into her bedroom last night, she might be tempted to think that Bruce MacGregor had a hand in it, too. She had half a mind to give him a knock on the head with her rolling pin, on the outside chance she was right! Too bad he was so handsome. Lydia uttered a shaky sigh and, looking up from her work, found his warm brown eyes smiling at her. Even with that scruffy beard, he made her heart throb painfully.

  Waiting for breakfast, Bruce glanced about the room, taking note of all her improvements. "I'm impressed by the changes you've made," he said. "Installing the kitchen pump was a stroke of genius."

  "It saves unnecessary steps," she said, blushing at his compliment. "I also had a water line run upstairs." She avoided eye contact, as she stirred oatmeal with one hand and reached for the tea kettle with the other. As she poured hot water into a teapot, their eyes met. "Oh! You prefer coffee." She set aside the pot and hightailed it into the pantry to get coffee beans.

  Intrigued, Bruce followed, only to stop in amazement. Where deep shelves and clumsy barrels had stood before, she had installed an impressive storage system. "I should hire you to design storage compartments for my ship," he said, coming up behind her.

  Lydia spun around, clutching her heart. He stood extremely close, slightly stooped to avoid bumping his head on the low pantry ceiling. Like a furtive mouse being stalked by a giant black cat, she slipped past him. "Excuse me," she whispered.

  Rushing to her coffee grinder, she cranked the handle vigorously. She measured the fragrant ground nut into the coffee pot, added water, and left it to steep on the hob.

  As the standing clock chimed six o'clock, she smiled to herself, relieved. Despite the distraction of having Captain MacGregor under foot, she was right on schedule.