Surrender

by Pamela Clare

  “Blast it, Annie!” Iain was not far behind her now.

  She knew she could not escape him, but she did not care. She ran even faster, driven by hurt and rage and desperation. Through the outer wall she ran and toward the bateau bridge.

  Strong arms shot out, caught her, held her fast from behind. “Satan’s arse, lass! What the bloody hell has gotten into you?”

  “What has gotten into me? You’re the one who behaved like an animal.” She kicked and struggled to free herself, but her strength was no match for his.

  “Do you enjoy playin’ the coquette to Wentworth’s officers? Are you hopin’ to ensnare one? To them you’re naugh’ but a poor bonnie Highland lass, no matter how hard you try to fit in at their table. They’ll bed you, lass, but there’s no’ a one of them will take you to wife.”

  “How can you—? Oooh! Let . . . go . . . of . . . me!” Beyond fury, she redoubled her struggles. She felt him turn her in his arms and found herself pinned against his chest, looking up into angry eyes as dark as midnight.

  And then he was kissing her.

  Or she was kissing him.

  The torrent of emotion inside her became a flood of reckless need. She had to taste him, had to feel him. She fisted her hands in his long hair to pull him closer, invaded his mouth with her tongue, even as he invaded hers.

  He groaned, a deep, male sound that rumbled in his chest, then crushed her against him, lifting her off her feet. His lips were soft, hot, demanding, his body breathtakingly hard. Awareness shuddered through her, kindling her blood, setting her on fire.

  Whistles. Shouts.

  “Bend her over, Highlander!”

  Crude words, bellowed from the ramparts, pierced the fog of her desire.

  Och, I’ve no doubt you could learn, lass, and be quite skilled at it.

  Annie wrenched herself from his arms and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. “You brute!”

  His gaze hard upon her, he rubbed his cheek. “What are you after, Annie?”

  “That’s the sixth kiss you’ve stolen from me!”

  “So you’re keepin’ a tally, are you, lass?” He grinned. “Forgi’e me for sayin’ so, but it seems to me you stole that one right back. Or was that someone else’s tongue in my mouth?”

  Heat suffused her cheeks. “Ooh, you despicable swine!”

  “That’s a fine thing to call a man who saved your life.”

  “At least Lieutenant Cooke is a gentleman.”

  His eyes narrowed. “While I’m a barbarian, aye?”

  Realizing what she’d said and seeing the fury on his face, she turned and dashed onto the bateau bridge. She’d taken but a few steps when the back of her hems caught on one of the boards, then ripped, sending her hurtling into the dark, rushing water.

  The icy torrent swallowed her, cut off her scream.

  Panicked and shocked by the staggering cold, she kicked, flailed with her arms, tried to get her head above water. But the current was too strong. As if the river were a living thing, it tossed her about, dragged her to the bottom, and pushed her over stones, binding her skirts about her legs.

  She forced her panic aside, ignored the burning of her lungs, and struggled to remove the heavy weight of her skirts, determined to stay alive until Iain could help her. But when she opened her eyes, she saw only swirling darkness.

  No one can help you down here, Annie. The river is too swift, and he cannae see you.

  Strangely, the thought did not frighten her. Already her mind seemed sluggish, the world around her silent apart from the frantic thrumming of her heart. The water was cold, so cold her bones ached and her limbs grew stiff.

  Was this what it was like to die?

  With her last strength, she touched her feet to the rocky riverbed, bent her knees, and pushed off.

  Iain saw her trip and was already running toward her when the river claimed her. “Annie!”

  He drew a deep breath and plunged into the frigid water after her. He’d swum plenty of rivers and knew to expect the heart-stopping cold and the violence of the current. What he hadn’t foreseen was the utter darkness. Deprived of sunlight, the depths of the river were black as ink.

  He could see nothing.

  He surfaced, drew air into his lungs, searched around him for any sign of golden hair or pink-striped skirts. Seeing naught but rushing water, he took another deep breath and dove, letting the current push him along. She’d been in the water only seconds longer than he. Wherever the river had carried her, it would surely carry him. He searched for her until he thought his lungs would burst, but still he saw nothing.

  Fear colder than the frigid water swept through him.

  He took another deep breath and dove again.

  Annie!

  Her name was an anguished shout in his mind.

  He knew he had only moments. If panic and lack of breath hadn’t already killed her, the icy chill surely would. Even he, used to the elements as he was, could not take much more of the frigid water.

  Then something like lace brushed over the fingers of his right hand. He grabbed it in his fist and realized it was not lace but hair.

  He fought the current, kicked hard, forced himself deeper, holding fast to her long strands. And there she was, below him, sinking like a fallen angel toward the very bottom, borne down by the sodden weight of her gown.

  Live, Annie! Mother of God, let her live!

  He caught her about the waist and felt a heady rush of relief when her cold hand closed weakly and clumsily over his. She was still alive!

  With renewed strength he kicked for the surface.

  It seemed an eternity before he got their heads above water, each second bringing her closer to death. Iain gulped precious air into his lungs, heard Annie cough and gasp and cough again, the sound sweet to his ears. Aching from cold, he let the water carry them, using his free arm like a rudder and guiding them toward the river’s edge.

  His men lined the bank, and several ran out into the frigid water to help.

  “Bloody hell, Mack!”

  “I’ll be buggered! He found her!”

  “Is she breathin’?”

  Amidst the excited shouts, he heard Morgan’s voice. “I’ve got her, Iain. Come here, Annie, sweet. We’ll warm you.”

  Reluctantly, Iain released her shivering body, felt her precious weight lift from his arms. He tried to speak through chattering teeth, managed only two words. “S-sweat l-lodge.”

  “Aye. Joseph already has the fires goin’.”

  Strong arms pulled him to his feet, helped him up the sandy riverbank. He found it strangely hard to walk, his limbs rigid and clumsy, his body shaking violently. Someone put a blanket around his shoulders and thrust a flask of rum into his hands.

  Nearby, Connor shouted. “McHugh, take your boys and find out what the bloody hell tripped her! I want it fixed before someone else falls in!”

  Iain drank deeply from the flask, felt the rum burn a path to his stomach, then stumbled after Morgan toward Joseph’s camp, his gaze never leaving the sodden-striped skirts that spilled over his brother’s arm.

  “Wake up, a leannan.” It was Iain again.

  But Annie was so tired. “Let me be!”

  “If I let you sleep, you’ll die. Open your eyes, and drink.” His voice was stern, and he held something warm to her lips.

  She sipped, swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  From close beside her came a loud hissing sound, like soup boiling over onto hearthstones—once, twice, thrice, four times.

  She willed herself to open her eyes—and saw utter darkness. “Iain?”

  Strong arms held her closer. “Dinnae be afraid, lass. You’re in Joseph’s sweat lodge.”

  “I cannae see you.”

  “Nor can I see you, for the flaps are down. But there’s no more cause to fear the darkness of the lodge than there is the darkness of your mother’s womb. ’Tis here Joseph and his warriors come to pray. He is pourin’ water on heated stones to
warm us.”

  “But I am no’ cold.”

  “You’re so cold you cannae feel it, but soon you will start to shiver. Now drink. We must warm you in every way we can—and quickly.”

  Iain was right. Soon she began to shiver uncontrollably and her body to ache, as the river’s chill worked its way out of her. She moaned through chattering teeth, drank when Iain told her to drink, took comfort in his strength.

  She had no idea how much time had passed, but as she breathed in the hot, steamy air, her shivering began to subside and her mind to clear. Little by little, she became aware that Joseph was nearby singing and beating on a drum, his words in a language she could not understand. Iain was singing with him, his voice deep and warm. She sat in Iain’s lap, cradled in his arms, her head against his shoulder, the two of them wrapped in a soft, thick fur.

  They were pressed skin to skin—and they were naked.

  Perhaps it was the magic of Joseph’s song, the ancient rhythm of the drum, or the freedom of the concealing dark, but Annie did not feel afraid. As if in a dream, she lifted her hand, pressed it to Iain’s bare chest, felt his heart leap at her touch, then slid her palm over his sweat-slick skin.

  His muscles tensed, but he did not stop her, nor did his song falter.

  Emboldened, she felt the heavy planes of his chest, the flat velvet of his nipples, the soft rasp of his chest hair, her fingers bumping his little wooden cross along the way. But it wasn’t enough. As if with a mind of their own, her hands savored the iron curve of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, the healing flesh of his back.

  His breath came faster now, and he seemed to be forgetting the words. Something hard pressed against her hip—his sex.

  Had she done that to him?

  His lips caressed her temple, and he whispered. “You’ve warmed my blood, a leannan. Now ’tis my turn to warm yours.”

  She felt a flutter in her stomach at his words. Unable to see him, able only to feel, she waited, uncertain what he would do. But she did not wait long.

  Slowly, so slowly, his hand brushed over her hip, smoothed circles over her belly, stroked her rib cage, seeking out her curves and hollows. Then it moved to caress the sensitive underside of her breasts, his callused fingers drawing tingles from her skin, sending sparks skittering through her belly.

  She felt her nipples tighten as if eager for his touch and knew she desired him.

  This Highland barbarian. This Ranger. Iain.

  A loud hiss. A burst of steam against hot stone.

  He took the full weight of one breast in his hand, caught an aching nipple between his fingers, stretched it, plucked it. Something inside her clenched, as if he had plucked it, too, and honeyed heat pooled between her thighs. She moaned and pressed her breast deeper into his palm, wanting more, needing more.

  And he obliged her, molding her breasts, shaping them, brushing her nipples with his callused palm, now quickly, now slowly, until her breasts felt swollen and heavy and the bliss was unbearable. But he wasn’t finished.

  Annie felt him thrust the fur aside, exposing her bare skin to the thick, sweltrie air. Steam beaded against her breasts, ran in rivulets down her belly to her damp curls below. Then his mouth closed over one nipple, and with lips and tongue and teeth, he suckled her.

  The delight of it had her breath coming in pants. Here in the dark, in the burning heat, she reveled in it, twining her fingers through his thick, wet hair, pressing him closer, arching to feed him more of herself.

  He took what she offered, drawing her more deeply into his mouth, the tugging of his lips and tongue against her nipples a sweet torment, the heat between her thighs a throbbing ache.

  Water hit hot rocks, the loud hiss covering Annie’s whimpers.

  Then his hand skimmed across the wet skin of her belly, over her hip, down to her damp curls. He whispered in her ear. “Open for me, lass. Let me bring you release.”

  Her brand!

  Annie caught his wrist, squeezed her thighs together, and tried to pull his hand away, alarm dampening her desire. “N-nay.”

  He nuzzled her earlobe. “Uist, a leannan! I can pleasure you wi’out takin’ your innocence. You burn. I can feel it. Let me free you from this need.”

  Ignoring her grip on his wrist, he cupped her sex and pressed the heel of his hand in slow, deep circles against her woman’s mound, unleashing deep, staggering pleasure inside her. Then his mouth returned to her breast, his tongue teasing her nipples, sucking, licking, tasting.

  More water. A scorching hiss. Steam.

  Annie was lost. Her body trembled, overwhelmed with sensation. Something was building inside her—something wondrous and primal and more than a little frightening. She buried her face against the hot, damp skin of his chest, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, her breathing ragged.

  “Dinnae fight it, lass. Come for me.” His voice was husky, strained.

  She felt him part her, felt a thick finger glide gently between her slick folds to circle and stroke her most sensitive flesh. The bliss of it stunned her, and in a heartbeat, she found herself hovering on some unfamiliar and terrifying edge.

  She clung to him, tried to keep from falling, but he was relentless. His finger, slick and wet, slid over her again and again, driving her closer to the brink. For a moment the heat inside her burnt bright as gold—then it exploded. Molten ecstasy seared through her, pleasure so intense it seemed to shake her apart. But instead of falling, she was flying, up and up and up to a place beyond sunlight, beyond starlight.

  She arched in his arms, cried out. “Iain!”

  He silenced her cries with his mouth, his hand never ceasing its rhythm until she lay, astonished and quivering, against him.

  Still hard and burning with unspent passion, Iain held her trembling body, kissed her forehead, stroked her wet hair. She felt so precious in his arms, so perfect, and he thanked God, the Virgin, Jesus, and every saint who was listening—not to mention a few Muhheconneok spirits—for the miracle that had enabled him to find her in the rushing torrent. If her hair hadn’t caught upon his fingers . . .

  He didn’t want to think about that, not now when she lay alive and warm and languid in his arms. God’s blood, she was a passionate lass. She responded to his touch like the strings of a fiddle sang to the stroke of a bow. Strangely, it didn’t matter to him that he was still hard as stone. Making her come had proved more than satisfying.

  He doubted Joseph’s sweat lodge had ever been used in this way, and he wondered if his friend would be offended. He was certain Joseph had heard her cries. If his actions had been disrespectful, Iain would make amends, performing whatever labor or purification rite his Stockbridge brother demanded.

  Iain hadn’t set out to pleasure her. When they’d entered the lodge, his only thought had been to keep her alive—and to survive himself. But then the steam had warmed their blood, and she’d begun to explore him, her innocent touch more arousing than the practiced caresses of the most experienced lover. He’d found himself wanting to give her that which no man had given her before—sexual pleasure. Now, no matter what happened, he would always be the first man to have brought her to her peak. For some reason, that mattered to him.

  Joseph was singing the bear song now, the last song he would sing before ending the ceremony and opening the flaps. Iain was about to join him in the words, when she spoke.

  “I knew you would find me.” Her voice was soft like sleep.

  He wanted to confess that he had not been so certain, that for terrible long moments he’d feared her lost. But a pang of guilt assailed him. She’d been running from him. “We must teach you to swim.”

  “I tried to remove my skirts so I wouldna sink, but my fingers were clumsy from cold.”

  “Aye, I saw. You’re a clever lass, for certain, and very brave.” The thought of her alone in the raging water, struggling with her gown, waiting for help that very nearly had not reached her, made his chest ache.

  “I’m sorry I str
uck you.”

  He’d forgotten about that. “’Tis no matter. ’Twas likely I deserved it.”

  “You mocked me wi’ vile words.”

  Something twisted in his gut. He ignored it. If he’d upset her, it was for her own good. As long as she stayed at the fort, she was in danger—from Wentworth, who’d clearly taken an impure interest in her; from the soldiers, who would use her cruelly if they could; from the war, which was nowhere near its end; and most especially from him.

  He kissed her hair. “I didna mock you, Annie. I told you the truth. You dinnae belong on the frontier, and Wentworth is a damned fool and a madman if he lets you linger.”

  “I willna go to Albany. I cannae go to Albany.”

  There was a note of fear in her voice, and Iain wondered why she should dread the place. “’Tis a rough town, aye, but far safer than your sister’s cabin.”

  “I cannae go there. Please dinnae send me there.”

  “What frightens you, Annie?”

  She seemed to hesitate. “’Tis no’ safe for me. Please dinnae ask me more.”

  Galled that she did not trust him, he answered more harshly than he’d intended. “You’ll go where I deem you safe.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “I am safe here.”

  “Nay, Annie. You’re right about me. I am a barbarian. If you stay, ’tis only a matter of time before I come to your bed and steal far more than a kiss. You ken it as well as I. Aye, I can feel it in the way your heart is beatin’. If you stay here, you and I will lie together—as sure as the sun rises.”

  Chapter 19

  Annie pulled weeds from the dark soil, careful not to dislodge the delicate chamomile seedlings. Dr. Blake had set her to work in the little herb garden behind the hospital. ’Twas here he grew the herbs and other plants needed for his poultices and tinctures—at least the ones that grew in this clime. Hidden behind a high wooden fence that kept soldiers from stealing the needed plants—or trampling them underfoot—it was perhaps the only place in the fort where Annie could enjoy the sunshine away from the prying eyes of men.