A Lord for the Lass

by Amalie Howard

  She’d fallen asleep, her head lolling back against his chest and collarbone, her back curved against his stomach, her buttocks pressed tight against his thighs. God, he couldn’t get the image of that luscious backside from his mind, and with every rocking step of the horse, he felt the rub of it. Had the infuriating woman been sober and awake, he might not have been able to wait for an hour before halting his horse alongside a stream for a rest.

  As he dismounted, Makenna made a few waking groans. Julien helped her to the ground, propping her up against a fallen tree trunk next to the water.

  “Where are we?” she asked, her lashes parting, one of her slim hands pressing at her temple. Julien shook his head, knowing exactly the kind of throb too much ale in too little time produced. The cap she’d been wearing had fallen to her shoulders, and her braided hair, streaked with mud, made her look unusually girlish and feral.

  “At a safe distance from the village. We haven’t been followed,” Julien said, his bottled fury rising into a froth. “Makenna, what in hell were you thinking?”

  “I shouldnae have had so much ale,” she moaned, closing her eyes again and leaning back against the tree trunk, its roots pulled up from the muddy banking.

  “I don’t mean the ale, and you know it.” He uncapped his waterskin and wrapped her limp fingers around it. “Drink.”

  She obeyed, rinsing her mouth and then drinking deeply. Julien’s eyes paid far too much attention to her throat as she swallowed the water, rivulets streaming from her lips, down her chin and into the hollow of her throat. He wanted to set his mouth to her skin and lick them almost as much as he wanted to wrap his fingers around her shoulders and rattle some sense into her.

  “Thank ye. I feel better,” she said, handing him the empty skin. He refilled and capped it, his stare never leaving hers. She was dazed, he could see it in the glassy sheen of her eyes, but the hour-long nap and water would have helped. Her gaze dipped to his shirt and tartan sash, and then lower, to his kilt.

  She’d licked her lips in the tavern, and Julien had hissed a warning, knowing that if any man saw her pink tongue darting out along her full lips, no amount of dirt on her face, or her bound breasts, would matter. It was an intrinsically feminine action, one that made men’s groins throb in answer. Now, that tongue danced along her lower lip again, and Julien had to restrain himself from leaning forward and closing his mouth over hers.

  “Ye look good in a kilt,” she said, her voice breathy, either from being intoxicated or from the pull of desire.

  “I found it in a trunk in my bedchamber, one of many left behind by the Duke of Craig,” he replied. “Although, clearly, the duke was a little shorter than I.”

  Makenna chuckled, her husky laughter only making him harder. “Aye, but ye’ve fine knees, my lord.” She craned her head, her eyes searching the hem of his kilt, and bit her lip. A devious little smile curled her lips. “Ye ken the saying that true Highlanders dunnae wear anything beneath their kilts. Are ye?”

  “Is that so?” he asked, determined not to enjoy this playful side of her. “You have experience looking up men’s kilts, Lady Makenna?”

  She blushed. “Nae, but my brothers Finlay and Evan always took great pleasure in exposing their bare arses to anyone who would look.”

  “When they were boys?”

  Makenna laughed, the sound like soft music. “Barely a year ago.”

  “Ah, yes. I seem to recall that display,” he replied, reminded of Aisla’s wedding last year, when Finlay and Evan had aired themselves out for all the guests to see.

  He crouched before her, careful to angle himself so she would not get an eyeful. Though, in her current loose-brained state, she very well might have preferred it.

  “I’d invite you to find out for yourself, but you’re utterly foxed, and whether you believe it or not, I have my standards—I don’t take advantage of drunk women.”

  “I’m no’ drunk,” she protested and then scowled. “Ye shouldnae have followed me.”

  His anger returned in full force.

  “No, you’re just a bloody fool. Do you have any idea how hazardous this was? You could have been noticed. You could have been dragged off to that brute of a laird and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop it, to stop him from whatever it is he wants with you. God damn it, Makenna, if he’d gotten ahold of you…” He couldn’t finish his thought. His mind rebelled against it, and his breathing notched.

  “I took precautions,” she said. “Nobody kenned me.”

  “Not enough. And you got tippled on top of it.”

  “That was a mistake,” she admitted. “But I was nervous. I wanted to keep my face down while I listened to the others in the tavern, and putting my nose in a mug of ale seemed the best way.” Her eyes flashed with rancor. “And then ye came and goaded me, so ye also have yerself to blame as well.”

  Julien stood up, out of his crouch, his legs sore from the brutal pace he’d kept on his ride to the Brodie and the tense escape with Makenna practically in his lap. Not that he’d ever complain about having her in his lap, in any situation, even the current one.

  “What did you hope to gain?” he asked, not acknowledging the fact or the hint of guilt that she’d consumed more ale because of him. He handed her the water skin. “Drink it all.”

  She did as ordered and shrugged one shoulder, the motion jerky. “I needed to ken if he kenned where I was. If he was sending men to try to harm me. None of it makes sense, though. Even if he does have a spy watching me, why would he send out an order to harm me if all he truly wants is…well…”

  Julien recalled what the man in the tavern had said and propped a brow. “Your golden treasure?”

  “Dunnae be coy.” Makenna’s eyes sharpened with a touch of sobriety. “Maybe he’s changed his mind and would just rather me dead now.”

  Julien doubted it. He knew nothing about Colin, but from all he’d learned from her so far, he’d coveted his cousin’s wife for far too long to want her to die before he’d had the chance to satisfy himself.

  “Tell me about Colin,” he said, turning to hitch his mount to a tree once both horses had drank their fill at the stream. He refilled the skin after urging her to drink the rest and replenish the fluids she’d lost.

  “I dunnae ken him well,” Makenna said. “I’ve never conversed with him much. Our interactions were limited, mostly because Graeme did no’ like it when other men spoke to me, or when I spoke to them. But Colin didnae need words when he used his eyes the way he did. Or when he’d step too close and corner me, and then he’d use his hands.”

  A shiver shook her shoulders. Clenching his jaw, Julien recalled how she’d said Colin had tried to force himself on her, but had not succeeded. He wondered what had stopped him. Makenna? How had she been able to fend him off?

  “Is he a fighter?” Julien bit out, used to the anger that always filled him at the thought of Makenna at any man’s mercy. He felt the weight of his claymore against his back, where it was sheathed in the back brace. It had given him a sense of security back at the tavern, and here in these woods, and he wanted to know what the bastard might be like as an adversary should he come face-to-face with him.

  “Colin’s been pampered, but aye, he kens how to fight. And no’ honorably.”

  “What would you have done, if he’d found you today?” He sank into a crouch again, coming to her eye level. She no longer looked frail or foxed. The brightness in her eyes was due to determined rage, not ale.

  Shifting the tartan folds aside, Makenna reached for the trews beneath, and hitched up the hem. She didn’t stop until her shapely ankle and calf, encased in woolen stocking, were exposed. There, at her ankle, was a dagger sheathed in a leather brace.

  “I would have aimed for his softer parts,” she replied, a slight snarl in her voice.

  She kept her fingers bundled in her trews, her lower leg still on display. Julien’s fingers touched the dagger. The steel was warm, the blade glinting in the dappled sunlig
ht coming through the canopy.

  “You’re a formidable woman,” he said, “but I cannot breathe when I imagine you in such a dangerous situation. This morning, all morning as I rode to find you, I nearly lost my mind with worry. Makenna…” His fingers traveled off the blade of the dagger and around the curve of her ankle. “I vowed to keep you safe. How can I do that when you disappear? When you choose to keep me in the dark?”

  “I…I sensed ye would tie me to my bedposts if ye kenned my plan.”

  He palmed her muscled calf, his pulse spiking at the mention of rope and bedposts. Dieu, the things those innocent words did to him!

  “Does that sound so awful?” he heard himself asking, his hand sliding up of its own accord, needing to feel more of her leg. Something else crept in on the frayed edges of his anger as his fingers worked past her knee, over soft fabric.

  The forest was humid, the chill rising off the languid stream not enough to cool either of them. And when his fingers grazed up to the back of her thigh, Makenna’s breath hitched, a bead of sweat glistening on her perfectly formed upper lip.

  “I dunnae like rope,” she said, barely able to speak above a whisper.

  He froze. Bloody fool. Of course she wouldn’t. Once again, he wanted to pummel a man who was already dead and in the ground.

  “I’m sorry. No rope.” He started to drag his hand away, but she stopped him, her own hand coming down over his, the clutch of her fingers stalling him.

  “I didnae mean to make ye worry,” she said, her hand still holding his firm against her thigh. As she slowly pulled her hand away, he knew what she wanted. His touch. Him. Unable to deny her, Julien spread his fingers and reached higher.

  “Julien,” she gasped. Was that an invitation? Or a plea to stop?

  Impossibly blue eyes fastened to his, the longing in them clear. Invitation, then.

  With a sigh of relief, he traced the firm shape of her upper thighs, his fingers brushing closer to the inner seam of her legs. His breath caught in his throat. He could feel her heat emanating through the fabric. God, what would her skin feel like beneath the trews? It would be scorchingly hot. And so, so soft. A moan escaped her lips as his fingertips crept closer to their goal. Makenna’s legs slackened and fell apart in complete surrender, making every male instinct in his body roar to life.

  Even through her trousers, Julien ached to touch the very heart of her. Beneath them, he knew she’d be wet and ready for him. Her arousal was that potent, blatantly obvious in her dilated pupils and quickened breaths. Julien wanted nothing more than to please her, make her writhe and moan, and throw back her head in complete abandon. But they were not yet safe. These were still Brodie lands. And as clearheaded as she seemed to be, Makenna could still be befuddled by the ale. He was already clinging to honor by a slim enough thread. Either way, he had to get them to safety.

  “Not here,” he said in a hoarse voice. “We need to leave.”

  Julien loosed his fingers and withdrew his hand from her leg, this time without interruption. He stood up. There could be no concealing his desire for her, and her blue eyes went dark and wide when she saw the bulge under his kilt.

  He helped her to stand. “Do you think you can ride on your own?”

  Julien wasn’t at all certain he wouldn’t spend himself if Makenna’s soft bottom rubbed and pushed against him now. She only nodded, untying her horse from his and mounting with a little more effort than usual.

  They rode in silence for the next few hours, Makenna taking the lead several times when she recognized a place where sentries were usually posted. The humidity of the day brought bruised storm clouds overhead, and by the time they’d made their way out of Brodie lands, their horses’ hooves galloped with a thundering that matched the rumbles in the sky.

  The pair of them were soaked through when the towers of Duncraigh Castle finally appeared on the horizon. It was dusk by then, the storm having brought in a mist that hung low to the ground, but their mounts must have been spotted as they rode over the nearby hills. A groom was waiting to take their horses to the stables, and Tildy was in the castle’s open entryway, her expression dark.

  “Milady!” she cried, rushing into the rain to put the blanket she held around Makenna’s shoulders. “Where have ye been all day? I feared ye had been taken!”

  Julien followed them inside the castle, his wet clothing instantly turning cold.

  “I’m sorry, Tildy, I…” Makenna paused. “There was an ewe I wanted to check on. I stayed to help it through a difficult birth.”

  Her maid frowned. “All day, milady? Why did ye no’ come back for help?”

  Makenna looked to Julien. “Help came to me. Lord Leclerc found me and stayed.”

  Tildy did not look convinced in the least, and Julien wondered why Makenna was bothering to lie. Unless she was ashamed of her risky jaunt into enemy lands and knew her maid would be as angry as he’d been. Though, Makenna hadn’t seemed ashamed at all when he’d found her. Perhaps it had something to do with the possible spy. Servants tended to gossip, and if there was a spy at Duncraigh, she might not want Tildy passing on any information, even unintentionally.

  “But milady, why are ye wearing such clothes?” Tildy asked, eyeing the tartan and shirt hanging like wet sackcloth from Makenna’s tall frame, and the balled up dress Makenna had removed from her saddlebag after they’d dismounted.

  “Ye ken I dunnae like to get my dresses dirty with the birthings, Tildy.” She pulled her maid along toward the stairs. “Come, I need a bath, and I’d like to check in on Malcolm as well.”

  Tildy shot Julien a look, one brimming with suspicion and questions. She didn’t believe Makenna’s excuses, but she wouldn’t contradict her mistress. Perhaps she thought Julien had ravished her in the fields all afternoon before getting caught unawares by the thunderstorm. Then again, there was no excuse for why he was dressed head to toe in Highland garb instead of his usual stately fare.

  As if realizing the same, the maid’s eyes narrowed on him. “Why are ye dressed in a plaid?”

  “Lord Leclerc got blood from the ewe all over his pretty togs and had to borrow the farmer’s,” Makenna said quickly, tugging on Tildy’s arm. Her eyes flashed with mischief. “It was a bad trade for the poor farmer, though. Nae Highlander worth his salt would be caught dead wearing that waistcoat.”

  Julien grinned. “That’s assuming barbaric Highlanders have any idea of taste.”

  “We have exceptional taste, my lord.”

  His brow shot high with a smoldering smirk, and he was rewarded with a blush blooming along those cheekbones. Makenna glanced back once on her way upstairs, but he couldn’t read her expression. He hoped, like him, she was thinking about his hand moving up her leg, over her trews, and how much she’d wanted him to strip her bare and finish what they’d started.

  God knew he’d be thinking of it for the rest of the night.

  Julien waved off a footman, who’d approached with another blanket, and climbed the stairs. He didn’t need a blanket. He needed her. The hellion. That infuriating, heedless piece of Highland baggage who made him vacillate between yanking out his hair and bedding her senseless. Irritation and arousal seemed to go hand in hand when she was around. Julien adjusted himself for what seemed like the tenth time since the woods with a frustrated groan.

  He’d have to settle for a cold bath and a bracing whisky.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Colin’s men were coming to Duncraigh.

  And not just any clansmen—Gregor. The warrior had practically announced his intent to do so in the Brodie tavern. The following day, as Makenna rode a wide and thorough route around the perimeter of Julien’s land, she made a decision.

  It was time. She and Tildy and Malcolm had to leave. Now.

  She swallowed the knot in her throat as she finished her route along the sea cliffs and started back toward Duncraigh Castle at a brisk clip. There was no other option. Even before she’d overheard Gregor and his men talking about Duncraigh
and how it would pay to make the Frenchman there a visit, Makenna had known her time taking shelter with Julien was dwindling. The noose had been cinching tight and yet she’d selfishly stared it down, refusing to be intimidated into running away. Because she didn’t want to go.

  Didn’t want to leave Julien.

  But the reward Colin was offering for her…five hundred pounds! It was an obscene amount of money for those who had been driven from their lands and homes. It would be a chance at a new start, a new life. If she were suffering, she didn’t know if she’d be able to say no to such a promise. Colin was appealing to desperate people, tempting them into acts of violence, and all to get his hands on her.

  He was truly deranged.

  And he didn’t care who he hurt.

  Makenna would go to England, or disappear on the Continent. She could get passage for she, Tildy, and Malcolm on one of Julien’s outward-bound ships and be gone, perhaps within days. He would have extensive contacts in France, and Makenna was certain she could get work in some manor house as a lady’s companion or a governess. She was raised as a lady, after all, and was the daughter of a duke. Wealthy working-class families would pay good coin for their children to be educated by nobility.

  It was the same plan she had been sorting through for some time now, but there could be no more hesitation. No more excuses to stay.

  She couldn’t bear it if anything befell Lady Haverille because of her. Or Julien. When Gregor came knocking, if he had any inkling that a woman matching her description was there, if one footman or maid or groom let anything slip, Julien and his mother would pay the price. Makenna’s chest felt hollowed out with guilt. She’d been wrong to come here and stay as long as she had. It was time to fix her mistake.

  Her heart felt heavy as she came upon the harbor, and a head of golden hair caught her eye as a tall man strode off a ship onto the dock. As if summoned, his face turned and he locked eyes with her up on the hill. Even at that distance, she felt the caress of his stare as if he were a foot away. The ache in her chest pressed like a boulder against her ribs.