Alana turned back to the water rushing under her hands. It was easier to talk about the fire when a flame’s natural enemy was coursing through her fingers. “I understand losing a home,” she said. “A castle like Girnigoe even. Finlarig Castle is my home, but those plotting to kill King Charles decided it was a good location for an assassination and used my father’s known Covenanter status to throw us out. He was killed, and when we refused to go, the English soldiers involved in the plot set fire to it.”
She could feel Shaw’s presence behind her there on the bank, but she remained crouched, facing the water. “Ye decided to learn to throw sgian dubhs and wield your hair spike to seek revenge?” he asked. She glanced over her shoulder at him. Even in just his boots and a long tunic, he looked formidable. A frown sharpened his gaze, and his fists rested at his sides.
“No.” She shook her head, meeting his gaze. “I learned to defend myself so that the next time men picked me up to throw me into a fiery inferno, I would draw their blood.”
Without waiting for a response, she stood, walking around him with his dripping clothes to lay out on a boulder upstream. She would hang them on a limb, but if Major Dixon’s men rode this way, the clothes would be a flag, calling them over.
A long, sturdy limb sat on the mosaic of leaves, and she picked it up, leaning on it. It might hold Shaw’s weight. Thumping with it, she walked back toward him. “You can use this to help you hobble about.”
“The English traitors…they threw ye into the burning castle?”
“Yes.” She held the limb up straight near his hand so he could take it. “When they found out I was the daughter of the chief, they picked me up and threw me inside, barring the door.”
He cursed under his breath, his face hardening into the promise of death. She wondered if he donned it in battle, because it would be quite effective. She moved past him, picking up the woolen blanket he’d laid upon, shaking it of leaves and dirt.
His limp had stolen his stealth, and she heard him thump closer. So, she didn’t jump when he clasped her upper arm, gently pulling her to face him. “Were ye burned?”
“My feet and here and there,” she said. “A few scars, but nothing horrific, at least not on the outside.” She smiled but knew her eyes were sad. Nightmares and bits of memories plagued her. “And now that I know I can at least draw blood, the inside scars are healing some.”
“Mo chreach,” he said, his voice low. “And my men grabbed ye up, under my order.”
She smiled. “And you lost blood from it. It is a start.” She looked away. “Night will fall soon. I am assuming we will not have a fire, so we better make a shelter. If you tell me what to do, I will build one.”
“Alana,” he said, his voice heavy with…regret?
She blinked against the ache building again behind her eyes. She didn’t let anyone see her tears. “Yes?”
“I would not have allowed them to tie you.”
“They did not tie me. They just lifted me up and threw me inside like I was a bundle of kindling to burn.”
He shut his eyes for a second, and when they opened, she would have backed away from the death in the fierceness of his face. “I will kill them.”
“They are dead,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could.
He exhaled, still holding onto her arm. “And I meant my men. I would not have allowed them to tie ye back at the festival. I would not have thrown ye over my shoulder.”
It was her turn to tilt her head, studying him. “Yes, you would have. To save Rose.”
Her words made him inhale as if bolstering himself against them. The truth could be a heavy burden to lift. She planted hands on her hips. “Now, how do I build a shelter?”
…
Shaw watched Alana lay the blanket under the leaf-covered frame he’d helped her make with fallen limbs. Burns on her feet? Did they still pain her? Were any of the bastards who had thrown her into the inferno still alive? Questions filled his mind as he watched her stretch down on hands and knees to straighten the blanket. The panic in her face when she’d read his intent after his men walked in behind her at the Samhain festival had been the same any woman would show. Knowing now what she’d gone through before, the fact that she continued to bargain, continued to defend herself instead of just freezing in shock, showed just how much courage Alana Campbell possessed.
Despite her fussing this evening, Shaw had lifted the heavier limbs, laying them down and binding them with strips that they took off the dwindling length of her old smock. The shelter was propped against a rotted tree to cover them with leafy limbs and fallen leaves on three sides. On the fourth side, they had left an opening between the limbs for a hidden door.
Alana backed out of the lean-to, swiping her hands together after laying one of the woolen blankets on the ground. “There, small but snug for the night. And hidden so that anyone passing by should not spot us right away.” She looked at Rìgh. “Unless they see a large horse standing by it.”
“I will lead him away. I have trained him to lie on the ground when needed. He will not be spotted unless someone trips over him.”
“Good Lord. I cannot even get Robert to stay with someone else. If he sees me, he runs over, although he seems to like Mungo,” she said, her voice holding a wistful tone.
“I am sure he misses ye.”
She smiled slightly at him. “Mungo or Robert?”
Shaw wasn’t sure what to do. She was teasing him, even though he’d thrown her over his shoulder and carried her away. Could one truly forgive something like that, especially with her history?
She didn’t seem to need an answer and retrieved some mint she carried in her satchel. She walked off to finish cleaning her teeth and freshen up before settling down. He’d do the same when she returned. Shaw looked at the small shelter. Did she plan for him to share it with her or should he be making up a separate bed for himself? He could sleep next to Rìgh. The horse had kept him warm on nights before, camping in the field with nothing more than his kilt to drape over himself. But he didn’t like the idea of her being far from him alone.
He must have stood there, undecided for minutes, because Alana walked back around and froze. “Is something wrong?” she whispered, her face whipping left and then right as she peered into the darkness.
“Aye,” he said, but then shook his head. “Nay. Just tell me if the shelter is just for ye. I can sleep with Rìgh.”
In the darkness, she was a moonlit angel, her hair brushed to one side to lay over her shoulder. She still wore her traveling petticoat, another layer to keep her warm as the temperatures dipped.
“’Tis of no matter,” Shaw finally said. “I will bed down with my horse. Just promise to scream if anything disturbs ye in the night.” Using the limb as a crutch, he moved toward the stream to wash, grabbing the flask of whisky that he used to wash his teeth.
Her words came soft as he passed. “It would be warmer for me if we share the space. Body heat and only one spare blanket.”
His chest tightened with something he’d felt very seldom before. Hope.
Washing quickly, he made his way back to the lean-to where Alana already lay inside the tight quarters. He clicked to Rìgh, and the large warhorse followed him through the darkness fifty yards away, where Shaw tied him with a very long tether. “Sleep well, valiant friend,” he spoke close to the horse’s ear and made the signal, tugging gently on his halter to get him to lower his bulk down. It wasn’t natural for a healthy horse to sleep on the ground, but when hiding from bloody English soldiers, it was necessary.
Shaw approached the lean-to as quietly as the crutch allowed and lowered to crawl inside. Alana sat up, pulling the woolen blanket aside for him. With his wounded hip, he lay on his left side, facing her. “Thank ye for sharing,” he said.
“You make enough heat for two,” she said. “Are you comfortable?”
The ache in his hip and arse was nothing compared to the ache forming between his legs, as if his jack had
n’t heard that this arrangement was merely practical for keeping warm. “Aye,” he lied.
She stared at him in the darkness. Although she was in shadows, the moonlight from beyond the trees cast a bit of silver on the outside of the woven branches, giving them a little light as their eyes adjusted. He held himself on his elbow so that they were level and exhaled, running his hand through his hair. “Lass… I…” His words were slow with the heaviness of remorse, another tightening in his chest that was all too familiar.
When he didn’t go on, she leaned slightly forward. “Feel bad that you carried me off against my will? Wish that you legally owned and possessed Girnigoe? Will do anything to get it back? Including bringing Rose to St. Andrews alive and well? Which required you to abduct me? And no matter how thankful you are for me healing your arse, you would do it again? Is that what you want to say?”
The woman was courageous, strong, and highly clever. “I would likely have left off the last part about doing it again,” he said.
“But it is true, whether you left it off or not.”
He inhaled and exhaled fully. “Aye.” He lowered so that his head rested on his nearly empty satchel. “My whole life has centered around retaking the Sinclair castle…from my drunkard uncle and now from your clan.”
She stared at him, studying him. “You know something I like about you, Shaw Sinclair?”
“I have not a single guess.”
A small laugh came from her. “You are honest,” she said. “Which is something I value.”
Her words, given sincerely, formed rocks within his gut. Honest? He opened his mouth but then closed it again. He should tell her all before they reached Edinburgh, but something stopped him. What would Alana do if she knew the lengths that he had been willing to go to take his castle back?
The distance between them narrowed. Had she moved closer? Their combined heat inside the space created a comfortable nest out of the breeze. It seemed like days ago when he’d given her the gingerbread biscuit in the town square and shared a kiss under the mistletoe ball. Yet it was just that morning.
“Now my turn to tell a truth,” she said, her voice lower. She glanced down and rested her head on the rolled-up trousers she’d taken off. Her gaze turned to meet his. “This morning when I heard that musket fire…the thought of you being killed by the major…it made me feel sick.”
A slight floral scent came off Alana, and he remembered the soap that she had wrapped in her satchel. Bloody hell. His body was reacting to her nearness, her soft words, and her open stare. Blood rushed through him, and his fingers curled inward into fists to stop from reaching for her. She was beautiful and sweet, but she was a Campbell. And she would hate him.
“I am able to take care of myself,” he answered.
“But they had muskets and you had a sword. ’Tis not a fair contest.”
Shaw slid slightly closer, her siren’s voice seeming to lure him in. “Not much in this life is fair, lass. What ye have seen and lived through has surely taught ye that. We just make the best decisions we can in the moment and hope that fate falls in our favor.” Was he still talking about Major Dixon in the smithy? Of course not, but she wouldn’t know that.
He hovered over her, and she stared up into his eyes. “What decision are you about to make now?” she whispered, her hand raising up to touch his bristled cheek. Her fingers were cool and light, a caress so tentative that if he closed his eyes, he would think it a mere fancy of his imagination. Her fingertips slid to the side where a scar from his uncle’s tankard sat along his hairline. Her light touch was more powerful than a fist against him, flooding him with need and desire. He held still, firm discipline his only defense against her.
“Alana,” he said, and she moved closer, her lush curves pressing against him. There, alone in the darkness, surrounded by warmth and her sweet scent, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been shot through with holes; he felt no pain, no aches, only need.
Her cool fingertip moved down his cheek to slide over his bottom lip as she explored the contours of his face. “There is a best decision right here before you,” she said, and he detected the slightest tremble in her touch. “And the best answer is…yes.”
Chapter Eleven
Alana leaned into Shaw, her heart thumping hard in her chest. She had never tried to seduce a man before and had only experienced two awkward kisses from boys growing up. A part of her, which sounded very much like her mother, asked her what, by the eternal flames of hell, she was doing. But as her lips pressed against Shaw, and his arms came up around her, the wave of passion that had been a persistent but controllable stream all day smothered the little voice.
She sunk against him, drawn by his warmth and strength. His hand slid down her back, sending tingles along her spine, and the pool of heat in her abdomen ached with her stillness, urging her to move against him. The fire that burned within her was the kind she didn’t fear; in fact the feel of it pushed all her fears away. In the silent darkness, warmed by their combined body heat, unseen by anyone who might judge her actions, Shaw was not a Sinclair and she was not a Campbell. He was just a man, a brawny, handsome, fierce warrior of a man. She’d been drawn to him ever since he carried her over the river, throwing her and the baby to safety while he charged back across to stop the soldiers from following.
They breathed into one another, their mouths sliding together as she tilted her face to his. Her fingers curled into his tunic as if to hold him there. Shaw Sinclair. Not her enemy, even though he was hated by the Campbells as decreed by his birth. The danger and heroism of his actions had tugged at her heart, but it was the heat that welled up in her as she kissed him that urged her hips forward.
“Alana,” he said against her mouth.
“Shaw,” she replied, meeting his kiss over and over. Good Lord. He tasted of whisky and sin, and she couldn’t get enough.
She worked her fingers down his chest to slide under his tunic and up the fine planes of his stomach, the muscles defined through constant training and warfare. Solid and smooth, his chest was sprinkled with fine hair. With her eyes closed, she felt his hands cup her face as he kissed her with fierceness, the two of them growing wild against each other.
Shifting her leg, she instantly felt his hardness through her petticoat. She remembered the brief view she’d gotten by the stream, and although large before, what she felt now was even larger. Without her trousers and without his kilt, only her skirt and smock stood between them. Pulling one hand out of his shirt, Alana plucked at the knot of her corset, which tied in front. It was a simple matter of moving her shoulders forward and back to bring down the lace edge of her smock, and her breasts swelled out of the top.
Her nipples, peaked and sensitive, slid against Shaw’s shirt. He pulled back slightly, and she opened her eyes. The moonlight shining through the leaves of their shelter fell as shards of light cutting into the shadows. Between the two of them, her pale breasts thrust upward.
“Bòidheach,” he said. “Beautiful.” He leaned in to kiss her again as one of his palms dropped to cup her. The rough pad of his thumb strummed against her nipple. The sensation pulled a low moan from her as the heat inside gathered in her pelvis. She rocked against his hardness. Leaning down, his mouth replaced his thumb on her nipple, and Alana gasped at the deliciously hot suction as he laved her, his other hand coming up to cup and plump the second breast.
Alana moaned, thrusting her chest toward his mouth. She lifted a leg to drape over him but stopped as she remembered his stitches. Instead her fingers wound back under his tunic, stroking a path up his chest. As he came away to yank his tunic off over his head, the coolness of the air on her damp nipples made them pearl even more. Never before had she felt anything so exquisite as the fire Shaw was igniting within her, so primal and all consuming. His touch melted away all her concerns, making her feel free and wild. No responsibility, no worry about consequences, her mind and body focusing entirely on the feel of his skin, tongue, and lips against her own.<
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She looked down his naked length as he threaded fingers through her tumble of hair. Her breath came heavy and fast as she took in the large, jutting jack standing between them. When her gaze rose to meet his, he was watching her, judging her reaction. She wondered what her reaction should be for the space of two breaths before pressing into him.
His hard length lay heavy at the juncture of her legs, making her heart pound with a wild type of want. Her arms wrapped around his neck, making her breasts swell against his naked chest. The fine hair teased her nipples as she dragged herself up level with his face. “Kiss me, Shaw. Make me keep feeling this…this sweet torture,” she whispered.
“Aye, lass.” His mouth descended to hers. They explored and tasted, her hands beginning to stroke downward, curious to touch the heaviness between them. He kissed a path along her jaw to her ear, the heat of his breath strumming another chord of passion within her, weaving with all the others to drive her mad.
“Alana, lass,” he whispered, desire thick in his brogue. “Ye should think well on this…this happening between us.”
“Right now, I cannot think of anything,” she whispered back and caught the length of him in her hands. It was hot and heavy. A deep groan burbled up from his chest, sounding almost like a growl when she slid her wrapped fingers up and down. “Such smooth skin on such a hard beast,” she said against his lips, and the flesh at the juncture of her legs pulsed. No wonder ladies were willing to risk reputation, pregnancy, even inheritances to be with a lover. This primal heat turned all consequences to ash.
His hot mouth returned to her breast, loving first one and then the other, while her hips rubbed against him in time with her stroking hand. Shaw’s strong fingers wound a path over the bared, sensitive skin of her neck and chest, stroking and widening the ties of her stays until they completely parted, revealing her lowered smock, the scooped neckline pulled under her bosom. She wore the new smock that she’d bought from the ladies at Kinross, and his fingers slowly rucked up the bottom edge until it balled at her waist. His warm palm stroked the skin of her stomach.
The Highland Outlaw Page 15