Sarah Gabriel - Keeping Kate

by Keeping Kate (lit)

  She must find the pages and get away quickly. Slip­ping a hand in her skirt pocket, she touched the glass vial tucked there, which held an herbal sleeping infu­sion. She had sometimes used it in officers' drinks to protect herself from their advances.

  Slowly she opened the little vial with her fingers. A swift glance had already showed her that Ian Cameron's name was on one of the pages that Fraser was holding. Ian had been arrested indeed, and her brother and kinsmen needed to know where he was be­ing kept. Finding Cameron, Kate knew, would not only save the man. It would also prevent the government from learning his secret, which could protect the lives and the welfare of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Highland Jacobites.

  Fraser stood then, and Kate set the cup on the desk without a chance to add the herbal drops. He glanced at her in silence. Kate turned away, heart pounding, having missed the chance to dose his tea.

  Another choice remained to her, a method she had heard about but never tried. The very thought made her uneasy.

  According to MacCarran family lore, those who in­herited the gift of charm from their fairy ancestress also had the power of throwing a glamourie, a spell of enchantment that could bedazzle another, suspending awareness and even time itself.

  She had never tried it, relying only on natural-born charm and good luck. Unsure how she could even throw a spell, she did not honestly believe herself capa­ble of it, despite family legend. As a young girl she had found it hard enough to accept that she had an engag­ing effect that went beyond the ordinary. Putting that to good use to help her clan was well enough. Spellcasting was another matter entirely.

  Several years ago, when her family still lived to­gether happily at Duncrieff Castle, her grandmother and aunts had been experts on the family legends. They had cautioned Kate to cast a glamourie only if she un­derstood its power. Certainly she could never under­stand it—others in the family knew the MacCarran lore far better than she did. An old, enormous manu­script, its pages added over centuries, contained the family's fairy and magical traditions, but the thing was a daunting piece of scholarship. Kate had scarcely opened its pages.

  Besides, she felt sure that the MacCarran glamourie would never work on Fraser. The man did not seem the least bit bedazzled by her charm.

  In fact, he seemed annoyed, scowling under lowered brows as he gathered the scattered papers. Kate had rarely faced that sort of reaction from men—in fact, not since her father had once caught her looking at a book

  in his library, a collection of Italian engravings show­ing naked couples joined in all sorts of interesting posi­tions. To others, Kate could do no wrong, a quality her mother claimed did her daughter no good at all.

  While Fraser was occupied, Kate took a chance and emptied the glass vial into the fresh tea. Bitter-tasting but otherwise harmless, the herbs produced sound sleep. Finding a bowl of fine sugar, she spooned a healthy serving into the cup.

  Handing him the cup, she felt uncomfortably like a spider spinning out its web to catch its unsuspecting prey.

  He accepted it. "Thank you ... tapadh leaf," he trans­lated.

  His slight Gaelic gave her a sense of quick guilt. Most of the officers she had met were puppets in red coats, Whigs all, and as a Highlander with a Jacobite father who had died in exile, she had good reason to dislike them. Every one she encountered had become infatu­ated with her to some degree, and some had been cloy­ing or lusty fools, easy to dislike and dismiss.

  But Captain Fraser was none of that. Even in the coat of a red soldier, even knowing he was not quite the Highland warrior she had once imagined him to be, he still made her blood quicken.

  Oh please just drink it, she thought, fighting the urge to snatch it away from him. Drink it and forgive me.

  He raised the cup in salute. "You're a clumsy wee thing, Miss Washerwoman, but a bonny lass for all that, and I hope you're better at the laundry than the house­keeping." He drank.

  Her sense of guilt increased sharply, but she leaned down to fuss with the laundry in the basket. His dis­carded shirt still smelled of him—traces of warm com­fort, of strength and manliness. She picked up the basket and moved toward the tent entrance, then glanced back.

  He sat in the chair, sipping as he sorted the papers. Lifting a hand to his head, he shoved his fingers through thick, wavy hair, gold threading through darker strands.

  Just as she left the tent, Kate saw him tip his head on his hand as he studied the page, as if he felt fatigued.

  Quelling the feeling of guilt, she stepped away and glanced around anxiously at the shapes of the tents in growing darkness.

  As she ran forward, a figure emerged from the gloom—a tall Highlander by his shape. Kate gasped, then rushed toward her cousin. Allan MacCarran caught her by the shoulder and pulled her out of sight to a private spot.

  "What happened?" he murmured in Gaelic. "I was listening in case you might need me—you were in there a while."

  "All is well," Kate whispered.

  "Did you find the list of arrests, then?"

  "I saw it but had no chance to get it. The officer is still awake. Allan, listen," she went on urgently. "He saw me months ago, when I was in London last. I gave him the herbal infusion, but it is too risky for me to go back. He could easily realize that I am involved in espionage, being both a lady and a laundress. He's not a stupid man, this one."

  Allan shook his head. "You can charm him as you've done with all the others. That tincture will put him out cold. Search out the pages and get away fast as you can."

  She panicked suddenly, torn between an urge to flee the camp and an inexplicable yearning to return to Fraser's tent. The pull of the strange and wonderful magic he exuded over her was strong—and she knew better than anyone the irony of that.

  "We've got to have that list," Allan said. "We must discover where the redcoats are keeping Ian Cameron since his arrest. Your brother's friend knows where that Spanish cache is hidden, and we must get Ian out before the English can force information out of him. He was taken down before he could meet your brother. We'd best get to him quickly."

  "I understand," she replied. Although she did not know Ian Cameron personally, she was aware that his involvement was essential to her kinsmen's covert work. "But if this captain catches me out, and recog­nizes me—it's too much chance to take."

  "A few moments only, and you'll be gone from there," Allan assured her. "Cameron knows where those missing weapons are, and if the red soldiers should find out the location before we do, the insurrec­tion will suffer. This means a good deal to your clan and kin, lass."

  Kate sighed. Her loyalty to her clan and to her brother was unquestioned. She would do anything for Robert, chief of the MacCarrans of Duncrieff. If he con­sidered Ian Cameron a steadfast friend, and this mis-

  sion imperative to the Cause, that was more than enough reason to do whatever she could.

  "Fine," she whispered. "I'll go back."

  Allan turned with her. "I'll be just here. Call out if you need me."

  A chill ran through her, but she hurried back to the tent through drizzling rain. Pushing her way inside, she knotted the ties behind her to seal out the world.

  Setting the basket by the door, she approached cau­tiously. Captain Fraser rested his head on his arms, eyes closed, and seemed asleep. The infusion had fi­nally taken hold. Coming closer, Kate looked at him curiously.

  He was tall and large-boned, with an almost leonine elegance in face and form. His profile was classically handsome, partly obscured by a sweep of thick hair, deep brown and sun-streaked. She noted taut skin and good bones, straight dark brows over closed eyes fringed with dark lashes, an aristocratic nose that sloped toward the tender curve of his mouth.

  His eyes opened, and she saw a flash of dark blue. "Ugh," he muttered, and raised his head, groggy as a drunkard.

  Regret rushed through her—he had not attacked her as some other officers had tried, yet she had dealt him this repercussion. He sat up, batting an arm out, clum�
�sily sweeping papers, inkpot, and the china cup off the table. As he stood, stumbling, the chair tipped back and fell over.

  Kate bent to fetch the broken cup, setting the pieces

  aside. The potion she had given Fraser was strong, yet even the full vial had not taken him down completely. He was still alert, though weakened.

  As she straightened, he grabbed her upper arms and pulled her toward him. Alarmed, Kate pushed at his chest, and her arisaid slipped from her head, dragging with it the white cap pinned over her hair, exposing her face and bright golden hair to his full view.

  He frowned. "My God ... I've seen you before." His words were low, slurred.

  "No," she whispered. "Let go, please." She wriggled in his hold, speaking English without thinking.

  "Blast it, I feel dizzy ... what the devil did you put in that tea?" With an iron grip, he held her so closely that she craned her head to look up at him. "Too sweet, it was ... with a hint of bitter. What have you done?"

  "It will not harm you, though you will sleep some," she said. "Lie down over there." She pushed him to­ward the cot, for he was unstable on his feet and in dan­ger of falling.

  "You spoke Gaelic before... damn, I am befud­dled." He shook his head. Then he teetered, and his knees buckled.

  "Here, let me help you." Kate fitted her shoulder un­der his arm to support him.

  Leaning his weight on her, his hand capping her shoulder, he looked down at her. "I swear I've seen you before."

  With an arm around his waist, she guided him to the bed. "You're dreaming. Sit, now."

  He collapsed rather than sat, falling to the mattress,

  feet still on the floor. He kept hold of her, and Kate went down with him in a fast tumble. His arms felt so good—but she wiggled away and got to her feet. She struggled to lift his legs onto the bed, though he was tall and muscular, and greatly outweighed her.

  He lay sprawled on the narrow cot, one knee raised, his rucked plaid revealing the knotted thigh muscles. His broad chest was bare, the red coat falling open, brass lapel buttons gleaming. She pulled the folded blanket over him and stepped back, but he snatched her wrist and tugged her toward him, so that she fell once again into his embrace.

  "Oof," she said softly, pushing.

  "No, stay," he murmured. With one hand, he swept his fingers over her hair, now loose of its pins. Blond strands spilled free in the lanternlight. "Fairy gold."

  "No—please, I must—" she shoved at him.

  He resisted easily, despite his weakened state, wrap­ping her hair like a skein around his hand to pull her close. "You're the one," he said in a husky voice. "The fairy queen."

  She caught her breath. Surely he did not know about her ancestry. The herbs had addled his brain so that he spoke coincidental nonsense. "What—do you mean?" she whispered.

  "I saw you in London," he answered, his face near her own, his breath soft upon her lips. "We called you the fairy queen."

  She felt relieved. "My ancestress was a fairy, so they say. But no matter. You will not remember this in the morning."

  "I've caught you." He drew her close by the winding of her hair, and with his other hand he cupped her face. "And now I'll keep you."

  He kissed her then, his mouth warm and tender. Kate felt herself begin to dissolve under that luscious kiss, the sort of kiss to dream about.

  She should flee. But his fingers slid along her jaw to cradle and tilt her head, and his mouth claimed hers again, deep and stirring. Heart pounding, she surren­dered utterly.

  Never had she been kissed like this—never. The power of it swept through her, took her breath. Sinking in his arms, she savored his kiss, the next, another, each one more delicious and tender than the last. She brought a hand up to cup his cheek, and the whiskery growth of a day or two felt like sand under her finger­tips. Moving her hand upward, she found his hair, so thick and soft that she sighed. His lips moved over hers, divine and warm and vital.

  She opened her mouth to his, pleading silently for more. But he paused, sighed, and his head sank to the mattress. He closed his eyes, drawing her down with him. She waited, realized that he was finally succumb­ing, and reluctantly drew back.

  Leave, she told herself. Let him dream, and wake without a good recollection of the night, wondering who I am.

  In spite of herself, she leaned toward him again, longing for one more kiss. She felt as if she were the one bespelled.

  He stirred and pulled her more fully into his em-

  brace, rolled to his side with her and touched his lips to hers again.

  She had tasted a variety of kisses—dry, forceful, timid, mushy as pudding, many of them nice enough. But each one she had been able to dismiss from her thoughts and heart later. No man's kiss had ever touched off such a needfire within her.

  Oh, his were kisses to remember, to cherish. His lips caressed hers, kneaded, sending deep shivers of plea­sure through her. His breath warmed her, his hands upon her excited her so that she wanted to melt in his arms and do all his will. When his mouth took hers again like a storm, she gave in to the passion building within her, and met his lips with maddening hunger. His hands traced along her shoulders, her arms, grazed lightly over her breasts until she wanted to cry out. Each touch, each kiss felt perfect, beautiful, something she must savor.

  Had she gone mad? Logic reminded her that she must go, that her cousin waited for her. She must find the papers and run.

  But she felt overwhelmed by a strength of passion she had never before imagined, felt herself succumb to the fragile will of the body against such a divine onslaught.

  And she knew, then, suddenly, that a kiss could be food for an inner hunger, a caress warmth for a chilled and lonely soul. She had craved this for years and had not even known how much until this moment. She only wanted more.

  She felt the wild pulse of his desire all through him,

  felt it echo in her, so that she trembled, moaned. His mouth found hers again, the kiss this time so deep and rich that joy poured through her, pure and astonishing and wholly unexpected.

  "Oh God," she whispered against his mouth, "dear God—" And he took her again in a kiss, his hand cup­ping her breast, her body throbbing sweetly through­out at that single exquisite touch. Anticipation pounded within her like a drum as his hand moved over her in sweeping caresses. She kissed him in fervent response, forgetting where she was, who she was, and that any­one waited outside for her.

  Chapter 3

  L

  ooping her arms around his neck, she sighed as his hand tucked into the small of her back, and she felt the hard press of his body against hers.

  She could not stay—but let herself savor more, sigh­ing as his hands moved over her in delectable rhythm, while his body tightened against hers like iron. Only a moment more, she told herself, and she would run from here....

  His tongue swept hers, his fingers slid up her back, over her shoulder and down, grazing over her modesty kerchief, over her stiffened bodice and the warm flesh be­neath. She shivered, arched to welcome his explorations.

  Another kiss, and one more, and she realized she was starved for this sort of touch, for true passion, deep and

  genuine. He kissed her again, lips tracing over her cheek, her ear, his breath warming her.

  For a moment she felt as if she were falling, and she clutched at him, her hands upon his bare chest be­neath his red coat—that hateful red jacket. His skin felt warm, smooth, his heartbeat bounding beneath muscle.

  Never had she let a man touch her like this, or even go beyond a few kisses—Katie Hell was still a virgin, though it might not fit her persona. Her kinsmen would kill any man who went so far with her, yet she did not, could not, put an end to what was happening.

  She knew she was the one captivated, helpless against his charm and the surprising depth of passion he tapped within her. Lost in that current, she met him with her own hunger, sensing that she could discover something magnificent if only she would let her feel­ings flare.
A little longer, she promised herself, gasping as his mouth traced along her throat.

  Soon enough he would sleep, and when he woke, Katie Hell would be gone. His memory would be dim, but she would have her own memories to treasure and a sense of what passion, even love, might be like—a se­cret she could take into the rest of her life.

  Silent, aware that her cousin waited outside to de­fend her if he perceived trouble, she sighed as he touched her, as her breasts tingled under her chemise and bodice. She nearly cried aloud as his other hand traced over her skirts, as he pushed aside her layered skirt and petticoat. When his warm palm grazed her

  knee, then her thigh, she caught her breath and tucked her face against his shoulder.

  Sublime madness, she thought, as her heart pounded harder. She kissed his jaw, felt the rasp of his beard, the tender swell of his lips, his moist tongue upon hers. She groaned on a breath, and as his hand cupped her breast, she arched against him.

  He was hard and insistent against her now, and she shifted her hand and found the shape of him, began to explore him, her fingers curious, trembling. She moved her hand over his kilt, pulled at the plaid, and he slid his fingers beneath her skirt. Each touched intimate flesh in the same instant, each gasped in harmony.

  And she let him do what he would, this man, only this man. The wanton of the broadsheets, the fairy se­ductress, did not even exist. No man had ever touched her thus.

  His exploration of her was astonishing, quickly thrilling as he found the innermost pulse of her body and brought it to heat, then flame. She cried out, the soft sound taken by his kiss. Consumed and released by bliss, she lay quiet and astonished in his arms.

  Then she turned her face against his cheek in silence. The exquisite tenderness of his touch had erased, in mere moments, any other kiss or caress she had en­dured for the sake of her loyalty to her clan and to Scot­land. If nothing else came of this night, for that taste of freedom and passion alone she felt in his debt.