by Kresley Cole
He glared at his scarred hands. They weren't changing.
He supposed he would have to get used to nights filled with heavy, aching erections and no relief in sight. Because apparently, he'd just signed on for many more.
She affected him, and for some reason, around her, he either became like a lowly animal or strove to be noble. Both were asinine in his mind. Noble? Him? He'd had difficulty keeping his hands off her when she was violent toward him. And in the nights before, when he'd removed her shirt to change her bandage, his fingers had itched to sweep across her chest, to slip beneath her chemise and grasp her breasts and cup her. How noble was that? She most likely still hated him, but now she was teasing him? He was a dead man.
As he washed his face with cold water, he looked in the mirror, scowling at his harsh reflection, seeing nothing there that would make her want his touch.
He dried off, then sat for some time watching her sleep, listening to her whisper occasionally in Catalan, wondering why he'd decided to leave his crew and the possibility of any income behind. Why had he promised to get her to safety when all he'd wanted was to pay off Beinn a'Chaorainn?
Court was the only man in his family in memory to have a note on his land, and it shamed him. The only thing that lessened the feeling was knowing it was a lot of land. Knowing he'd purchased it for less than half its value helped as well.
To make way for sheep, a foppish English baron had cleared the lands of Beinn a'Chaorainn of tenants, forcing them to the coast to eke out a living there. Then the baron left the administration to factors, who knew little about the land, and without good management the farm couldn't compete with the wool churning out of Australia. Debts from a high life in London forced him to sell at a loss akin to robbery.
Court smiled a mean smile. The violent removal of Highlanders from the land and sometimes even their forced emigration had been happening for years. In fact, many of them had been driven to Australia.
And now they owned those wildly profitable sheep stations that dominated the world wool market and bankrupted shortsighted English barons.
We will always win in the end, Court thought.
Before they'd been cleared, the tenants had been prosperous, and their rents, when fair, were still substantial—not grossly so, not able to support a high life in London, but comfortable. Court liked comfortable.
He'd planned to ask them back. But he couldn't—not until he owned his home completely and could never lose it. So why the hell had he decided to put his plans on hold? Why had he chosen to help her?
At that moment Anna turned on her back in sleep. Her brows drawn, she softly murmured, "Wolf."
He bolted from the room, then stomped down the stairs, uncaring of guests sleeping beneath them. Groot was already up.
"Need a coach," Court said as he sat at the common table. "And I'll pay extra for a driver worth his salt and horses that doona spook so easily."
"I can send the boy to Toulouse. Guess you're taking the lady?"
"Aye. I'll need some coin."
"Should I put the debt on Ethan's or Hugh's tab?"
It would serve them right. "Split it equally."
Groot chuckled. "And your crew?"
They would not be pleased. "I'll leave a message for them. They should be here soon." He might have wondered why they hadn't arrived yet, since he and Annalía had made such poor time, but he knew a standoff like that could take days, even weeks, to end, especially since both sides were in such defensible locations. It could take even longer if both doggedly refused to give ground. That was one thing he hated about the job—the bloody downtime.
He would write to Niall and tell him to ride for Otto. If Niall thought the odds good, he should sign them on.
When the coach arrived, he inspected the horses and quizzed the driver—a man called originally enough "Coachy." Finding both acceptable, he went to wake Annalía. Through the front window of the inn, he spied her rushing down the stairs, smoothing her hair, and looking none the worse for wear for their drinking. His head had been pounding since he'd sobered. When she strode outside, he asked, "How do you feel?"
She appeared surprised that he was still there, but covered it with a shrug. "I feel fine. Why?"
Because she'd been riding through a downpour last night, recently shot, and then got drunk, he almost answered. He was learning that the black plague personified could kiss her and she'd be fine. "No reason."
She glanced down and ran the toe of her shoe over some tufted grass by the walk. "I didn't know if you'd still be here."
Did she think that badly of him? He'd given her his word—when he was soused and under duress from needing to tup her—but still his word. "I made a deal with you, and I plan to keep my side of it."
She gave him a disbelieving expression. "Don't become testy, MacCarrick. It isn't as if you've presented yourself as the most trustworthy man."
He moved closer to her, to a point she would deem impolite. "If you will no' believe I'll keep my end because I'm a man of my word, then believe I will just so you'll keep yours."
She blushed and observed the grass again.
"So that means I'll be getting you somewhere I know you'll be safe."
She frowned when she faced him again. "You told me the posting house was safe. This was where you were going to leave me."
"Changed my mind after the attack yesterday, and I know a place in London."
"I'm not traveling to England!" She crossed her arms over her chest. He noticed she put her hands lower because of her injury. "You said you'd help me find Aleix, not take me farther away from him!"
"Your brother's coming for you. The Rechazado said he was on our trail to save you from the brutal Highlanders and then murder me for revenge. He'll go where we go. And he'll thank me later for taking you to safety in London."
"Why didn't you tell me this information sooner?"
"When should I have done that? During the downpour or when I was drunkenly trying to get you out of your gown?"
She gasped, eyes wide, but then she narrowed them. "You're attempting to distract me. To keep me from saying yet again that I am not going to England."
"Lass, we're leaving. Now. The subject's ended."
"I can't leave without sending him a message!"
"To where? Your home? He's doubtless already in France."
She paced and he wondered how many soles she went through in a year. Didn't matter—he would always encourage it. "Do you have relatives in France?"
Shaking her head, she said, "No, my mother's family is in Spain, in Castile."
"Any friends or connections?"
Her brows were drawn. "There are only two places in France that I have connections to and both are near Paris."
"Which are?"
She answered absently, "My mother's grave and my old school."
Wait…. "Your mother does no' rest on your family's land?" He tried to read her expression, but she appeared deep in thought. Why the hell wouldn't she? And if not there, then at least in Spain?
"We could send a message to The Vines!" she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "He'll check for information there."
"We'll see."
"I'm not going anywhere until you promise."
"Fine, promised," he grated. "Now go get in the coach."
"Coach? But the Rechazados will catch up."
"I doona want you riding anymore. And if it rains, we'd have to stop then anyway."
"I will not slow us down."
"Anna," he began in a warning tone, "the coach, or I'll take my kiss and I'll take it back in the bed."
She must have believed him, because she glowered at him, but only while sashaying to stand beside the coach.
When Groot brought out their things, Court tossed the bags to the coachman, then set about loading the weapons that Hugh and Ethan had unknowingly paid for this morning. He couldn't resist running a hand over his new rifle, near lovingly. A repeating rifle, five shots in one loading—he'd heard tales
of them coming in the future, tales in the same vein as those of the beast of Loch Ness, but he'd never seen one. This rifle meant dead Rechazados.
Once they were set and Groot had returned inside, she mumbled, "I still say we should ride."
"Anna, you're no' as strong as you think."
"No, I'm not," she said, her chin at a stubborn angle. "Every time I conclude how strong I am, I surprise myself. I continue to exceed my conclusions, so I must be stronger than I think."
She surprised him, too. Constantly. Like now, when after her rousing statement about her growing strength, the prim little lady stood outside the coach's door, directly beside the folding step, waiting for him to assist her in. She didn't even realize she should be making a show of helping herself inside, making a gesture of independence.
His eyes narrowed. Or perhaps she did realize it and wanted all things her way.
As he strode toward her—and how could he not when she put her arms out to him?—he thought about the paradox. All Court knew was that a woman who peered at her nails infinite times in a day should not know how to hide a rock in her skirt to pummel the unwitting Scot.
Her incongruent actions went against all that was right and governable in the laws of nature.
He shook his head hard, then handed her in, growling under his breath, "Fascinatin' woman."
Chapter Nineteen
"Isn't the countryside lovely?" Annalía asked as she gazed out over a valley in Burgundy. The land was bedecked with patchwork fields of sunflowers and vineyards, and she smelled damp earth. When the sun came out from behind white clouds, a breeze blew, but swayed only the squares of towering blooms. And she couldn't stop smiling.
"Lovely," he agreed though he'd never looked away from her. He'd been watching her closely ever since her…indiscretion four nights ago, though Annalía wished he wouldn't read too much into her actions. She'd simply been reacting to the traumatic events of the day, and there'd been imbibing once more, but he acted as though something had changed between them other than the fact that she no longer detested him.
To be honest, she didn't even think she could manage to dislike him anymore. She'd seemed to grow used to him, becoming more comfortable around his size, becoming more aware when his sharp words were like teasing.
And she suspected that the impulses to be good to her and even possibly gentler with her were within him. Unfortunately, she also suspected that he didn't know quite what to do with those impulses.
She could nearly think of them as uneasy allies, except for the fact that his help would come at a price. Her knight slayed no dragons without a payment, one that he hadn't yet demanded.
As they rode through the first town in the valley, the bright colors of the homes struck her, and she thought she heard music. When she tried to work her coach window open, he quickly reached across her to shove it down with ridiculous ease. It was a gesture a Castilian gentleman might make. Except for the total destruction of the window rails.
With the breeze blowing in, she could hear the music carried along, could hear it even over the horses' hooves clacking on cobblestone. "I want to stay here tonight."
"There are hours until dark. We need to get farther on."
Each night he would take a room for her, just long enough for her to rest and change her bandage or get a bath and for Coachy to sleep on his bench. Making up for time lost to daily morning storms, MacCarrick pushed them well into the night and then had them setting out before dawn, though she never saw him sleeping.
She thought the only reason he'd stopped at all was because he didn't want her to get too exhausted. So she sighed wearily. "I just felt…faint," she lied. "From the arduous pace you've been keeping."
He gave her an irritated look. "You doona feel faint or I'd know it. Do you want to stay here so badly that you'd lie to me?"
She scrunched her lips. "Well, yes."
He scowled. A minute later, he called out new directions.
She gave him her most winning smile, which made him scowl deeper, but she didn't care. She felt the sun on her face and realized she was…happy, genuinely happy, and it startled her.
Her brother was not only alive, but he was free as well, which was a gift beyond measure. The man with her, whom she'd suspected of awful things, hadn't done them and was actually behaving for the most part like a gentleman instead of a Scot.
Was life perfect? No, she still didn't know what to do with the Highlander during those times when he did not act the gentleman, and she still feared the Rechazados. On the outside, she'd acted unconcerned about the attacks, but in reality they'd terrified her. That fear was part of why she wanted to revel today.
They passed a group of giggling young women strolling along the street with their baskets swinging and their pied skirts swaying, and a thought struck her. "I want clothes."
"What?"
"I need clothes," she amended. "Mine are all gowns, except for my one decent dress, but even though it's been repaired it still reminds me of when I was shot."
Did he wince at that word? "How do you plan to pay for them?"
"You must buy them for me." They would be simple in a village like this, but she didn't care.
"And I would do that because…"
"You said you'd keep me safe. That was our bargain. Well, look at the clothing here. See those girls. Their garments move—I'd be able to move more easily."
"You're trying to convince me that new clothes equate to safety?" He looked at her as if he'd never understand her.
"Yes. How am I doing?"
"No' too well. But the way your mind works is intriguing."
Court was nonchalant with her, concealing the fact that nothing chapped him as much as Annalía giving him orders. She did it because she believed herself above him. He found it intolerable that she still looked down her little nose at him, that she still perceived him as a lowly Scot.
He wondered if there was ever a worse situation than desiring a woman who didn't even consider you a man. Because she was meant for better. Wasn't that what she'd said?
If she would simply ask him for something…Even as he considered it, the possibility made him distinctly uneasy. He'd discovered in the last couple of days that he wanted to be able to provide her with things she needed or desired. If she figured out how badly he wanted that, and that the only thing stopping him was her inability to ask, she would be merciless.
Once they'd arrived at the town's inn and he was securing a room, she said, "Perhaps we should have two rooms. I'm sure they have more than one and I'm recovered enough that—"
"No."
She raised her eyebrows at his tone.
"This place isn't protected." Everything about the inn that he saw as a liability she loved. The windows in their room were big and opened wide to a balcony. He didn't like balconies, especially not when thick, cloaking vines grew all along them.
But the desk in their room he could use. He called down for paper and ink.
"Are we going to write my brother?" She knelt atop the chair giving him an excited smile. "And send it to The Vines?"
The chit had a smile that made poor misbegotten bastards like him want to see it again. He shook himself. "Aye. I'm going to write directions in Gaelic, and I want you to copy them in your own handwriting."
"Why?"
"They'll probably have a dictionary at the school, and if no' they'll be able to lay hands on one. Any Rechazado who might intercept this will no'. It must be in your handwriting, so he'll trust it." After the maid brought writing supplies, he scratched out a missive, then watched as she nibbled her lip, struggling to decipher his handwriting and copy it. "This is the oddest language I've ever seen."
He gave her an incredulous look. "You were bloody studying Greek."
"Oh, that's right, you were in my room. Did you enjoy my things?"
"Aye," he answered shamelessly. "I did when I slept in your soft bed."
She glanced down, blushing, then quickly said, "Did you see all my c
lothes?"
He almost grinned at her segue. "Forget it."
"I don't understand why you are being so difficult."
"You doona need to be out on the streets."
"But you will keep me safe," she answered, as though he'd uttered something foolish.
He strode for the door. "No, you need to rest. I'll have a bath sent up and wait outside till you're done."
Just as he had his hand on the door handle, she said, "MacCarrick, would you please buy me just a few new garments?"
He froze. Christ, she'd actually done it. This was the beginning of the end.
She stood and lightly touched his elbow, an unnecessarily cruel and unfair tactic. "I can repay you."
He closed his eyes. He'd just have to deny her. Or put a price on them she wouldn't want to pay. He turned with a lecherous look. "Lass, you ken they will no' come cheaply."
No angry words, no scathing retorts. "I also now know you won't take advantage of a girl under your protection with no money and no family here to care for her."
He bit out a harsh curse under his breath. "Do you no' need to rest?"
"Dresses, MacCarrick," she reminded him gently.
Once the seamstress had finished up a quick hem on her new skirt and the vivacious shopkeeper had packed her purchases, Annalía crossed to the front of the store, where MacCarrick prowled outside, pacing back and forth, and called him inside to pay.
When he entered, he went no further than the tight doorway, standing there with her as he surveyed her simple blouse and skirt. He stared at her face and her breasts and all the way down and up again, unhurriedly. This wasn't the first time he'd examined her so rudely, but this time his lingering gaze didn't infuriate her. This time, it felt like a touch.
The shopkeeper murmured, "I envy you the night you're going to have."
MacCarrick must have heard her because he turned away from Annalía with a cough into his fist. But what kind of night did his look promise? Why would the pretty woman envy her that?
Both the shopkeeper and the seamstress had told Annalía she was lucky to have such a "handsome Scot." The seamstress had added, "Scottish men are such lusty devils!" as if this were a good trait.