Without allowing any further doubts, Brianna dropped to her knees beside the closest skiff and used her dirk to cut it loose from the stakes. She replaced the knife, then righted the boat and made sure there were oars, then dragged it down to the sea, jumping in just as the water lapped onto the scuffed, ill-fitting boots she’d bought from Killiedown’s groom.
Hugh smiled with supreme male confidence even though he did not find his blond beauty in the library. Clearly, if she was waiting for him in the bedchamber, he could take it as a signal that she was willing to entertain him there. Intimately. He was already aroused when he climbed the staircase and walked down the long gallery to her room, anticipating the intimate lessons they would share. He thought about her sweet, feminine taste and the feel of her smooth skin under his knowing touch.
He knocked at her door and waited, then softly called her name. When she did not answer, Hugh thought perhaps she was asleep and decided he would wake her with gentle kisses. Taking care to unlatch the door quietly, he stepped inside and saw that she was not there—not in the bed, not in the chair at the writing table.
She might be reticent, but he could not believe such an intrepid lass would hide from him, not a woman who dressed in men’s clothes and carried her own dirk for protection. Something outside the window caught his attention. ’Twas movement on the beach, which Hugh would have dismissed, since MacTavish’s men were due to arrive soon to dilute the brandy and move it out tonight. But this was not MacTavish’s gang. It was one person, putting one of his tub boats into the water. A sudden gust blew off the culprit’s hat, revealing a mass of golden hair.
‘Twas Bridget MacLaren, stealing the boat!
Instantly, Hugh whipped out of her room and scrambled down the staircase. The quickest path to the beach was through the buttery, but would require crawling through the wet grass and mud outside the grate. Instead of going there, he headed to a rear door of the castle, where he’d just let Armstrong out. Grabbing his greatcoat, he flew outside, hurrying around to the old buttery to find the path to the beach.
In a moment he was descending it, but the tub boat had already floated out of sight.
He swore viciously and went to one of the remaining boats, tearing at the ropes holding it securely to the ground. The ropes were wet, and he cursed the wicked little dirk Bridget had obviously used to cut the ropes holding the boat she’d taken. Hugh finally managed to untie the knots, freeing one of the remaining boats and flipping it over to shove it down to the water, just as the rain started again.
There was no question of leaving her to fend for herself in a tiny skiff during a winter storm in the North Sea. She must be mad. Or desperate.
What in hell had she thought he would do to her?
A fine drizzle fell, enough to drip down the neck of his coat as he jumped into the boat and started rowing. The wind increased as did the surf, and Hugh had to battle against the waves as they lapped against his skiff. Bridget was not going to be able to control her own craft if the storm got any worse or the wind picked up.
He rowed furiously and cleared the southern point of the cove, then caught sight of her, far ahead. She was struggling, and drifting too far from the shore. The cold drizzle turned to rain, and Hugh knew that if she did not turn in toward land, there was a good chance she would be swept into the current and carried away.
Hugh doubled his efforts to reach her, working frantically, straining against the heavy waves and his biting anger. ’Twould not serve him now. “Bridget!” he shouted, turning to face her. “Row toward shore! Go on! Toward shore!”
It looked as though she was trying to do exactly that, but the waves were too high, splashing into the hull, soaking her. Hugh knew she would soon be too cold to hold the oars. Her hands would freeze and she would be paralyzed with shivering. He had to get to her soon, or she would be drawn out to sea and there would be naught that he could do.
Hugh’s own situation was not much different. The sky darkened further, and his worst fears were realized as the wind sharpened and the rain started coming down in sheets. The waves splashed high, crashing into his small craft and jarring the oars from his hands. He risked turning once again to see how Bridget fared, and realized that she was losing the battle against the wind and waves.
He roared his frustration and pulled harder and faster, cutting through the water with a superhuman effort. He heard a cry behind him, and glanced briefly, afraid to see what was amiss. He was only marginally reassured to see her still in the boat, but struggling to hold on to one oar. “Hang on! I’m coming!” he shouted.
They had drifted far south of Glenloch, but nowhere near Inverbervie. The beach between the two was mostly deserted, though there were a few places where kelpers put in to shore. Some of them had small crofts near the beach, and if they survived this reckless adventure, he and Bridget might find one where they could wait out the rain before heading back to Glenloch.
If he didn’t kill her first.
Hugh could not believe she’d been foolish enough to try to get away by sea on a vile day like this. He sped toward the irresponsible wench, using all his strength to pull the boat in her direction, sweating under his coat despite the frigid conditions. He could no longer feel his hands.
“I’m sinking!” she cried.
“I’m almost there!” he shouted, wishing it were true, for he still had some distance to cover. Rushing madly to get to her, he let the rain batter his head and eyes without stopping to wipe it away. He ignored the frigid water sliding down the back of his neck and onto his back, and the ominously growing puddle at his feet.
With one last burst of strength, he finally came alongside her and grabbed the edge of her boat. “Is there any rope in there?”
“N-no!” she cried. She looked terrified, but her fear did not stanch his anger.
“Then we’ll leave the boat. Come to me.” He spoke as calmly as he could, in spite of their dire circumstances. One wrong move and his boat would tip and they would both go under. Hugh knew they would not survive it.
“What should I do?” she cried.
“Take my hands and lever yourself over the side. Try to land in the middle of the skiff.”
“I can’t!”
“Aye, you can!” He grabbed hold of her hands and she raised her bottom, eyeing his boat.
“We’ll tip over!”
“No, I’ll lean away and counterbalance you. Now, Bridget! Move!”
He pulled her and she fell into the puddle at the bottom of his boat. Hugh managed to move at the same time, throwing his weight against the opposite side. The boat wobbled crazily in the water, but they managed to stay upright.
Bridget pulled herself up onto her knees in front of him and held on to the edges of the boat. Hugh did not stop to ask her why she’d been so intent upon getting away from Glenloch that she’d had to steal one of his boats to do it. She was rightly fearful, but not cowed by his icy stare, and he went right to work before the storm could get any worse, before his own strength failed.
The wind became brutal and he had to fight it to get them back to shore. The current pulled them farther south, but he managed to stay on course for the most part, dragging them relentlessly toward the land. Her lips matched the blue of her eyes, and her teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Hugh’s hands were beyond numb, and he feared his eyelashes had turned to icicles.
When they were only a few yards from land, Hugh saw a large upright rock, an obsidian obelisk that was used as a landmark by kelpers and fishermen and free traders all along the southeastern coast. He made for the obelisk, hoping his memory of a nearby kelper’s croft was accurate. He would hate like hell to get out of the water, only to freeze in the elements on land.
The oars went aground and Hugh jumped out, landing in a few inches of water. He pulled the boat in as far as he could, and Bridget climbed out after him, half falling out of the boat. He helped her gain her feet, and they somehow managed to pull the boat from the water. He put his arm about her waist and dragged he
r along with him as he followed a path away from the water, trudging through wind, rain, and mucky sand, to find the shelter he only half remembered. They had to get warm, soon.
“This way,” he said. “Hang on to me.”
Brianna felt like a fool. She was vastly grateful that Laird Glenloch had come after her, but she’d endangered his life as well as her own. She should apologize, but what would she say? How could she possibly justify what she’d done?
No doubt he thought her a lackwit, though it had seemed such a good idea at the time.
“Move your arse, Miss MacLaren,” he said rudely, provoking her indignation. “We’ve a distance to go.”
“You’ve no need to be vulgar, Laird Glenloch.”
“You think not?” he retorted angrily. “I didn’t risk my neck for you only to freeze to death out here.”
“You needn’t have come!”
“No? And where would you be if I had not?”
The answer loomed between them as Brianna doubled her speed. She tripped and would have fallen, but for Glenloch’s quick move to hold her up.
She was not happy when he kept his tight grasp on her arm and helped her up the path, but her sodden, ill-fitting boots were awkward on the rocky ground. She knew his anger was fully warranted, even if she did not care to admit it aloud.
She was freezing, shivering so badly she did not believe she could form the words of an apology, even if she knew what excuse to give him.
They got to the top of the ledge beyond the shore when she saw it, a small stone croft, set among the rocks on the beach. It was a primitive building with a low, thatched roof that did not look promising, but they made their way toward it, since any small shelter would be better than full exposure to the elements.
A small boat lay behind it in the wet sand, tipped bottom up, just as Glenloch’s boats had been. Bree hardly noticed it, not when her arms and legs were stiff with cold, and her eyes burning with the frozen salt water of the sea. Glenloch released her when they reached the door, and he tried to open it, but failed since it was either jammed or locked. Cursing under his breath, he backed away, then crashed his shoulder into it.
The door flew open and he pushed her inside, shoving the door closed behind them. The place smelled. It was dark and there were no windows, but at least it was dry inside, and protected from the wind. Laird Glenloch stepped over to the hearth and knelt before it. When he spoke, his tone was curt and gruff. “Look for a tinderbox.”
Brianna’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and she saw that there was a table, one chair, and a low pallet of straw near a fireplace. She located flint and steel, but her hands were shaking too badly to strike them together to make sparks. She handed them to the laird, who found something to use as a char cloth and quickly lit the small chunk of peat that rested on the grate. Once the fire was burning, he stood, turning to survey their surroundings.
“Get those clothes off,” he said.
Chapter 5
Hearts may agree though heads differ.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
“I-I—”
“Do not even think to argue with me,” Hugh said, the anger in his voice broaching no discussion, no disagreement. He picked up the chair and bashed it against the floor, breaking it into pieces, then fed it to the fire. “Get them off so we can both get warm.” His expression was dark and dangerous, and Brianna did not dare deny him.
With shaking hands, she worked at her ties and fastenings. The heat of the fire penetrated the room, and she could no longer see her breath. What she could see was Laird Glenloch, pulling off his greatcoat, then the rest of his clothes. She eyed one disreputable, thin blanket of plaid lying in a heap on the pallet, the wool looking far too insubstantial to ward off the cold.
“Only a fool would go into the water on a day like this,” he growled.
“I could not st-stay.” She bristled at his tone, even though she fully recognized how foolish she’d been. They’d barely managed to get out of the water, and it remained to be seen whether they would survive her wild escapade.
“Only a scatterwit—”
“I am no scatterwit, sir!”
“Hmmph,” he muttered. He unbuttoned the placket of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the floor near the hearth. “ ’Tis December. In Scotland, in case you hadn’t noticed. The North Sea.”
“Your mockery is unwelcome, Laird.” There was no need to go on about it.
He started to unfasten his trews and Bree averted her eyes. “So is good sense, apparently.”
“I have plenty of good sense,” Brianna retorted, fuming at his despicable attitude. She somehow managed to get her own sodden breeches down her legs, then stepped out of them and threw them angrily in the direction of the fire. “But I needed to get away from Glenloch.”
“Why? Were you anxious to get away with the plate? Or the brandy?”
“I am no thief! Nor am I a drinker,” she retorted, so angry she did not even notice she was nearly naked.
“Well, whatever it was you took, ’tis lying at the bottom of the sea by now.”
Brianna clutched her chest. “Oh no! My dresses, my money!”
“Ha,” he said without mirth.
“ ’Twas all I had!” she shouted, turning all her anger, her frustration, and the vestiges of her terror on him. “All that was to keep me until—”
She stopped short, unwilling to tell him her true purpose.
“Until…?”
“Until I got to Dundee.”
“Ah, right.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You want me to believe you intended to walk all the way to Dundee.”
“I have a very good reason,” she snapped.
“Which is irrelevant now. Get the rest of your clothes off and come over here.”
She bristled at his words. “There is only one blanket.”
“Aye. So we’ll share.” He came to her, and before she realized what he was doing he’d ripped her shirt from her shoulders, then grabbed her, pulling her against him.
“No, we will not share!” she cried indignantly.
He ignored her and yanked the blanket off the pallet, wrapping them together in the dry wool even as he hauled her down to the straw mattress with him. Brianna sputtered her protests against the frigid skin of his neck, but he paid her no heed, dragging her naked body as close to his as was physically possible. They shivered together, and Brianna struggled to shove away from him.
“Be still!” Glenloch rasped, grabbing her bottom and pressing her hard against him.
She froze when her hips met his.
He made a low sound deep in the back of his throat, and Brianna felt his body change. Time seemed to stop as every nerve ending in her body shifted from her outrage and funneled directly to the stirring she felt below. She pressed her eyes closed and tried to resist it. Yet when he began to stroke her buttocks, his pelvis rubbed hers in a way that heated her from her inside out. Brianna could neither withdraw nor protest.
His breathing became harsh, and his shuddering diminished. Brianna felt enveloped by him, by his size and his growing heat. She pressed her cold nose into the crook of his neck while his hand slid up her back to cup her nape, and then trailed back down.
Brianna’s breath caught in her throat and she felt him swallow, hard.
“I should throttle you,” he whispered against her hair, “but Christ, if you are not the most exciting woman I’ve ever encountered.”
He shifted and pressed Brianna into the straw mattress, turning so that he rose slightly above her, drawing her into a close embrace. He slid one of his densely muscled legs between hers, and Brianna made a whimper at the sensation of his direct touch on her feminine flesh.
“Aye, lass, ’twill be good between us.”
“No,” she whispered. “I left Glenloch because of this. Because you…B-because I don’t want…” But dear heaven, she did. She wanted more of his touch, more of his kisses. She could no longer deny that she wanted to feel the heat and e
xhilaration of his embrace.
His head descended and his mouth captured hers in a searing kiss. He pressed his tongue against the barrier of her lips, and Bree opened on a sigh, allowing him in. He speared her with his tongue, and Brianna felt as though she were being consumed. There was a fire in him, and it burned away her logic, her sensibility. His touch robbed her of self-control, and she responded with abandon. She encircled his waist with her arms, then skimmed her hands down to his bare buttocks.
“Yes. Ach, touch me.”
His body was hard, yet the skin below his waist was smooth. Bree was fascinated by the contrasting textures of his body, hard and firm, but at the same time, smooth as the finest silk. The rasp of the hair on his legs brought a groan to her lips.
When he nuzzled her neck at the sensitive corner of her jaw, she sighed with pleasure, then arched her back at the touch of his hand at her breast. She moaned when he circled her nipple with the tips of his cool fingers. She willed him to touch it, to put his mouth on it and suckle as he’d done the night before.
He finally lowered his head and licked the hard peak, and Bree shuddered with arousal. Their bodies separated slightly with his movement, and she touched his chest, slipping her fingers through his coarse hair until she found his nipples. He groaned when she caressed them, and moved his hand down her belly, his destination her most private parts.
Brianna let out a harsh breath when he touched her, fondling some hidden place that responded exactly the way flint sparked when struck by steel. She grabbed the straw on either side of her and opened for him, afraid he might stop, stunned and mystified by her body’s reaction to his touch.
“Ah, lass, you’re wet for me.”
He kissed her mouth again, and used one finger to enter her while his thumb kept up the same caresses that made her wild for something more. A deeper touch, a stronger stroke. “Please,” she cried.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, shifting to move between her legs. He took hold of her hand and placed it on his hard member, then guided it to the spot his own fingers had just abandoned.
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