Against his will, his eyes darted to where her breasts strained against the silk of her bodice. “Woman.”
Mayhap it had been the wrong thing to say, because with a snarl, Skye’s hand shot out and closed around the leather pouch at his waist.
Before he could react, she’d wrenched the damn thing from his belt, yanking it toward her.
It was as if she’d pushed him in a frigid river.
Saints preserve me, she wasnae joking.
Skye MacIan, the laird’s sister—Duncan’s in-law—was indeed an outlaw.
He took a step closer, putting their chests almost inches apart. “Give that to me,” he growled in a low voice.
She had the cheek to grin up at him, as if she understood the power had shifted. “Nay,” she chirped, stepping to one side, which allowed her to lift the purse. “My, ‘tis heavy, is it no’?”
As he swallowed down another angry protest, she loosened the strings and pulled the leather pouch open.
And whistled.
“What is it, milady?” the lad called from behind them. “Was Pierre right? Is that purse as heavy as it looks—”
“For the love of fig tarts, shut yer mouth, Rabbie!”
“Oui!” The Frenchman sounded excited. “J'étais distrait par ma belle moustache.”
“I dinnae ken,” rumbled the giant for the first time. “Mayhap green. Or orange.”
Duncan ignore them all. He knew what Skye was seeing, even before she poured the contents of the pouch into her other hand.
A fortnight before, Master Claire—the old goldsmith he’d apprenticed for years ago—had sent him to Eriboll to buy back some of her pieces. A merchant had died, leaving his wife with debts, and the widow was smart enough to offer Master Claire the chance to buy back the jewelry, instead of offering it to her debtors in place of coin.
Duncan had carried a small fortune to Eriboll, and had been successful in exchanging it for the finely wrought gold pieces.
There was the ring, set not with a jewel, but a delicate rose, fashioned from pounded leaves of gold. And a necklace, the heavy links making up most of the weight in Duncan’s purse, regardless of the large pendant carved with the merchant’s crest. And two brooches, one set with blood-red rubies, and the other a large pearl.
And a simple gold ring, made from braided strands, without any adornment.
It was the only piece Duncan himself had made.
Though one of his earlier works, he was still proud of it, even now, as it sat on top of a pile in Skye’s hand.
She was staring down at it, and he could swear she wasn’t breathing.
And why shouldn’t she be frozen in pleased shock?
He frowned. ‘Twas enough in her hands at that moment to keep an entire clan fed through the winter.
He had no idea what Master Claire intended to do with the pieces, but that was her business. All Duncan knew was that the gold wasn’t his, and he could not allow it to be stolen by brigands.
Beautiful or nae.
So he took another step toward her. “Skye,” he growled, “give those back.”
Something changed in her expression, and she straightened her shoulders before finally looking back up at him.
He realized his mistake instantly.
If she really was the leader of this band, he shouldn’t have challenged her like that.
Now she had to prove herself.
Shite.
“I dinnae realize the Oliphants hid such wealth,” she called, louder than usual, as she held up the jewelry for her men to see.
Under the whistles and pleased hoots from the men behind him, Duncan cursed again.
When he took another step toward her, he was close enough to touch. Close enough to taste her scent; leather and pear, a scent uniquely her. Close enough to see her nostrils flare at his nearness.
“We dinnae,” he growled again. “That doesnae belong to me, so I cannae allow ye to take it.”
Instead of backing away, she lifted her chin and met his eyes with a smirk. “Too late, Duncan.” She waggled the gold. “I’ve taken it already.”
“Give it back.”
Her giant loomed closer. “Want me to hit him, Skye?”
Now the three of them were locked in a contest of wills, and Duncan had a sinking feeling he was outnumbered.
But he wasn’t going to lose Master Claire’s work—at least not without a fight.
He held her glare, daring her to make a decision.
“Nay, Bean,” she finally drawled, her blue eyes flashing in determination. “I think he’ll be reasonable.”
Duncan tried one more time. “For the sake of the family we share, return my master’s art to me, and we can both be on our way.”
There’d been a momentary softening of her fierce glare when he’d mentioned their connection, but her chin rose once more, her jaw tilted mulishly.
“My men and I work hard for our rewards, and ‘tis been a long time since we took so fine a prize. With Hoarse Harold operating in the area, pickings have been slim. Ye’d have me just give up this opportunity?”
Oh well. He’d tried to play nice.
Time to bring out the big cannon.
“I do.” When he grinned, he knew there was no humor in it. “Lest I report what I ken to yer brother.”
There.
The way her gaze flickered, told him Laird Stewart MacIan knew naught of her little hobby, and she didn’t want him to know.
“Ye wouldnae dare,” she hissed.
“I would.” He held out his hand. “Give me back my master’s work.”
“Want me to hit him, milady?” Bean rumbled again. “I could bop him on the head. Smoosh his skull. Make it look like an accident.”
It was hard not to wince at that imagery, but Duncan managed it.
Skye, on the other hand, blew out an exasperated breath and glanced up at her bodyguard. “How exactly would it look like an accident?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe he accidentally ran into a rock.”
“There’s no big rocks around here, Bean.”
“Maybe he accidentally ran into a big fist then.”
It was the way Skye squeezed her eyes shut which made Duncan want to smile. She looked adorably frustrated, but obviously didn’t want to roll her eyes at her friend.
“Skye,” he prompted in a low voice, his open palm never wavering.
To her credit, she did glance down at it, and he thought she might be hesitating. The gold really wasn’t his, and they did have a history together.
Not just because their twins were married to one another either.
Duncan had kissed her. He’d tasted that pear-and-leather scent against his lips and his tongue. He’d taken himself in hand as he’d imagined doing more—so much more to her—with his tongue and his hands and his cock.
Aye, they shared a history.
And mayhap that history was exactly why she wasn’t going to back down now.
“Thank ye for yer offer, Bean,” she said to the big man, while holding Duncan’s gaze. “I’ll take it into consideration. In the meantime, split these up, will ye?”
Duncan lunged forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. She dropped Master Claire’s jewels into Bean’s hand, and Duncan’s snatching motion came up empty.
As Bean turned and began tossing the pieces one-by-one to his compatriots, Duncan stepped up to Skye’s side. With a growl, he reached an arm around her back and crushed her shoulder against his chest. Dropping his head, his lips were even with her ear when he whispered harshly, “Ye’ll regret that.”
The way she swallowed, told him she wasn’t immune to his closeness, and that knowledge sent his blood to his cock.
Down, lad.
He had more important things to think about now, other than how good she felt in his arms, and how much he’d like to—
What in damnation did I just say?
Thankfully, his cock listened this time.
In order to meet his eyes, she had to tilt h
er head back and a little sideways, which left him staring down at the smooth golden skin, flowing down her neck and disappearing into her gown.
She didn’t seem to mind.
“I dinnae see how I’ll regret it, Oliphant,” she murmured tauntingly. “ ’Tis our practice to split up the prizes right away, because ye cannae fight all of us.”
With that, he lifted his other palm to her cheek, so she was completely in his arms. As her eyes widened, he dragged that hand down to rest against her smooth throat.
“I dinnae have to,” he murmured, knowing she was at his mercy. And knowing she knew that.
It was at that moment her men seemed to realize what was going on.
“Oi!” hollered the older man. “Ye step away from milady, ye crumpety oakcake!”
Before the last words had even left his mouth, Duncan had twisted, pulling Skye in front of him, her neck bent at an awkward angle, and her body between him and the rest of the brigands.
“Dinnae move,” he snapped at them, his gaze sweeping over them all.
The older man was practically vibrating with anger, the tip of his sword swinging side to side. The giant stood with his mouth open, one of the golden brooches still cupped in his open palms, as if he were afraid to drop it. The Frenchman brandished two blades, but looked hesitant, which might be explained if he didn’t really understand what was going on. And the lad was ignoring them all, studying the gold in his hand.
“Milady?” the giant finally rumbled.
“Easy, Bean,” she choked out. “ ‘Twill— ‘Twill be aright.”
Of course it would, and if Skye really considered what she knew of him, she’d understand that. But Duncan was going to use this confusion to his advantage.
“Remove yer blade.” His fingers pressed into her cheek. “Slowly.” When she did, he eased his hold. “Now drop it.”
Her men—all but the kid, who had eyes only for his prize—seemed to hold their breaths as she dropped her dagger away from her feet.
Were they waiting for a signal from her?
They weren’t going to get it.
“Give me back my art,” he said, addressing the oldest man.
With a clenched jaw, the man looked to Skye, who did her best to shake her head.
“G-get it to the clan, Fergus,” she managed.
Shite.
She was planning on being stubborn.
But it was clear this Fergus cared for her and didn’t want her to be hurt. And since he didn’t know Duncan from a hole in the ground, so there was no reason for Fergus to think Duncan wouldn’t hurt her.
And Duncan could use that assumption.
With a sudden sideways lunge, Duncan barreled into Bean, still holding Skye close to him. The big man stumbled backward, but not before Duncan grabbed the hilt of his sword.
As Bean fell on his arse, Duncan brandished the blade—
Or rather, the lack of a blade.
“What the—?”
The sword had been broken off six inches from the hilt, the remainder of the blade being the only thing keeping it in the scabbard.
Who in damnation carried around a broken blade?
As the giant lumbered to his feet, Duncan answered his own question.
A man even bigger than Rocque, who looks angry enough to eat ye.
Change of plans!
Tossing the broken blade aside, and holding Skye tight against him with his left hand, he whirled away from the stunned little group and lunged for the reins of his horse. As she cried, “Nay!” he swung aboard, pulling her unceremoniously across his lap, facedown.
“My art in exchange for yer mistress!” he called to her men, none of whom had a nearby horse.
Then he kicked his own animal into a gallop and, with her bouncing enticingly atop his thighs, headed for MacIan land.
He still wasn’t sure of his plan—to have her alone, or to tell her brother of her escapades—but either way, he’d get his gold back.
And mayhap have the opportunity to kiss her again.
Chapter 3
Skye was so angry, she thought she might vomit.
Wait, no, that might be because she was lying across a horse, for fook’s sake!
When Duncan kicked the poor thing into a gallop, she slammed down hard against his thighs, and didn’t bother hiding the angry moan of protest which slipped from between her lips.
And then his hand dropped to her arse.
To steady her? Or for some other reason?
She vowed then and there, if he so much as squeezed, she’d make sure her vomit got inside those nice leather boots of his, by damnation!
Another jostle, and this time she cursed aloud.
How far had they ridden since he’d snatched her?
By the Virgin, she was the highwayman. She was supposed to be the one doing the kidnapping.
What other choice did ye leave him?
Squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the sight of the ground whizzing by so close, she told her subconscious to shut up.
She was a thief. This is what she did. She stole valuables from travelers to pay her clan’s debts. Now that Fiona was married and wouldn’t be able to use her charm to negotiate better prices for the goods they all needed, MacIan coin was even more dear. Skye needed this gold.
But from Duncan Oliphant?
He said the jewelry wasnae even his!
What did it matter who it belonged to?
‘Twas hers now.
The horse turned with a lurch—why was Duncan leaving the main road?—and Skye muttered a curse as she began to slide across his lap...headfirst toward the ground.
She planted her elbows against the animal’s flank just as Duncan grabbed the back of her belt. He didn’t slow the horse, but at least he cared enough to keep Skye from sliding off.
What do ye expect?
He needs ye alive to trade for his gold.
Even as she struggled to push herself upright, a part of Skye knew Duncan wasn’t going to hurt her. He’d held her neck—her life—in his hands just a moment before. He could’ve easily hurt her or worse, in order to retrieve his gold.
He hadn’t.
Instead, there’d been something besides anger in his gaze when he’d looked at her.
Something which reminded her of their kiss.
Something which made heat pool between her legs, even as his stance held the promise of danger.
Oh, get yer mind out of the midden heap, lass, and get yer arse upright!
With another muttered curse—one even she herself could barely hear over the pounding of hoofs so close to her head—she straightened her arms, pushing against the horse and the stirrups, and even Duncan’s leg, as she wriggled herself backward.
To her surprise, he helped, pulling her up, then holding her in place, when she was finally in a position to claw her way upright using the horse’s mane. Duncan even helped her turn over.
But mayhap that was only because he wanted her sitting in his lap, instead of across it.
With a huff, she settled herself on her rear, both legs thrown over one of his, and tried to ignore how nice his arm felt across her back.
Was he helping support her, or was it just a natural place for his arm to rest?
Well.
Here she was.
In Duncan’s lap.
Atop a galloping horse. Heading away from her men.
And Duncan had every right to be angry.
Blowing out another irritated breath, Skye reached up and dragged a handful of her hair over one shoulder, knowing, with it loose the way it was, it was likely blowing in his face.
“Let me go,” she demanded firmly, making sure she spoke loudly enough to be heard over the pounding of horse’s hooves.
When Duncan ignored her, she squirmed sideways, just a bit, in order to peek up at him.
He was staring straight ahead, but…was that a trace of a grin she saw on his lips?
“Let me go,” she repeated.
“Try to behave, S
kye.”
Damnation, but why did his voice still make her insides go all squirmy?
She’d noticed it the day she’d met him in the stable of his ancestral keep. Of course, she’d thought him Finn then, the man her sister was hesitant about marrying. Skye shouldn’t have kissed him back, but somehow the feel of his lips, the way his voice reached down deep into her stomach and squeezed, made her forget her loyalties for a time.
When he’d kissed her again, she’d damned well remembered then.
Frowning, she blew out a frustrated breath.
If she hadn’t been watching him, she would’ve missed the way his gaze dropped to her lips for only a moment, before snapping forward once more. And then his lips twitched. “Ye’re a shite highwayman, Skye.”
“Excuse me! I am a brilliant highwayman. Woman,” she hastily corrected, not liking the way her heart had jumped at the sight of his smile. “I just dinnae expect to see ye.”
Determined to get in the last word, she twisted, planting her shoulder blade against his chest and lifting her left knee over the front of the saddle. This way, she was still facing ahead, but without having to straddle the horse’s neck in this damnable gown.
The gown!
It was a garish crimson, something her sister-in-law had commissioned in order to show Skye was the sister of a great laird. Please. The MacIans were barely surviving since Allison had married into the family.
What did that woman find so much to spend MacIan coin on?
Focus, lass.
The gown was brightly colored and especially useful in attracting the attention of potential prizes. And it would be equally helpful in attracting the attention of her men.
Because Skye knew Fergus would be coming after her. He might be a bit behind, because Duncan’s animal was still galloping, and Fergus and the others would have had to go round up their horses, but he would follow.
And a part of Skye knew it’d be easier to just give the man his bloody gold back and let him be on his way. But another, more stubborn, part of her wanted to send the gold back to MacIan land with Fergus, so she could stay with Duncan a bit longer—
What? Nay!
Nay, he’d kidnapped her!
After ye waylaid him and relieved him of his coin.
He’d called it his art. Glancing down at her hand, at the simple braided-gold ring she’d slid on her finger, before tossing the rest to Bean, Skye knew that was the correct term for it. This was art.
Scot on Her Trail Page 3