Focus, for fook’s sake!
Oh, aye, the gown.
And mayhap there was a way to hide the ring she’d stolen, as well…
Keeping her hands low, certain her shoulders would block her movements, Skye very carefully tore a strip of crimson silk from the hem of her gown, then nonchalantly dropped it from the horse.
She didn’t dare turn to see where it had landed, but prayed it would help Fergus find her.
But would it be enough?
Nay, he’d only know she passed this way, but not where they were going. She’d need to continue dropping cloth for him to follow their trail.
The second piece she ripped she made sure was long enough to reach around her neck, then, slowly, keeping her movements as small as possible, she slid the ring from her finger and onto the red silk ribbon.
Then she pretended to sneeze, and in lifting her hands to her face, hurried to slip the ribbon around her neck, under her hair, and tie it in the front.
There. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.
The third and fourth pieces were easy to tear and drop over the side of the horse, leaving a sort of trail. But then she reached a seam, and when she yanked on it, harder than intended, two things happened.
One, she elbowed Duncan in the side, and he grunted beside her ear.
Two, her bloody dress ripped all the way up the side, to at least her knee.
Freezing, she held her breath, waiting for him to catch on to her scheme and say something.
When he didn’t, she cautiously returned to her work, picking at the threads with her fingernails, until a strip ripped away from her gown along where the seam had been. It might’ve made a noise, but she was certain he couldn’t hear it over the sound of the horse.
Otherwise he would’ve said something, right?
By the twelfth time she’d dropped a piece of crimson silk, the sun was low in the horizon, and the front of her gown’s skirt was almost in tatters. Luckily, the way she was sitting had made it easy for her to go about her efforts, but she was going to have to switch positions soon, so she could reach another section of her gown.
Duncan chose that moment to slow the horse again, having alternated between cantering and trotting over the last hour.
For what seemed like the first time since he’d snatched her up, Skye felt him relax. The breath he blew out ruffled her hair, and she remembered she’d tucked as much as she could down her bodice to keep it from blowing around.
With a low groan, he twisted first one way, then the other, stretching his muscles. Then he settled easily into the saddle once more, but she continued to hold herself stiffly away from him, wondering what his plan was.
His right hand—which had been resting on his hip as he rode—now came around to take the reins from his other hand. And for a moment, she was enclosed in his embrace, surrounded by his warmth.
And when he dropped his right arm, she vowed she wasn’t disappointed.
Oh, aye.
But his right hand came to rest on her hip. Just…rested there. Not possessive, not threatening, but just resting there, as if his hand belonged on her. As if it was perfectly normal for him to be touching her so intimately.
And part of her agreed.
“So…” When he spoke, his breath tickled the back of her ear, the same way that delicious, gravely tone of his tickled other parts of her. “Are ye going to continue?”
She jerked, partly in confusion, partly because she’d allowed herself to relax against him. “What?”
The hand on her hip didn’t move, but she could hear the humor in his voice when he answered.
“Ye’re running out of silk. I thought mayhap ye’d like to turn a bit so ye could reach a different part of yer skirt. Or…” When his voice lowered, so did his chin. She could feel his breath against the back of her neck now, as if he were staring down the front of her gown. “Or mayhap yer bodice?”
“Ye want me to start ripping apart my bodice?” she asked in a choked voice.
She felt him shrug. “ ’Twas just a suggestion. I wouldnae mind if ye did, but ‘tisnae necessary.”
Blessed Virgin! What was he saying? “Why is it no’ necessary?”
“Because I’ve left a trail a blind man could follow.”
Oh, joy, here came her anger, bubbling back up again, after being repressed for so long by being able to actually do something.
“Ye want my men to follow us,” she accused in a hot tone. “That’s why ye havenae stopped me ripping up my gown.”
This time, he didn’t so much shrug, as shift in the saddle, and she clamped down on any pleasure she might have gained by feeling his hard thighs move under hers.
And—curse him!—his hand began to move against her. Just slightly, his thumb making small, comforting movements against her hip.
She tried not to enjoy it.
“I’d be lying if I said I didnae want ye, Skye MacIan,” he finally admitted with that low, rumbling voice of his.
And she was almost positive she managed to clamp down on the whimper of yearning his little confession provoked.
“But?” she managed in a strangled whisper.
“But…I also want my master’s art back. And I can trade ye for those pieces.”
And damn her, but an indignant snort burst from her lips. “Ye want that gold more than ye want me?”
As soon as the indignant question had left her lips, she clamped them down hard against each other and prayed he wouldn’t answer.
But then, after a full minute went by and he didn’t answer, she got angry again.
“Am I wrong?” she turned in his lap, trying to glare at him, but was unable to make it all the way around. Instead, she twisted her neck enough to meet his eyes. “Am I?”
When he dropped his gaze to hers, Skye knew she was in trouble.
Those beautiful dark eyes of his would be her undoing, even more so with the unrecognizable emotion in them now. His blond hair was as long as his brother’s, but Duncan kept it tied back at the base of his neck. It made him look refined, which was a delightful, delicious juxtaposition to how callused his hands were from his work at the forge.
Whoa there, lass. Ye’re no’ planning on eating the man, are ye?
Her eyes widened, remembering some stories her sister had told her about the marriage bed, and she whirled back around, pressing her shoulders to his chest and trying to hide the heat in her cheeks.
“Ye punched me.”
His whisper had been so faint, she wasn’t sure she’d really heard it.
“I thought ye were Finn,” she snapped, the excuse obvious and half-hearted.
He made a noise, which might’ve been an agreement…or mayhap not.
Weeks ago, Skye had joined her identical twin sister, Fiona, as she traveled to Oliphant Castle to marry one of the laird’s sons, Finn. In the courtyard, Finn had reached for Skye, thinking her Fiona, which had led to some awkwardness.
Not an hour later, Skye had been in the stable, caring for her horse, when Finn—or at least a man who had looked exactly like Finn—had begun flirting with her.
She couldn’t deny her attraction, and had known her sister wasn’t devoted to the idea of marriage, so she’d felt it safe to flirt back. And when he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back…until she’d come to her senses.
The guilt had eaten at her, and she’d tried to tell Fiona, several times, that her husband-to-be was complete pond-scum, but her sister had pushed her away each time.
Then came the night Skye had left the room to Fiona for privacy and had slept in the stables. The very morning after her sister had given herself to Finn, Skye woke to find herself in his arms.
So she’d punched him.
It wasn’t until later that morning, when she’d seen Finn standing beside his identical twin, that she’d realized what must have happened.
And standing there in that great hall, her arms around Fiona as she watched both men lift their identical kilts to show off almost-identic
al dangly bits—Finn apparently had a freckle, but Skye hadn’t peered too closely, due to being distracted by Duncan—she’d been surprised by the relief she’d felt.
Aye, she’d punched Duncan Oliphant for taking advantage of her…but now that she knew who he was, she’d gladly allow it again. If only he hadn’t run off to Eriboll so quickly.
She’d been a little hurt by that, to tell the truth.
But she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Why’d ye run off to Eriboll, Dunc?”
The nickname came easily, half-mocking, half-affectionate. He was silent for a long moment.
“My master sent me,” he finally said. “One of her patrons was interested in selling back the work she’d done for him, and she’s too old to make the journey.”
“Yer smithing master is a woman?”
“Aye.” The pride in his voice was obvious. “She’s the best in the Highlands, as far as I’m concerned. My stepfather was the first to put a hammer in my hand, but Master Claire taught me patience and craft.”
She’d met his stepfather—the village smith was even bigger than Laird Oliphant—a fortnight before, when she’d visited his smithy to ask about caltrops. They were vicious tools she refused to use, but Hoarse Harold often employed them. If she could only figure out where he was getting them from…
“She lives in Lairg. That’s where I was headed the first day I met ye. Finn wanted me to stay and meet his betrothed, but with Master Claire getting up there in years, I felt I had to rush to Lairg to see why she’d summoned me.” His thumb was making those little circles on her hip again, and she wondered if he was doing it on purpose. “I’d just returned, the morning I found ye sleeping in the stables.”
Finn had explained all this, after Duncan had escaped Oliphant land once again.
“So the gold ye carry…”
“Master Claire’s, aye,” his low voice rumbled behind her, lulling her into a false sense of relaxation. “I carried enough coin north to buy the pieces from her patron’s widow, who needed the monies more than the gold, and was kind enough to offer the exchange. On the trip back, I kenned I needed to stay alert for bandits, but I dinnae expect them to be so pretty.”
Wonderful.
So now she had to feel guilty of not only stealing his gold, but of stealing an old woman’s artwork?
Damnation.
With a sigh, he tugged her closer, and she was too surprised to resist. In the time it took his breath to rustle her hair, his left hand was spread across her stomach, her back was flush against his chest, and her arse was nestled atop his—his hardness.
With his chin, he nudged her head to one side, and she found herself leaning against him. It was wonderful. It was terrible.
“What kind of woman turns highwayman?” he murmured in a speculative voice, as if the answer didn’t really matter. “I kenned ye fierce, lass, but why turn to thieving?”
Because I’m desperate.
But there was a part of her, warm and safe and content in his arms, which scoffed at her own thoughts. So she pressed her lips together and said nothing.
Instead, Skye simply allowed herself to enjoy his embrace and pretend he cared about her, if even only a little.
Chapter 4
St. Simon’s left bollock, but she felt right in his arms.
Too bad she would rather be anywhere but in his arms right now. ‘Twas obvious from the way she’d done her best to leave a trail her men could follow. And as much as Duncan claimed he wanted her men to follow that trail as well, a bigger—harder—part of him wanted as much time alone with her as possible.
It was that hard part, currently pressing against her arse, which probably clued her in.
“So,” she began, as she squirmed in his lap, “if ye get yer gold back, what will Master Claire do with it?”
He tightened his hold on her, warning her without words to quit moving. Not because he wanted to control her, but the way her thighs were pressed against him, had him painfully hard already, and her movements weren’t helping matters.
“I dinnae ken,” he murmured, trying not to breathe in her leather and pear scent. “Mayhap sell to another patron.”
“Claire made all those pieces?”
For some reason, the knowledge Skye remembered his master’s name, and was clearly impressed with the woman, made him smile.
“Most of them,” he said nonchalantly. Only one piece had been made by him, and he didn’t know which of her men held it. “All but the simplest ring. I made that one when I was learning the craft.”
She hesitated, then asked a little too quickly, “How did ye meet Claire?”
If she wanted to hear him talk, he’d oblige her. The sun was setting, and he had every intention of stopping for the night soon, but he’d look for some food for them first.
“My mother lived in the village below Oliphant Castle. As soon as we were born, Da began to visit us. My brothers, Alistair and Kiergan, were already living up at the castle—they’re two months older than us, and their mother died giving birth to them. By the time we were weaned, the four of us were a ‘roaming pack o’ ruffians,’ to hear Da tell it.”
Smiling, he remembered the trouble they’d gotten into as lads and all the mischief they’d caused. But he wasn’t answering her question.
“Our mother married the smith, a good man—”
“Edward,” she interrupted, sounding pleased she knew at least some part of his tale. “I met him.”
“Och, aye, Mam said ye’d stopped by to visit.” She’d said it with a twinkle in her eye, come to think of it. “Asking Edward about caltrops, she said?”
Skye shifted her weight again, causing him to spread his fingers across her belly. When she sucked in a breath, he wondered if he’d startled her, or if she liked his touch.
“Hoarse Harold has been kenned to use the devilish little devices, and we cannae track where he’s having them made. My men have searched from Wick to Eriboll, and nae smith will admit to making them for him.”
Duncan hummed thoughtfully. “Neither Edward nor I would make them.”
Caltrops were simple tools and required no skill or finesse to create; they were simply two sharp nails, bent around one another, to form four points across two planes. No matter how they landed on the ground, one of the sharp points was always pointed upward.
Run a horse across a scattering of them, and you could lame the poor beast. And even if you didn’t permanently harm the animal, you’d still end up stopped there in the middle of the road.
Hoarse Harold, and other highwaymen, had made particularly effective use of them.
“So ye’ve never used them?”
She straightened so suddenly, it made him realize two things: One, she was genuinely offended by the question; and two, she’d been bloody relaxed in his arms until that moment.
“I would never harm a horse that way!” she hissed.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured. “Ye have my apologies.” His tone turned teasing. “What else was I to ask, having such a dangerous, brilliant highwayman in my arms?”
Slowly, she exhaled; her shoulders slumping against his once more. “Ye were telling me about yer stepfather.”
Changing the subject, aye?
He chuckled, then gave her what she asked for. “Edward was the one who’d seen I needed direction, or I’d become as shiftless as Kiergan. By my second month apprenticing with him, he realized I had an eye for detail he lacked, and put me to work on the smaller projects, which required more patience. And by the time I was thirteen, he’d found Master Claire—who’d just retired—and sent me to study with her. In a year, I was producing the jewelry she could nae longer create.”
Skye didn’t speak for a long time.
When she finally did, Duncan had just spotted the smoke from a crofter’s hut and veered toward it. She’d relaxed against him again, and he wondered if she noticed.
“Yer family cares for ye, even yer stepfather.”
“Aye,” he blurted, start
led at the wonder in her tone, “of course he does. We’re family.”
When she didn’t respond, he flexed his fingers against her belly, the gentle movement not quite a massage. “Yer brother loves ye too, I ken it.”
The memory of standing there in the great hall, Duncan’s kilt up around his ears, still made his neck flush. But he knew Stewart MacIan had only forced the issue, because he cared for Fiona’s future, as he surely cared for Skye the same way.
“Fiona and I are the youngest of eight. Stewart became laird when our father died, and our two sisters had already married by then. Two of our brothers joined the church, and one died before I was old enough to remember him. None of us are close.”
It was the sadness in her voice which made his protective instincts flare. He had a twin brother and eight other siblings in total, counting Nessa and Mam’s bairns by Edward. He was lucky enough to have two families and couldn’t imagine not being close to any of them.
“I’m sorry, lass. At least ye have Fiona.”
“Nay, Finn has Fiona now.”
St. Simon’s spleen, she sounded pitiful.
“Still, yer brother, the laird, cares for ye. Even if ye’re no’ close, he’s honor-bound to protect ye.” Seemed like as good a time as any to ask the question which had been gnawing at him. “So why in damnation are ye thieving like a common bandit?”
It was Duncan’s incredibly bad luck that the horse trotted up to the crofter’s yard at that moment.
“I’m anything but common, Duncan Oliphant,” Skye declared in a haughty voice, as she sat forward, pulling away from him. “Now, if ye’re going to fetch us something to eat, ye best do it quick, afore darkness falls.”
Damnation, but she was right.
As he slid his hand away from her, he gave her hip a little pinch. “Dinnae do aught stupid, lass,” he whispered, as he slid from the saddle, taking care to reposition her and keep a firm hold on the reins as he stepped up to the croft.
When the crofter stepped out, he eyed the Oliphant plaid Duncan wore, his shoulders relaxing. “What can I do for ye?”
Scot on Her Trail Page 4