Her Outlaw

by Geralyn Dawson

  Guilt flashed so briefly across his face that she’d have missed it had she not been watching for it. Emma’s stomach sank. “You did.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you.” Dair raked his fingers through his hair, then braced his hands on his hips. “It’s private, Emma. I swear to you it’s not a venereal disease, and it’s certainly not contagious. Can’t you just take my word that it has nothing to do with you? There’s no danger to you from me?”

  “No.”

  He growled low in his throat, then dropped his head. Emma’s bare foot tapped against the hardwood floor. When he finally looked up, he stared her right in the eyes. “It’s alcohol. I have a drinking problem.”

  She almost laughed at his poor performance. What a liar. Emma had grown up in a frontier town. Back before he went respectable, Emma’s father had owned a saloon. She might not know the signs of syphilis, but she darned sure knew what a drunk looked like.

  Dair MacRae didn’t have broken capillaries in his face or trembling hands or a raspy voice. His skin tone wasn’t yellow. And, recalling a tidbit she’d overheard from a discussion between her father and her brothers, neither had Dair MacRae lost size in his testicles due to overconsumption of alcohol. Therefore, the man was a liar. She’d told him how she felt about liars.

  Emma pursed her lips. “A drinking problem. I see.”

  “I try to control myself,” he explained. “Sometimes I slip.”

  “Yes. I understand that a dependence on spirits can do that to a person.” Wait until he saw what an angry woman can accomplish.

  “I’m ashamed, Emma, but I’m not contagious. You need not concern yourself over that.”

  Now that had a ring of truth to it. Either his acting was improving or he was telling the truth.

  Had to be better acting. The cad. “Well, then. That is a relief. I admit I was quite frightened at the thought.”

  He scowled and hooked his thumbs at the waistband of his pants. “It’s insulting that you’d think so little of me, Emma. The clap.” His scowl deepened to a glare.

  You think that’s insulting? Wait until you see what I have up my sleeve, MacRae. Or, to be more precise, beneath my towel. “Well, we can just put that behind us now, can’t we?” she said, smiling seductively and taking a step toward him. “In fact, I think we should move forward, don’t you?”

  His gaze dropped to the finger she ran along the swell of her breast rising above the shielding towel. “Forward is good.”

  “If the bookseller is back and the time has come to move forward in the quest to solve the mystery of my ruby, then I think we should put all the unpleasantness behind us.”

  “I’m perfectly agreeable to that.” He never looked above her shoulders.

  Got you, you predictable idiot.

  “Shall we seal the deal? With a…” Emma braced herself to follow through, then boldly dropped her towel “…kiss?”

  “Emma.” He said it like a growl and took two steps toward her.

  She shifted sideways, held up her hand. “No, we’ll be on equal footing this time.” Deliberately, she dropped her gaze to where the evidence of his desire was very much in evidence.

  He stripped in seconds, then naked as she, again stepped toward her.

  Emma’s laugh was honest. The man was predictable and easily swayed with a little show of skin. She shook her head slowly, shook her finger no. “Allow me to set the rules for this…compact, Alasdair. Allow me my fantasy. Follow my lead?”

  He nodded. “For as long as I can bear, Emma.”

  It was, she thought, as good as she was likely to get. She stepped into his arms and lifted her face for his kiss. “You must think of me and only of me, MacRae.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” he replied in a raspy tone.

  Even as his mouth touched hers, she wrapped her arms around him and started to move, to twirl. Kissing him, moaning into his mouth, fitting her body against his, she demanded his focus, captured his complete attention. Pouring every ounce of passion she could summon into the moment, she backed him up to the french doors’ threshold. Then, Emma kneed him in the groin, not viciously, but hard enough to make him gasp and release her. She set her hands against his chest and gave him a hard shove before darting inside, slamming and locking the French doors.

  As the catcalls began to rise from the street and fury flooded Dair’s eyes, she smiled. “Lie to me again, boyo, and next time I’ll use my knife.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AS FAR AS DAIR WAS concerned, all bets were off. She wanted to fight dirty? Fine. He was an expert at dirty fights. Emma could use some lessons. She’d only knocked his jewels up into his stomach.

  Doubled over, he worked to regulate his breath. Fury burned in his blood like raw whisky. Emma Tate might not know it, but she had more than met her match.

  When the pain finally eased, he straightened and stared into the room. He’d expected her to have run off. Hit and run. That’s what women did, wasn’t it?

  Instead, he discovered that she’d tugged on a robe and now stood on the other side of the doors, her arms folded, her chin up, watching him with fire in her eyes. God, she was gorgeous. All flame and fury. A dusky nipple peeked through the V in her robe and despite his lingering discomfort, arousal stirred. Glutton for punishment, his good sense whispered.

  Dair could have gone right back through the French doors—he could have used wire from the hanging basket of flowers to pick the lock in seconds flat. He could have her on her back on the bed before she could draw a breath to scream. The tease. The termagant. Knee him, would she?

  Instead, cognizant of the truth of the old saying that revenge was a dish best served cold, he decided to take a more subtle approach. So to speak.

  From the building across the street, he heard his elderly neighbor call for her sister. “Hurry! You can’t miss this.”

  “Heaven,” came the sister’s voice. “I saw some prime meat in my day, but never so fine a sight as Mr. MacRae’s bare behind.”

  From down below, came the sound of a younger female voice, a startled gasp, then a man crying out, “She’s fainted. Quick. Get her out of the street before—stop! You there in the wagon!”

  Crash. Squeals. Shouts. Dair didn’t turn to look. He didn’t take his gaze off Emma.

  “Silly twit,” came the neighbor’s voice. “Fainting in the street. It wasn’t the wagon driver’s fault he swerved into the orange cart. She should have to pay for all the fruit.”

  Dair ignored all the commotion—along with that perky nipple—as the anger flowing through his veins spiked his desire. He braced his hands on his hips and helped matters along by recalling the moment Emma Tate dropped the towel. He pictured the fullness of her rose-tipped breasts, the slimness of her waist, the curve of her naked hip. The allure of the delta between her legs. Stimulated by such an erotic vision, his pride rose to the occasion, issuing the promise he’d intended.

  On the other side of the glass, Emma’s eyes widened and she took an inadvertent step back. Dair winked at her, then with long-practiced ease and grace, he swung his arms and leaped up, grabbing hold of a water pipe and using it to crawl like a cat up to the balcony one floor above. As he turned to raid a flower basket for wire to pick the lock, he gave his wide-eyed neighbors a jaunty salute.

  “I can die a happy woman now, sister,” he heard the woman say as the lock clicked open. He blew her a kiss before disappearing indoors.

  In the privacy of his suite as the rush of anger faded, Dair allowed himself a few minutes to brood. Blast the woman. She’d led him around by the spigot and caused him to bare his ass to Edinburgh. Literally. It was humiliating. Embarrassing. When was the last time he’d allowed a woman to get the best of him?

  Never, that’s when. Emma Tate was a first.

  Almost against his will, his mouth lifted in a rueful grin. Damn, but she was a spitfire. Spirited. Saucy. Smart. She’d found his weak spot and capitalized on it. A man had to admire that. As much as he appreciated beauty
, Dair had always found intelligence in a woman equally alluring. Emma Tate packed a double punch.

  The more he thought about the situation, the better he felt. Once he could get past the embarrassment of flashing his backside to the neighbors, he realized he could now let go of any lingering guilt about his departure from Chatham Park. He and Mrs. Tate were even on the humiliation point. Also, by using sex as a weapon, she’d made it fair for him to draw his own gun, so to speak. Seduction was now back on the table. Thank God.

  Of course, before he got around to that he’d better disabuse her of the notion that his illness had anything to do with his sexual health. The clap, for God’s sake. Where had she come up with that idea? And how could he make her believe him? What excuse for the headaches could he use now that Malaysian Yellow River Syndrome was no longer an option?

  He’d chosen poorly with the alcohol excuse, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d underestimated her. He should have had a backup sickness at the ready.

  “I didn’t lie well enough,” he muttered. He was truly losing his touch. Lying to Emma Tate was work. It didn’t come naturally. Didn’t sit well when he did it. Who would have ever thought?

  Dair put that concern aside and pondered the likelihoods and possibilities as he dressed. He’d suffered a headache every damned day since arriving in Edinburgh. Either the thing in his head was growing faster than predicted or something about this town made his symptoms worse.

  Perhaps he should consider offering her a version of the truth. Now there would be a novel approach. Emma was an intelligent woman. He’d need to be extra careful about just what he said and how he said it. The absolute truth was his enemy. He’d rather die here and now than have her gaze at him with pity.

  He continued to mull over the situation as he knocked on Emma’s door a few moments later. “I’m off to visit with Robbie Potter. If you wish to come along, be downstairs in ten minutes.”

  He expected her to play games and make him wait because of course, he couldn’t go without her. Robbie needed to see the necklace. But again, the lady surprised him, joining him almost immediately. She flounced downstairs, her head held high, her shoulders squared, a woman ready for battle.

  “You look beautiful, Emma,” he told her, sucking some of the wind from her sails.

  She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Thank you.”

  He opened the front door. “It’s a lovely day and the bookshop isn’t far. I thought we’d walk.”

  He needed to see if he’d picked up another tail. The fact he hadn’t left that problem behind in England bothered him more than he cared to admit, and he’d spent part of the past week investigating the situation. The possibility that this was Riever related was becoming stronger all the time. While he’d gained no hard evidence, instincts told him he needed to leave Scotland—for that matter, leave Great Britain—as quickly as possible. While he’d originally planned to return to Scotland to die, he wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

  He wasn’t quite finished with Emma Tate.

  “Hmm,” the lady said as she swept past him. “A walk suits me fine, although I’ve a stop I wish to make on the way. I’d like to pay a quick visit to a brothel.”

  Dair tripped over the welcome mat. “Pardon me?”

  “Take me to a whorehouse, MacRae. I’m sure you know where to find one or twelve.”

  For a long moment he simply stared at her. Damn it, she still thought he had the blue balls. His temper flared. “Fine. Any particular peccadillo you’re interested in? Bondage, perhaps? I must say I find the idea quite appealing in your case.”

  She wrinkled her nose with disdain. “Do we need transportation or is a brothel within walking distance?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and took off at a brisk pace, not bothering to narrow his strides or calm his temper. If she wanted to keep up, she could damn well run. Then he stopped short and whirled on her. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned about your reputation, Mrs. Tate?”

  She beamed a brilliant smile his way. “Not at all. I’m a stranger in town. I’m anonymous. It offers a certain freedom.”

  She was insane, that’s what she was.

  “That’s a poor argument, anyway, MacRae. After all, I’m living in your house. I traveled with you from England. If I worried about my reputation, do you think I’d have done that?”

  “I don’t know what to think. First this morning’s peep show, now a brothel visit. Are you running out of funds, Mrs. Tate? Are you hoping to secure a job?”

  She gasped. Wounded eyes revealed her hurt. “That was uncalled for.”

  Yes, it was. Guilt poked at Dair which only added to his frustration. At wits’ end, he demanded, “Why do you want to visit a whorehouse?”

  “Because prostitutes will have the information I need, and I can trust them to tell me the truth!”

  Aha! His brain might be rotting, but he hadn’t lost all his faculties. Dair braced his hands on his lips and leaned over her. “I. Don’t. Have. The. Clap.”

  “Then what’s wrong with you?” she demanded, throwing both arms wide. Her voice was tight, her eyes brimming with emotion, with concern. “Something is wrong with you, and I’m not going to stop hounding you until you tell me what it is!”

  She cared. Not for herself and for her own health concerns, but for him. She was worried about him. The realization knocked Dair back a step. Oh, Emma. Don’t let me break your heart.

  He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to let her go. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to—“I’m dying…to tell you, Emma. But not on a public street.”

  She twisted her head, looking up and down the street, then she grabbed his hand and tugged him half a block to a shop bearing the sign Beal’s Women’s Wear. “What th—?” he began.

  “Wait,” Emma snapped. She dragged him past a startled customer and a scandalized clerk saying, “Your dressing rooms?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t—”

  But then Emma saw them, and she did. Heedless of feminine squeaks and squeals from a second dressing room, she shoved him into the first. Flinging the curtain closed, she whirled on him. “Now. We’re private. Talk to me, Dair.”

  Dair’s notice snagged on a filmy nightgown in transparent, garnet-colored silk. For a moment, he had trouble thinking.

  “Now, MacRae!”

  His stomach rolled. He didn’t want to do this. He searched his mind for another way…any other way…to no avail. Hell. Pitching his voice low, barely above a whisper, he said, “I have a…swelling…in my head. It causes me headaches that can be quite severe, as you have seen. My doctor has prescribed these…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bottle containing small white pills “…to reduce the swelling. It will take some months, but I will be fine.”

  From the other side of the curtain, the clerk’s shrill voice exclaimed, “Sir! Sir! Excuse me. You’re not allowed in here.”

  Dair and Emma both ignored the interruption. “What causes this swelling?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “My physician believes it is the result of a blow to the head I recently received.”

  “Then why the Malaysian foolishness? Why would you lie?”

  “It’s…embarrassing.”

  Emma snorted. “Being stranded naked on a balcony is embarrassing. Having an illness is not.”

  “Sir!” called the clerk. “I must insist!”

  “We need a moment of privacy,” Dair snapped back. Turning to Emma, he spoke with an honesty he hadn’t anticipated or intended. “I’m a man who prefers to be in control. When the headaches begin…I’m not. You’ve seen me. It isn’t pretty, and it’s not something I wanted to subject you to.”

  It was as close to the truth as he was going to give her. Being an invalid, being dependent on someone else appalled him. Having her see him as such disgusted him. He wanted to give in to the urge to give the dressing-room chair a good hard kick.

  “Men and their sacred pride.” She folde
d her arms, tapped her foot and studied him for a long tense minute. “So rather than subject me to your illness, you’d prefer that I—your lover—believe you’ve a case of Venus’s Curse instead of knowing that the headaches result from an injury?”

  “I don’t know why you—” He pinned her with an intense stare. “So you still consider yourself my lover?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, MacRae.”

  “I didn’t want you to know, all right?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t told anyone. Not even Jake. You’re the only one. I don’t want people knowing!”

  “Why not?” When he didn’t answer, she answered for him. “Pride, right? Foolish male pride.”

  Her toe continued to tap, her stare continued to measure. Finally, she nodded. “My father would be just the same way. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I believe you.”

  He started to touch her, but ended up shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t give you a disease, Texas. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  She nodded.

  “Speaking of giving…I wondered…well…” He stared pointedly at her stomach. “That night at Chatham Park I was careless.”

  “Oh. No, Dair, you didn’t give me a baby, either.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He felt a twist, a sharp pang of regret, but he firmly shut the door on that. He studied Emma’s expression, trying to read it. Was that regret in her eyes, too? Damn. “So then, do you still wish to visit Madame LaRue’s or are you ready to continue on to the bookshop?”

  “I guess I can skip Madame LaRue’s. Just don’t lie to me again, MacRae. I deserve better than that.”

  True, lass. But we don’t always get what we deserve.

  Dair shoved back the dressing room curtain to discover one clerk wringing her hands and the other holding the broom as if it were a club. Ever so much the gentleman, he put his hand against the small of Emma’s back and escorted her out. To placate the clerks and please himself, he snagged the red nightgown and said, “We’ll take this.”