The lass was ill-suited to hardship. He’d watched her tender feet bloom with welts and blisters as the day wore on, watched as she’d alternately hobbled barefoot and then booted.
Yet she’d never complained despite the bruising pace he’d forced on her. Even without food, she’d never complained.
She was not what he’d anticipated. He’d expected a pampered lady from a golden land, a lady who would expect him to do her bidding, to be waited on, mayhap even carried. Instead, she’d turned out to be a hoyden. A wildcat with a warrior’s toughness despite her tender feet, and a deep flowing river of inner strength. A woman who intrigued him far more than he wished.
With his anger abated, he moved to where she sat huddled and shaking. He lowered himself beside her and pulled her against him to share what warmth he had. She was more than shaking, he realized. The tremors racked her body with alarming force. He grabbed her icy hand, then felt her face, the back of her neck. As cold as her hand.
His heart gave a sick thud.
“Wait here,” he whispered, as if she were in any condition to wander off. He found Dunhaven’s stables, broke the lock off one of the doors, and slipped inside. Feeling his way through the dark, he found what he’d been hoping for—an empty stall halffilled with soft hay.
Returning to the alley, he scooped her into his arms. She would not die this night. He’d not allow it.
He carried her to the stall and laid her on the hay, then searched through the dark until he found a horse blanket. “I know ye’re cold, Wildcat, but I must remove these wet garments or you’ll not get warm. I found a blanket.”
She made a sound that seemed to be acceptance, though she was shaking so hard he could not tell. He’d never felt a body so cold. He peeled off the shirt of his she wore again and reached for her strange shirt with the words on the front.
“How do I remove this?”
She moved, but could barely help him. “P-pull it over my head. Careful. I . . . I don’t want it to rip.”
“There isna room for your head, lass.”
“It stretches.”
With a frown, Rourke did as she directed. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and gently pulled it upward. Amazingly, it slipped off with little effort.
He eased off her boots. “Now yer breeks.” He grasped her slender waist, feeling for a button or tie, but found neither. “Will these be stretching, too?” The garments fascinated him, but now was not the time to marvel at them.
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “H-hurry. I’m so c-cold.”
He slipped his finger into the waistband of her breeks and pulled. Sure enough, they yielded. Amazing. He pulled them down over her hips, encountering a wee scrap of silk with his knuckles. Silk covering her most precious gifts.
The thought tantalized him as he pulled the breeks off her, and then retraced his path, running his hands up smooth, frozen legs to the silken scrap. He gently pulled it over her hips, leaving her bare and damp and vulnerable.
His eyes longed for a glimpse of the womanly curves his fingers had skimmed, wishing for even a single candle’s light to break the dark. Instead, he pulled the horse blanket snug around her. “Lie ye down. I’ll pile the hay about you to help hold in a little of your heat.”
“I . . . have . . . n-no . . . heat.”
He stared into the darkness toward her voice. He had no broth to warm her from the inside, no fire for the outside.
All he had was himself. Bloody hell. But he had to get her warm. With grim determination, he yanked off his sodden clothes, opened the blanket, and lay down beside her. He gathered her frozen body into his arms and wrapped the musty wool around them both.
Her quakes tore through him as he rubbed her cold skin, seeking to build some warmth within her, regretting his insistence she swim this eve. He prayed her warrior’s strength would see her through this night, for he feared, if he didn’t get her warmed, she’d soon be fighting for her life. She was too soft for such mischief.
His hands rubbed her back, her buttocks.
She was too soft. His hand ran down one long leg. Too . . . smooth.
His breath caught as his mind caught up with what his body had already realized. He held a naked woman in his arms, her small distended nipples pressing against his chest. A shaft of hot desire surged between his legs.
Ah, Christ.
He was no saint. He was all for having a lass in his bed, but not this lass. Never this lass.
His body shuddered with a need that would likely tear him asunder before daybreak. He must hold her . . . simply hold her . . . until she warmed.
Even if it took every bit of strength he possessed.
SIX
The night was cool, the stable dark as a blackguard’s soul and rich with the smells of horse and hay. Smells Rourke had had little contact with since he’d left Scotland as a lad. Smells that brought back a wealth of memories he wished to forget.
The lass shifted against him, burrowing closer as if she would crawl inside him. Heaven knew, his body strained to do the same to her. The feel of her soft flesh pressed against him was nearly beyond bearing.
She shivered violently and he wrapped his bare leg around her frozen hips, blanketing her in every way he could. He knew she could feel the hardness of his arousal, but was either too dazed to notice, or too cold to care. She merely squeezed closer to him, her soft breasts tight against his chest.
Breathe.
It was torture to be but inches from the source of her womanhood and not slake his desire, but he’d never taken advantage of a woman and he’d not start now. Never would he tie himself to her in that way—in any way. Desperately, he sought to think of something other than the soft flesh pressed against him.
Hegarty. Now there was a thought to cool his ardor. Where was the little bugger tonight? Holed up in a warm room with a fire and hot stew? Or under lock in the village gaol? On the morrow he would find him and hand Brenna Cameron over to him once and for all.
The woman moved her head, her hair brushing against his chin. Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, he felt her shivers begin to subside, felt her warming beneath his hands. She’d be all right now. He could slip away from her, leave her wrapped in the horse blanket until morn.
She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his chest.
He should move away.
But she felt too good. Even with his need unabated, the feel of her in his arms was heaven.
She made a faint snuffling sound and he knew she slept.
When was the last time he’d held a woman as she slept? Never. He’d never wanted such closeness. He didn’t want it now.
But despite the command from his brain, his arms refused to release her. So he lay, uncomfortable with need, but warm. And surprisingly content.
He yawned deeply. Exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on him despite his arousal. He might not sleep, but he would at least rest his eyes.
But sleep he did.
He half woke to the feel of soft lips against his bare shoulder. His wildcat. Kissing, nuzzling, her warm, damp tongue darting out to mark him. He half remembered where he was. Half didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was on fire for the woman in his arms. And by the sounds coming from her throat as she ran her small hand through the hair on his chest, she returned his ardor.
That same hand slid over his shoulder and into his hair as she tipped her face to his, seeking his kiss. He needed to taste her. He needed to feel her hard nipple in the palm of his hand. As his mouth covered hers, she opened to him and their tongues met and slid together, igniting a need inside him that raged.
He was ablaze, unable to get enough. His hand found her breast, cupping and kneading the gentle swell that had obsessed him, while his lips moved from her mouth to taste her cheek and jaw. She tasted salty and womanly, like a sea nymph should.
His lips moved to her neck and she shivered, but not with cold this time. The moan that escaped her throat was pure desire. Raw, feminine desire that sent his hu
nger for her spiraling out of control.
She wrapped one bare leg around his hips, opening herself to him. He was helpless to deny her, knowing he’d die if he didn’t bury himself inside her soon.
He pushed her gently onto her back, sliding his finger into her woman’s sheath to test her readiness for him. She was open and wet. Ready. Wanting. Shaking with desire, Rourke moved over her as she opened her silken thighs for him. He guided himself to her slick opening, then slid inside her, feeling a rightness he could barely fathom, let alone understand. She fit him like a glove. Filled him with a glimpse of peace. Of brilliant perfection.
She thrust her hips hard against him, letting him know without words that his gentleness was neither needed nor particularly welcome. With a groan of pure pleasure, he pulled back and buried himself deeply within her again. Never had anything felt so right, so good.
She bucked against him, driving him with her need.
“Harder,” she begged, her voice rough with disuse. The sound of her voice seemed to startle her.
He thrust into her as she demanded, harder and harder, his body’s excitement rising with every thrust.
It was several moments before he realized the wanton in his arms had turned to stone.
The confusion had barely registered in his passion-clouded brain when she turned wild beneath him.
“Get off me!” Her voice echoed in the small stable.
One of the horses whinnied in alarm.
“Wheesht, lass!” Rourke slammed his hand over her mouth even as his body continued to drive into her, desperate for completion.
She bit him as she bucked. His every instinct cried for release, but she pushed and pummeled until her desperation forced its way through the madness. With herculean effort, he pulled out of her and rolled, shaking, onto his back. He tore deep, ragged breaths into his lungs as unabated need roared like a fire in his loins.
Covering his face with his hands, he willed the throbbing pain of his arousal to abate, willed some semblance of sanity to return as he listened to her scramble away, out of his reach.
What just happened? She’d been open and ready for him. Crazy for him. Harder.
He’d not dreamed the word.
But perhaps she had. She’d kissed him, initiated the joining in her sleep. And he knew precisely when she’d woken. At the sound of her own voice. Harder.
The soft sound of her crying carried from the far edge of the stall.
Bloody hell.
“I didna take your maidenhead, Wildcat. I didna mean for that to happen, but ’twas not my doing alone. I awoke to the feel of your tongue upon my shoulder.”
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was low, shattered. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
He stared into the night as something withered in his chest. All he wanted to do was get away from here. Away from Scotland. Away from this woman.
As he ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, the full import of what he’d almost done hit him. He’d nearly spilled his seed inside her. What kind of madness . . . ? He’d been half asleep. Unthinking.
If not for her awakening, he could have gotten her with child, binding himself to her for all eternity. The thought made him go cold. He had to find Hegarty, for he wanted nothing more to do with her. Nothing.
Except to bury himself deep inside her and finish what they’d started. God, he wanted to do that. Instead, he sat up and pulled his wet breeks up his now dry legs. The discomfort was almost enough to temper his raging need. Almost.
He sat on the bare stable floor as far from her as he could, and leaned his head against the wall, a sense of doom enveloping him like a fine, malevolent mist.
Brenna woke with a start.
Rourke was standing over her looking grim as he dropped her clothes onto her blanket-wrapped body. “Get dressed. ’Tis morning. We must leave before someone finds us.” He turned his back to her and left the stall.
His voice was cold this morning, unlike last night when they’d . . .
Squeezing her eyes closed, she buried her face in her hands as memory and humiliation washed over her. Last night. She’d dreamed she was having the most incredible sex of her life, then woke to discover it was no dream. She’d panicked. The feel of him on top of her, his weight pressing her into the hay, had triggered her terror and she’d lost it.
How was she ever going to face him again?
Her whole body hot with humiliation, she sat and pulled the coarse blanket tight around her. She’d been wild with need for him. Out of control until . . .
Brenna shuddered. The terror lingered like a bad aftertaste, making her feel shaky and disjointed even as the unreleased tension still throbbed between her legs.
God, she needed to get out of here. She wanted to go home, to her own world, her own time, where she didn’t have soldiers in blue coats ready to plunge knives in her heart and where she wasn’t tempted to make disastrous love to handsome pirates. But to get home she had to find Hegarty.
With unsteady hands, she eased out of the blanket’s warmth and reached for her T-shirt, then scrambled into the rest of her damp clothing. Running her fingers through her hair, she grimaced at the sticky, salty feel. The first thing she was going to do when she got back to civilization was take a shower. Her stomach growled. Or maybe the shower would come second. First she’d find food.
She pushed open the stall’s low door to find Rourke waiting for her, his hard good looks diminished not at all by the wrinkled clothes and his weather-beaten appearance. If anything, he looked more appealing. Definitely less civilized.
Their gazes met only for a second, but the look in his eyes shot straight to her core. Accusation, certainly, but heat, too, as if he were remembering what it had felt like to be inside her. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Damp heat gathered low in her belly as she remembered the exciting fullness of him as he’d driven into her.
He turned and started off without a word, expecting her to follow. Or not.
Brenna pressed her fingers to her eyes and tried to banish her X-rated thoughts. Oh man, she did not want him. She didn’t.
They walked in silence through the small town, tension and unresolved passion thick between them. The sun was up, though not high in the sky. The mist lay heavy on the water, its ghostly fingers sliding through the alleys and streets. Brenna shivered from the damp clothes and prayed for an unseasonably warm day.
She glanced around her as they walked beneath the overhanging upper stories of the buildings lining the street. Dunhaven was cute, though it would have been more pleasant without the ripe smell of decaying fish. The buildings ringed the small harbor, attached like some kind of medieval strip mall. The line was broken only by alleys in a couple of places. She could see other buildings, or maybe homes, on the hillside rising beyond.
Her stomach rumbled and she pressed her hand to it. Humiliated, hungry, and sexually frustrated, with painfully blistered feet. Great way to start the day. She prayed Rourke was searching for food, but wasn’t sure how they were going to eat when they didn’t have any money. Then again, he was a pirate.
“How are we going to find Hegarty?”
Rourke threw her a disgusted look and kept walking. He didn’t have to say the words for her to hear them loud and clear. It was her fault they’d lost Hegarty in the first place.
The aroma of food suddenly broke through the dead fish smell as they approached a door. Above swung a classic tavern sign: The Ram and Lamb. Rourke pushed the door open and went inside.
Brenna followed him through the low-ceilinged, smoky room. The smoke emanated from the hearth rather than the patrons, of which there were few. A pair of fishermen in the center of the room laughed and chatted with the waitress in their thick Scottish brogues. In the back corner sat a lone, familiar-looking man. One of Rourke’s pirates, though she’d had no dealings with this one.
Thank God.
He waved toward them, then nervously looked away.
“How did you know he was going
to be here?” Brenna asked.
“I didn’t.” Rourke pulled out a chair and sat across from the man. “Mr. Baker.”
Brenna slipped into one of the empty chairs, her mouth watering as she took in the bounty laid out in front of the silent pirate. The plate in front of Baker was laden with eggs and ham, a bowl of what looked like watery oatmeal, and a small loaf of bread. Rourke grabbed the plate of eggs and shoved it in front of her, then stole the bread for himself.
“Eat.” He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “What happened to my ship, Mr. Baker?”
Brenna dug into the food without protest. He hadn’t forgotten her after all. No wonder the timid pirate had looked at him nervously. He must have sensed the imminent demise of his breakfast.
“When you dove . . . well”—he colored and looked away—“the lads . . . they did not think me capable of leading the ship, sir. They let Mr. Cutter out of the hold and ordered me to stand down or they’d throw me off the ship.” His pink cheeks turned red. “I cannot swim.”
Rourke said nothing, just nodded and kept eating.
“Mr. Cutter directed us into port here,” the man continued. “Then he left the ship to have a word with a pair of soldiers on the docks. Several hours later, Slains’s soldiers were swarming the decks.”
Brenna grabbed the man’s mug and took a long sip of ale. Funny how manners disappeared when one was starved.
“And my crew?”
“They let us go. The lads are in town awaiting another ship to sign aboard.”
“Hegarty?”
Mr. Baker set a small leather pouch in front of Rourke that rattled with coins when it hit the table. A letter quickly joined the purse.
Brenna glanced at the latter with dismay. She needed to find Hegarty. A letter was not a good sign.
“He made me vow to wait for you here or he’d turn me into a toad. He said to give you these.”
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