"Are you waiting for someone?" he'd asked.
"Aye. You," she'd whispered.
He'd been shocked speechless for a moment. "Have we met?"
She shook her head.
He pushed her cowl back just enough to determine if he knew her. Her crystal gray eyes were the color of the clouds on a cold, misty morn. Nay, indeed. He did not know her, but he wanted to.
"Come," he invited, motioning for her to precede him up the steps, but not truly expecting her to.
She didn't hesitate, but rushed up the steps, surprising him again. Well indeed, tonight was his lucky night.
Once in his room, supposedly the nicest one in the inn, he barred the door, then turned to her. "May I take your cloak?" He wanted to see more of her… much more.
She nodded and he helped her remove the heavy woolen garment. Thankfully, a fire burned low in the hearth and the room was warm.
He placed her cloak upon a chair, then faced her again. Damnation, but she was a beauty. Her long blond curls were lush, as was her tempting mouth. But 'twas those haunting gray eyes with their long dark lashes that held him spellbound. So many conflicting emotions lurked there—as if she were unsure whether to be shy or bold—along with her obvious keen intelligence.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She dropped her gaze and he sensed her hesitation before she stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. Meeting his gaze again, she placed a silky finger upon his lips, instantly arousing him. "No names," she whispered, then removed her finger, stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his. Her innocent kiss sent lust flaming through his body. He grasped her to him and deepened the kiss, hungry for a taste of her. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, she gasped. He drew back an inch to gauge her reaction. Her eyes, now dark gray, were almost closed and her swollen lips parted.
"Are you certain you want to do this?" he asked.
"Aye," she whispered, her gaze searching his. She looked near as eager as he felt, thank the saints.
Upon drawing her closer, he kissed her neck and a shiver coursed through her body. She smelled good enough to eat, and her sweet, curvy body against his made all thoughts vanish from his mind except for one. He needed to feel her satiny skin against his own. Now.
"Are you maiden, wife, or widow?" he'd asked against her ear.
"Widow," she said. "My husband was old and—"
"Say no more." He couldn't tolerate the thought of some graybeard touching her flawless skin. 'Twas a common practice for older lairds to marry young lasses. Sacrilege.
Rebbie'd had encounters with several young widows, but this one seemed different somehow. With the whisky still heating his blood and fogging his mind, he couldn't figure it out. She was a beautiful, willing woman who aroused him and that was the most important thing at the moment.
He quickly dispensed with his own clothing, then turned her about to start the task of removing hers. Once he'd stripped the thin shift from her slender, delectable body, she covered her breasts with her arms. She was a sight to behold in the firelight.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, then tipped her chin up and kissed her. Gently, he coaxed her to relax and slide her arms around his neck. When he flicked his tongue against hers this time, she let out a breathy feminine moan and clenched her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
Mmm, aye. He kissed her deeply, relishing her sweet taste, and stroked his hands over her lovely curves… her perky breasts, her small waist, her slender hips.
Lust tensing his muscles and rampaging through him, he growled, picked her up and deposited her on the small bed. "Saints, lass," he hissed and brushed his lips over her breasts, then drew a beaded nipple into his mouth.
"Aye," she gasped and arched her back.
"Mmm." He felt ready to explode already and he'd barely started.
Tweaking one nipple and rolling it between his thumb and finger, he suckled at the other. She tasted and smelled so sweet. He wanted to devour her.
"Oh, please," she whispered.
He stroked his hand down the outside of her thigh, and back up the inside, subtly urging her to open for him. Finding her wet, swollen and ready, arousal surged through him. He clenched his teeth and growled.
"Oh," she cried softly, then moaned as he stroked her. He watched the blissful expression on her face when he inserted a finger. He had to make certain she was no virgin, for he didn't want some angry father chasing him down and forcing him at sword point to marry the lass. Although, he wasn't certain even that would stop him from taking her at the moment.
But nay, she possessed no maidenhead and within seconds she reached climax, her body bowing against him as he stroked his fingers over her.
"Aye, that's good, mo leannan," he whispered against her mouth, then kissed her.
She was starved for carnal relations. Rising to his knees and leaning over her, he placed kisses on her face as she gasped for breath.
"Are you ready for me, lass?"
She observed him with drugged eyes and nodded. "Aye."
He sure as hell was ready for her. He positioned himself and entered her slowly, the tight, drenched heat of her near stripping away his sanity. Instinct possessed him and he thrust hard.
She gasped and pulled at his hair.
"Sorry," he breathed. "You've driven me to the edge of madness." He bit her earlobe and drew it into his mouth.
Caressing his shoulders, she wriggled beneath him, pressing her breasts more firmly against his chest and thrusting her hips.
He cursed, unsure exactly what he said, and thrust. Pleasure so intense it bordered on pain consumed him. Nay, he could not stop. He drove into her, over and over, lust and oblivion devouring him. All he knew was she was perfection, and instinct spurred him to take her as hard as he could. Brand her. Make her his. Moments later, her legs were wrapped around his hips, and her inner muscles caressed him, squeezed him mercilessly. She gave a keening scream of pleasure, and he could do naught but let go and lose himself in her. Never had he experienced such an uncontrollable fire of pleasure.
He knew he acted like a rutting animal, growling, grinding into her, but he could not help it.
Afterward he gasped for breath, cursing himself for not being gentler with her. "I'm sorry." He breathed hard.
"Nay." Trying to catch her own breath, she smiled. "'Twas amazing."
"Aye, indeed." Like no bedding he had ever experienced. And he didn't even know her name.
Rolling to his side, he drew her close against his chest. He was as spent as a lathered horse. At least, he thought he was, until she kissed his chest.
He hummed a low sound of appreciation and she continued. Each kiss awoke his body once more. Soon his shaft was standing at attention. She trailed a hand down his chest and abdomen, over his hip and to his leg.
"Mmm, aye."
Her hand moved upward again, brushing over his erect shaft. He hissed. She drew back and watched while she stroked it.
Observing her lustful expression and erotic actions, he growled.
She glanced up at him, her beautiful eyes darker. How he loved arousing her.
"You are…" God, he didn't know. He stroked a thumb over her smooth, flawless cheek, pushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her lips. "Lovely," he breathed, though the word could never do her justice. Something about her riveted him. Excited him. How could he ever get enough of her? He knew not, but he would try.
Much to his delight, she seemed unable to get enough of him either. Never had he indulged in so many rollicking rounds of bedsport in one night. 'Slud, he'd be lucky if he could walk in the morn.
In the wee hours, he'd fallen into an exhausted sleep.
When he'd awakened in the gray morning light, she was gone. The room was cold and so was the bed. 'Twas almost as if she hadn't been there at all, except for the long, honey-blond hair he found on the pillow. He wrapped the curl around his finger and stared at it for a long time, remembering what they'd shared, his heart pounding. Tha
t day, he'd bought a locket and put the curl inside. Though 'twas daft, he couldn't part with that one tiny part of her he had left.
He'd looked for her around Stirling, waited each night at the inn to see if she would show up again. How could she simply vanish? He kept wondering if she truly was a widow, or married. If he'd seen her walking down a street with a man, he certainly wouldn't have approached them. He would've been disappointed, but he wouldn't have revealed their secret. He could be as discreet as anyone; he'd simply wanted to know more about her. And if she truly was a widow… well, he didn't know.
Shaking his head, Rebbie came back to the present. Saints! Never had another woman captivated him as much as she had. Not before or since. He'd looked. He'd searched for a woman who engaged his mind, his senses, his lust, a woman who would touch his soul, just as she had, but he'd found none.
***
Calla climbed into the coach at Draughon, eager to be out of the chill morning rain. Her excuse for the errand into the village today was to pick up Lady Elena's new dress. Of course, her main reason was meeting the messenger again, but no one need know that. One maid accompanied her, along with the driver and an armed guard.
Elena was devastated because she'd been the reason Rebbie left and had near made herself sick over the whole debacle. He had been gone for days and no one could predict whether he would return or not. With the rain pouring down, Lady Barclay would not allow Elena outside. And yet, Elena wouldn't stop complaining about not being able to try on her new dress today. Since this was the day Calla was to meet Hobbs again anyway, to send a payment to Claybourne, 'twas the perfect excuse for making a quick excursion into the village.
Gazing out the coach window at the passing greenery, the wood, and the mountains in the distance, Calla wondered where Rebbie was. She felt so conflicted about his disappearance she could hardly sleep at night. One part of her was glad he'd escaped the marriage trap Elena and her father had tried to spring on him. While another part of her missed his mysterious dark gaze and sensual smile. She was powerfully drawn to him, but at the same time, any additional moment spent in his presence was a risk.
In the village, the driver pulled the coach to a halt in front of the dressmaker's shop. "You wait here. I'll be back in a trice," she told the maid. Thankfully, the rain had diminished to a fine mist. Wearing her boots, Calla leapt out into the mud and hurried into the shop.
"Lady Elena was not feeling well this morn and couldn't come," she told Mistress MacGee, the matronly dressmaker who always wore an annoyed frown. "If any alterations are required, we'll return at a later time. While you're wrapping up the dress, I'll slip out back and use the privy."
Mistress MacGee's frown deepened. "Very well."
Of course, Calla had no need for the privy at the moment. She simply needed a way to slip to the livery stable without the guard, driver, or maid seeing her. They would be sure to tell their employer about her odd actions.
Once out the back door, Calla ran along the nondescript back of the stone buildings until she reached the livery, where she was to meet Hobbs. No one was out and about. Mayhap she was a bit early. Blast! But she had asked him to come early and wait if necessary.
She crept over the cobblestones and inside the stables, the scent of horse manure assaulting her nose. "Anyone here? Hobbs?"
A tall, thin man stepped out of the shadows. "Hobbs couldn't make it today." He grinned.
Claybourne?
The demon who took every penny she earned. Calla's heart vaulted into her throat. She turned and bolted toward the street. But the long-legged beast was quicker, and he snatched her off her feet. Calla screamed. Oh dear God, help me, she prayed. What would he do to her, rape her in the stables?
Chapter Six
Wearing his belted plaid kilt, Rebbie stepped out of the Breakstane Inn and approached his saddled horse where the groom from the livery stable held him. He secured his clothing behind his saddle. Dreading the trip to Draughon and the conversation to come with Barclay, he hoisted himself into the saddle.
A scream sliced through the air.
"What the devil?" His gaze scanned the village.
Down the street, in front of the livery, a man carried a kicking, screaming woman into the stables.
"Hold him," Rebbie said to the groom, then leapt off the horse and ran forward, determined to help her, whoever she was. She wore a black cloak and cowl but a lock of blond hair slipped free. Given her petite size, the woman looked like… Nay, it couldn't be.
Calla?
He withdrew his sword and charged into the stables.
"Release her, you whoreson!" Halting, Rebbie squinted into the dimness, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
"This is none of your concern, Highlander." The man's voice grated from the shadows.
Rebbie now easily discerned the man's gangly silhouette. He held Calla, his hand over her mouth muffling her protests. Her eyes wide with terror, she kicked and elbowed her captor, but he didn't loosen his hold.
"Release Lady Stanbury or I will cut you down where you stand!"
Laughing, the man shoved Calla into one of the stalls, latched the door, then drew his basket-hilt broadsword.
"Rebbie!" Calla rattled the door as if trying to open it. "Nay! Watch out!"
"Have no fear. I'll get you out," he told her. "Once I kill this whoreson."
Claybourne charged and thrust the blade, but Rebbie easily deflected his blow. The man was tall and thin, dressed in well-tailored dark brown breeches and doublet with an expensive collar at his neck. Obviously, some sort of laird. Rebbie struck out, his blade nicking the man's arm through his fine doublet. Blood soaked the exposed white linen of his shirt.
The man flicked a glance down at his arm. "Bastard!"
Rebbie sent him a malicious grin and sliced again but the man dodged back.
"Hastings!" the knave yelled through the wide, open doorway toward the street.
Och. So he needed backup, did he?
Rebbie pressed his attack and the man fled the stables. Rebbie ran to the stall where Calla was confined and opened the door. "Are you well?"
"Aye."
"What the devil is going on?"
Tears glinting in her eyes, she shook her head. "Is he gone?"
"He ran outside. Come. I must get you back to Draughon." He offered his elbow and she slid her hand around it. "What are you doing here alone?"
"I'm not alone. The driver, maid, and guard are with the coach down the street," she said, her voice shaky. "I came to pick up Lady Elena's dress."
He didn't have time to ask what she was doing so far from the coach and the others in her party. Wielding his bloody-tipped sword, Rebbie glanced this way and that as he led her from the stables. On the muddy street, at twenty yards, the whoreson stood talking to another man. Almost a half-dozen others stood behind him.
"Grab her!" he yelled and charged forward with the rest of his men.
"What the hell?" Rebbie muttered and rushed Calla to his horse. Why were these men after her? He didn't have time to ask questions. After sheathing his sword, he lifted her into his saddle and leapt on behind her. He headed the horse toward Draughon, but when he rounded the bend at the edge of the village, several armed men on horseback waited in the road, too many for him to best alone while protecting Calla.
Rebbie drew his sword and slashed at the first man to approach. The blade sliced his forearm and he fell back, screaming. The other men on horseback formed a barricade across the road leading to Draughon, swords drawn. With Calla on his horse, he couldn't risk riding head-long through them. She could be grievously injured or killed.
His only other alternative was a well-worn trail leading to the right. Mayhap he could circle around to Draughon. He guided Devil in that direction.
"Stop them!" the whoreson yelled behind them.
Holding Calla tightly before him, Rebbie urged the stallion into a breakneck gallop across the moor. The horse relished a good run anyway. Rebbie tried to figure out how to
circle back to Draughon Castle, but then he remembered that the River Tay lay in their path. The bridge was further back. Damnation. Now what was he going to do? With all the rain, the river was too deep and swollen to wade through.
He glanced back at the dozen or more pursuers in the distance. "Hell," he growled through clenched teeth. Why were they so determined to capture Calla?
As they crossed a grassy field, Rebbie gave the horse his head. Devil leapt a stone dyke, then galloped along another muddy road. He followed it northwest for a mile or two. Moments later, he slowed Devil, not wanting to lather him, and glanced back. The whoresons were nowhere in evidence, but Rebbie still had to keep ahead of them.
Or mayhap he could outsmart them.
A thick wood lay ahead. The dark green leaves would provide good cover. He directed the horse into the trees, hoping to hide while their pursuers rode by. Then, they could double back and head south again toward Draughon.
Devil's breath whooshed in and out. 'Twas the only sound within the quiet forest, but not loud enough for anyone approaching to hear over their own horses' hoof-beats… if anyone should appear.
Rebbie focused on the road he could see through the branches, but the sweet floral scent of Calla's unbound hair wafted up his nose, distracting him.
"Did he hurt you?" he asked her.
"Nay. I thank you for rescuing me." Her soft, feminine voice grabbed at something within him, making him want to protect her with every last ounce of strength he possessed.
"I'm glad I was there to help." He couldn't imagine what the knave would've done to her if he hadn't shown up. Raped her? Killed her?
None of the bastards passed by on the road beyond the wood. He listened for hoof-beats in the distance, but all was quiet.
"Where the devil are they?" Rebbie grumbled. "No doubt lying in wait for us to return. How would he know we need to get to Draughon Castle?"
When Calla didn't respond, he frowned, growing more and more curious. "Who is that bastard? He's a laird, is he not?"
Calla nodded and turned toward him a bit. "A wealthy merchant. Edward Claybourne. But, aye, he owns land."
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