The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

  “Ach, Lady Zoe, but that be where ye’re wrong.” With one final tug Keegan closed the space between them. He captured her gasp of protest, molding his mouth to hers and turning it to a sigh.

  All manner of thoughts ricocheted through her mind. That she shouldn’t be allowing this, was certainly one of them and Zoe did her best to capture it long enough to act upon it. But she couldn’t. Not with his teeth taking seductive little nibbles of her lips. His tongue doing a sensual slide across hers.

  He was taking her breath away. Making her dizzy. And starting that awful ache again. The one deep in the pit of her being. The one she could never truly rid herself of. It was a pain like none she’d ever known until the Scot came into her life. A bittersweet anguish that grew at times like these, near unbearable.

  She felt as if she might burst.

  Yet the way to relief, shoving him aside and waiting for the easement, seemed equally unendurable.

  So Zoe let the kiss continue, let it deepen and grow, until she sprawled across him, her body pressing his. Her breasts swelled, the nipples grew hard, and it seemed the only relief came from flattening them against the hard wall of his chest.

  And as for the excruciating ache between her legs... it seemed everything he did made it worse. His hands clutched at her back, then lower, pulling her ever closer.

  “I can’t stand it.” Zoe pried her mouth away from his, shoving at his shoulders and rolling away so quickly the Scot couldn’t stop her. Drawing herself up, her knees toward her chest, her arms wrapped about them, Zoe took several deep breaths, trying to control the feeling of loss.

  “What is it lass?” Keegan was struggling with his own breathing, that was now coming in shallow gasps. “What’s wrong with ye?”

  At first Keegan thought she didn’t hear him... or was refusing to answer. She simply rocked back and forth, her face hidden, her body trembling. He pushed to his elbows, then after flexing his shoulders, scooted toward her.

  “No, don’t touch me.”

  Keegan hesitated, then let his hand fall to his side. “I wouldn’t force ye.” Despite everything, he almost added, “Ye needn’t fear that.”

  “I don’t.” Which considering the circumstances was unusual. “It’s just...” Her voice was small as she peeked over her knees. “There’s something wrong with me. Something terrible.”

  Keegan resisted the urge to laugh. There were quite a few things wrong with her as far as he could tell. But then she had some amazingly good qualities as well. Which were what he’d been dwelling on.

  “ ’Tis not the most comfortable of places t’... Well t’ do what we were about. I’d cuddle ye in a down-filled bed if I could.”

  “It isn’t that.” Though Zoe had to admit the damp gown was chafing her skin. “I have terrible pains.” The last word was muffled as she hid her face again in the lee of her knees.

  “Pains? What kind of pains? Was I too rough? I’ll admit t’ gettin’ a bit carried away. Did I bite ye?”

  “No,” Zoe admitted. “It isn’t that. ’Tis lower.”

  “Lower?” Keegan lifted her chin with his thumb. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” Zoe felt tears straining to swim to the surface and blinked. She’d resigned herself years ago to dying young. Her illnesses and Miss Phelps’s care were the only constants in her life. So why was she upset now by the prospect? Why now, kidnapped and in a strange land, held by a man who, though he intrigued her, was a sworn enemy, did she mourn the loss of her health?

  Melancholy overcame embarrassment.

  “Here.” Zoe straightened enough to press a trembling hand to her bosom. “And here.” Her fingers drifted down to her lap. “There’s an ache.”

  Despite her tendency to exaggerate every little pain, and her constant wailing that she was ill, Keegan wondered if this time there might be something wrong. She certainly seemed sincere about her discomfort. Her bottom lip trembled and two fat tears lost their battle and trailed slowly down her cheeks. Keegan took her hand. Perhaps she hurt herself during their struggle to shore. He’d certainly felt a hell of a lot better before as well.

  “Are ye bruised... or cut?” True, he couldn’t see any indication of a wound but she was covered by her gown.

  “No. No.” Zoe sighed, wishing she had never brought the subject up. “ ’Tis inside. And it only becomes unbearable at times.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When...” Zoe felt warm despite the chill breeze. “When we kiss it gets worse,” she said in a rush, hoping that would be the end of the discussion. For a moment he sat silently staring at her, then to her mortification, the Scot let out a howl of laughter. Then another. Before her wide eyes he rocked back, his handsome face filled with mirth, his chuckles scaring the gulls away.

  Zoe stiffened her spine, her posture in sharp contrast to his doubled over frame. “I fail to see what is so humorous about my disability.” She barely got the last word out through her trembling lips. Zoe swallowed. “I know you don’t care about me but I’d at least hoped to be in my home... my own bed when the end came. Not here on this desolate... desolate beach.” The tears came in earnest now, accompanied by a low sobbing sound that pierced through Keegan’s laughter.

  “Now, Lady Zoe, don’t go on so,” Keegan said around another guffaw. “ ’Tis not so bad. And I’d wager ye’re not going t’ die. At least not from this particular malady.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Zoe made an effort to control her crying. “You aren’t a physician.”

  “Aye, and ’tis a good thing I’m not.” Keegan’s temperament sobered. “For that old bastard would probably have ye on a bleedin’ cup for something that be as natural as breathin’.”

  Zoe’s head tilted. “How could pain be a natural thing?” In her it was, of course—but she was different. Miss Phelps had drilled that into her from early on.

  “This pain ye speak of, does it make ye feel excited... anticipatin’ ye know not what?”

  Zoe crossed her arms. “That’s an odd way to describe pain, but yes, there is that. But we really don’t need to discuss it now.” She didn’t trust the expression on his face. There was still remnants of amusement, yet there was a hint of arrogance as well. As if he was quite pleased with himself for some reason Zoe couldn’t fathom. “I’m fine now,” she added hoping to put an end to further speculation on his part.

  “What of now?” He moved closer, draping his arm about her shoulders.

  “Yes... fine,” Zoe insisted, though truthfully his nearness made her restless.

  “And what if I were to kiss ye? What then?” Keegan asked but did not give her time to answer before pressing his lips to hers. He’d meant the gesture as an experiment, nothing more. But before he knew it Keegan was forgetting all but the sweet taste of her.

  “Oh my.” Zoe leaned away from him. “That’s it. The ache is back.”

  “In me too.”

  “You?” Her voice rose in surprise.

  “Aye. We’ve the same ache, more or less, my pretty hostage. And though at the moment it feels as if it might, it won’t kill ye.”

  “It won’t?” A tentative smile curved her lips. “But it feels so dreadful.”

  “That’s because we haven’t managed t’ find relief yet.” The words vibrated against her neck as he pressed his mouth to her. The tingling brought new quivers of sweet ache spiraling through her body.

  Zoe’s breathing quickened. She felt dizzy again. “Can we? Find relief that is?”

  Now it was Keegan’s turn to pull back. He studied her face, brushing a sprinkling of sand from her cheek. She stared at him wide-eyed and innocent, her lips parted. A man would be a bastard to take advantage of her, even if she’d been driving that man near wild with lust for some time.

  “Nothin’ would please me more, lass. But I don’t think this be the time nor place to give in to our desires.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean...” Zoe bit her lip and turned away. What must this m
an think of her? What desires was he speaking of?

  “Zoe.” His voice was soft and seductive. “Look at me.”

  Zoe took in a shaky breath and slowly raised her head. He stared at her, his eyes all smoky green and she knew exactly what he meant by desire. The ache was upon her again, stronger and more overwhelming than before. But she knew now that it was no disease but something more consuming by far.

  She noticed so much about him, without even trying. The broad curve of his shoulder. The slash of his collarbone. The way his muscles bunched when he moved, and the tapered shape of his hands. It didn’t matter that he was grimy and wet. That his hair was tangled and his chin covered with whiskers. Want of him pulsed through her. Shamed her.

  She turned away, scrambling to her feet as quickly as her sodden gown would allow.

  “Zoe.” He followed, his legs a hit wobbly at first. “Stop. I’m not goin’ t’ attack ye. Listen, I don’t know what it is between us, but don’t think ye’re the only one feelin’ it. I want—”

  Keegan stopped abruptly when a new sound floated to him, mingling with the sea and wind and the squawk of the gulls. Zoe heard it too for she halted her headlong march down the beach and whirled about to face him. With a finger to his lips he quelled any question she might have. Then he motioned her back, clutching her arm and pulling her down behind the rocks.

  “Who is it?” she whispered. “Holt?”

  “I don’t know. It was my fervent wish that he and his crew perished in the storm.”

  Hers too, though she didn’t want to admit it. But there was someone not far away. She could hear talking and laughing. “I can’t understand them,” she said, twisting her head to hear better. When she did, Zoe saw a grin spread across the Scot’s face.

  “ ’Tis because they’re not speakin’ bloody English. ’Tis Gaelic,” he said with glee as he stood and called out in the same tongue. Then he grabbed her hand and bounded around the rocks.

  Eleven

  She was going to be sick. Zoe hunched beneath a rough woolen plaid, her body trembling. Though she was cold, sweat glistened her upper lip and dampened her forehead. Each breath she took made the feeling worse.

  Smells hung on the smoke-laden air inside the tiny turf house. Smells that made the ache in her stomach worse. There was the ripe odor of the cattle, penned at the far end of the cabin, the foul smell drifting in the open door from the dung heap and the strong odor of the dye being used to color the wound woolen thread.

  But Zoe knew that her discomfort came more from the fact that the Scot had left her here. He’d gone off with the husband of the woman who occasionally glanced up from her work to give Zoe a disgusted look.

  They’d come here this morning following the two young boys Keegan found near the rocks. The boys had been bound for the cove to check if the night’s storm had tossed any prizes ashore. Presumably that’s where the lads were now, pilfering what they could from the Sea Maiden’s wreckage. In that regard Zoe wished them well. She also hoped they took care not to encounter any of the crew. What had become of them was a mystery. Presumably they’d abandoned both their ship and their captain.

  Zoe glanced back toward the woman as she gave the cradle near her foot a gentle kick. Sleeping on her stomach was an infant. The family’s surname was MacNair. The Scot had recognized it immediately, as they had his. Though they’d never met before they had a common bond. They’d both supported the rebellion.

  So the two men had gone off together, the Scot leaving Zoe with hardly more than a word. That was hours ago. She should be glad. Now she didn’t have to listen to him or look at him. She could even leave the rickety stool and walk outside if she chose. Walk away from this hut. The woman wouldn’t stop her. Zoe was fairly certain of that. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman wanted her gone from her home anyway. Hatred hung as thick and foul as the smoke that blackened the walls inside the small hut.

  Perhaps that’s what she should do... escape. Her gown hung on a peg near the small peat fire in the center of the hut. Smoke curled up, some of it escaping through the hole in the thatch roof. The riding habit was most likely still damp, but that wouldn’t matter. She’d pull it on and leave. Before the Scot returned. He probably wouldn’t even mind if he came back to find her gone. She was a burden to him.

  The only problem was, she would mind.

  Which was so foolish, Zoe could barely comprehend it. She should despise him. She should do anything in her power to be away from him. There was still her brother to warn. Or the authorities. Someone.

  But the fact remained. The anxiety that tightened her stomach was because he wasn’t here. She’d grown used to him.

  “Best t’ eat that.” The woman gave her one of her acid stares, but her hands, dyed green by the liquid in the heavy iron pot never stopped squeezing the skeins of wool. “He said I was t’ feed ye.”

  Zoe took a bite of the cold oatmeal.

  “Ain’t no fancy Sassenach food, but ye’re lucky we can spare that.”

  “It’s fine.” Zoe took another bite. “I thank you.”

  “Don’t want yer thanks.” The words, spoken with such venom, made Zoe pause, the spoon partway to her mouth. “Why do you dislike me so?”

  “Dislike ’tis not what I feel for ye.” The woman splashed wool into the vile-smelling dye. “ ’Tis hate, pure and simple.”

  The spoon clattered to the rough tabletop. “But I... I never did anything to you.”

  “ ’Tis yur kind. Ach, and I knew before the MacLeod said a word, that ye were a Sassenach. I could smell ye comin’ up the path from the sea.”

  Which Zoe found difficult to believe considering the odors she had to compete with. “I really don’t think—”

  “Which is good, for I haven’t a care as t’ what ye think.”

  “But I—”

  “What’s this now, woman? Where be yer hospitality?”

  Zoe pushed to her feet as the woman’s husband entered the hut. He was followed by Keegan who lowered his head to enter the dwelling. It was all Zoe could do not to dash across the damp earthen floor to him.

  His expression was closed, near as unpleasant as the woman’s, as he ordered her to get dressed. “Why? Where are we going?” The questions popped from Zoe’s mouth before she could stop them. But she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. He did say a few words to the woman when she offered him a bowl of oatmeal. He ate standing, and in silence. Only once glancing up, and that to motion for her to put on her gown.

  Zoe dressed behind a blanket that served as a room divider between the kitchen and bedroom. The gown was still damp and smelled of the sea, but at least the sand was brushed away. With her fingers Zoe combed through her hair, then braided and twisted the curls atop her head. But there were no pins to secure it, so the hair tumbled down her back.

  The Scot had finished breaking his fast when she stepped from behind the curtain. He bade his host farewell in the strange language Zoe heard earlier and ushered her out the door.

  “We’ve a cart waitin’ for us down the road a bit,” he said as he scrambled over a pile of rocks. The land around it was blackened.

  “A cart? Where are we going? For that matter, where are we?”

  “Scotland,” Keegan answered succinctly. “And we’re bound for Castle MacLeod.”

  Which was where they’d been headed all along, so it should come as no surprise to her. But somehow it was. Especially when Zoe learned they were only a few days’ ride from their destination. That is if the roads were passable, which after the storm yesterday was not a certainty.

  The cart was crude, with two wooden wheels and a thick-necked pony to pull it. The bed, filled with straw and sacks of oatmeal was separated from the front by only a roughly hewn wooden seat. Zoe had no doubt they could walk faster than the cart could crawl along the path. But she didn’t want to walk, and the Scot didn’t suggest it.

  He didn’t say much of anything after greeting Shamus, the owner of the cart. He was a MacNair as w
ell, an old man who looked as gnarled and twisted as the fir trees near the cliff overlooking the sea.

  Despite his being kin to the woman, Shamus was talkative, and if he realized Zoe was English, he didn’t seem to care. Zoe was grateful. She found it difficult being treated as if she had the plague... the one malady she never did have.

  Actually it seemed that Shamus was most interested in conversing with Keegan. But the latter confined his responses to grunts and the occasional curse as the cart flopped into a pothole, so it fell on Zoe to ask the questions that kept Shamus talking as they rumbled along the mud-rutted road.

  “ ’Tis the truth ye’ll be havin’ t’ watch out for the soldiers from Fort William. They’re coverin’ the countryside like a giant plaid. ’Tis more than a hunch they’ll be searchin’ for ye, lad. That’s not t’ say anyone will tell them ye’ve returned t’ the Highlands. ’Tis just that they seem t’ have a sense about things.”

  He slapped at the pony’s rump with a green twig. “I’ve seen them raid a hut on the only night in a fortnight that a husband crept home to see his family. Tore him away from his wife’s lovin’ arms and strung him up in the yard, they did, with his young ones cryin’ and his wife wailin’.”

  “That’s dreadful.” Zoe squirmed around in the itchy straw. “What had the poor man done?”

  “The poor man was a Jacobite, Zoe,” Keegan said, turning his head and seeming to look at her for the first time since they climbed into the cart.

  “Is that true?” Zoe addressed her question to Shamus, though she knew before he answered what he’d say.

  “The army’s bound t’ see nothin’ like this rebellion happens again, even if they have t’ kill everyone who so much as tipped his bonnet at the Prince.”

  “The MacNairs are fine,” Zoe pointed out. “I had the impression they fought in the rebellion.”

  “Aye, and lost a son,” Shamus said. “And their house was burned t’ the ground, their sheep slaughtered.”