“Just how much is this dowry?” he inquired.
“Let’s just say we could hire several dozen workers, buy a new horse, or two, perhaps a buggy, and even have a honeymoon in New York City.”
“I like that last part best.” He kissed her shoulder. “What did you do? Rob a bank?”
“No, just a jeweler. At a bank.”
He glanced down at her wrist, recognizing immediately what she had done. “You sold your watch.”
“Not to worry, honey, now that I’m here time can stand still.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . uh, base . . .
In the Coronado, California, Navy SEAL special forces office, Commander Ian MacLean bellowed at two of his team members, Justin LeBlanc and Sylvester Simms, “What do you mean, he disappeared?”
LeBlanc shrugged. “He was with us in New Orleans. We had that meeting with the Baptiste babe, and before you know it, he was gone.”
“Terrorists?”
“No,” Simms said. “We had the police investigate. We searched everywhere ourselves. No luck. Just poof!”
“The odd thing is that Ms. Baptiste has disappeared, too,” LeBlanc told him.
“A coincidence?”
They all pondered that question.
“Stranger things have happened,” LeBlanc concluded.
The Drowning Sea
Veronica Wolff
With thanks to my dad
and to Patrick, my first mate and big brother,
for explaining how to sail a ship,
and then sink it.
Bheir an cuan a chuid fhèin a-mach.
The sea will claim its own.
One
Isle of Lewis, 1662
Iain leaned down and swung his blade. It landed in the thick slab and a familiar jolt shot up his arm. He twisted the handle, pulling the iron through and out. The peat answered with a dull suck.
He stood. Studied his work. He’d been stacking the bricks in low piles. He wiped his hands down the front of his plaid. The muscles in his shoulders and arms hummed. Using his sleeve, he mopped the sweat from his brow and knew a moment of raw pleasure at the kiss of chill air on hot skin rubbed dry. He pulled a deep breath in and savored the scent of dirt and island air in the back of his throat.
There was a scream, and he startled.
The shriek of an animal stuck in the bog?
Another scream, ripping down to where he stood in the belly of the glen. A woman’s scream.
He tossed his peat iron atop the bricks, turned, and ran along dry ground. If there was a woman trapped, he had no choice but to run. The bog drowned folk as quick as the sea.
The sound had come from over the hill, where the muck was thick and wet. Peat looked just like land, until it sucked you in. And then even the bravest of men knew fear. Stuck in the bog, panic seized a man’s chest, until the black muck became nothing less than evil itself, oozing from a crack in the earth, pulling all down to greet the devil.
He crested the hill and spotted her. He galloped down, and speed made his strides clumsy. He skidded to a stop.
The prettiest girl in the world stood knee-deep in the muck. He’d only ever seen her from afar, and only a few times at that. She was even more beautiful up close, so lovely and perfect, pale and blonde, like a creature crafted of innocence and fine cream and sunshine.
He knew an eternity as time stalled and stretched in a single pound of his heart. Iain never dreamed he’d ever be within reach of her. He never would’ve thought it possible, but seeing her now, suddenly everything seemed possible.
She gave a tug to her dark blue frock and frowned.
Fascinated, he watched her bite at her lip, muttering a curse that should grace no high-born lass’s mouth.
He felt a smile crook his lips.
She felt his presence and turned.
Her body froze, but her face lit a thousand different ways. Frustration turned like quicksilver into anger. She’d spied his amusement and didn’t much like it.
He schooled his features, trying his best to look grave.
The bonny cream of her cheeks flushed pink. How soft that skin would be.
His smile flickered again at the thought, and this time there was no fighting it. He felt the tug of it spread broad across his cheeks.
Her face seemed to narrow in on itself, and she stared, looking as though she’d give him a verbal thrashing if only she knew the right words.
The urge to laugh swelled in his belly. It was a struggle, but he muted it to a low chuckle. “The more you dance about, aye, the more the bog will suck you in.”
“I am not dancing.” She bit out each word with affronted dignity, as if she were taking wee nibbles from a triangle of toast instead of speaking in anger.
His smile renewed, and with it her ire.
“If you would be a gentleman, and please—”
Iain Gillespie MacNab was no fool. He wiped his palms once more on his plaid and, in two long steps, was by her side, perched on a sliver of dry earth.
She gave an outraged squeal as he scooped her free of the bog and swung her up in his arms.
“Do you know who I am?” she sputtered.
“I do . . .” He gave her a quick bounce to settle her in his arms and laughed at her indignant squawk. “And I don’t.”
“What do you mean you do and you—Stop that at once!”
“Stop what?” he asked, giving himself two more seconds before shifting his hand from her rump.
“You know very well what I meant.”
“Shall I put you down then?” He made as though to drop her into the muck, taking the opportunity to graze his cheek along her hair. She wore it long and loose, a yellow spill down her back, shining bright in the sunlight.
“Oh. bother.”
“Carrying you is no bother,” he said grandly, backing away from the bog.
“No, I said ‘oh, bother.’ ” She squirmed, looking down her legs. “That . . . that bog ate my shoes.”
He noticed her feet for the first time. Stockings bunched low at her ankles, and the fabric was soaked black, hanging heavy and long from her toes. They were the tiniest feet he’d ever seen on a person full-grown.
“Such wee paws,” he exclaimed. “’Tis a wonder you don’t blow over in the wind.”
She looked quickly away, biting a smile from her lips, and he decided he’d not release her until he teased a full grin from that mouth.
“There’s naught for it.” He began strolling calmly across the uneven terrain, headed toward the sea. “I’ll simply have to carry you home.”
She twisted in his arms, shock widening her eyes. “You cannot carry me all the way home.”
“Aye, and I can.”
“But I’m heavy,” she protested, her pale brow furrowing.
“Och, you’re no heavier than a bird. And you can’t walk with your feet bare.”
“You don’t even know where I live.”
“Aye, I do at that.” He purposely, mischievously, avoided her eyes.
“So you do know who I am.”
“I said I do and I don’t. All know the laird’s daughter.” He stared at her then, slowly grazing his eyes over her. “Bonnier than the first heather in bloom, hair spilling like honey down the lovely curve of her back.”
His smile feigned innocence, but he risked letting some darker thing flash in his gaze. A darker, wanting thing that stiffened his body against the feel of her soft figure held tight in his arms.
“Then why do you say you don’t know me?” Her voice warbled and her cheeks reddened, and it gratified him.
“Aye, well, though all ken the fair and treasured daughter of the MacLeod, few are privy to her given name.”
“Oh,” she said simply.
“Oh. Your name is Oh, is it?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
He let the silence hang. She’d be unaccustomed to such chatter with a man, and he could tell it flustered her. He liked being the cause of her dis
comfort. He prolonged it, hoping to see her cheeks flush pink once more.
He imagined she’d flush so if kissed.
For surely the MacLeod’s cherished daughter had never been kissed. He smiled at her and winked.
“Cassiopeia,” she blurted.
A laugh burst free of his throat. “Cassia-what-a?”
“My name. It’s Cassiopeia.”
“Now that’s not a name to roll easy from the tongue, is it?” He bit his tongue between his teeth and leaned in close to her.
And there it was, the answering pink flush.
His smile faded as lighthearted delight slid into something that put him on his guard. Sweet, bonny Cassiopeia would break a man’s heart some day, he predicted.
“No,” she allowed, with a small smile. “It’s not a common name.”
He adjusted his arm under her knees, settling her higher along his chest to make the climb uphill.
Whether it was discomfort from the silence or a polite way to call attention from his momentary exertion, she spoke on. “My father. He is a devotee of astronomy.”
“Is that so?”
She caught the wary sarcasm in his tone and her eyes narrowed.
“Och, easy, Cassie, love, I’m a peat farmer and son of a peat farmer. I know not of astronomy.”
“Do you sail?”
“Aye, better than I can walk.”
“And how do you steer?”
“My boat? By the stars . . . and I see where this is leading.”
“Good, then you should know that, if you can steer by the stars, you, too, are a student of astronomy.”
“I read the stars better than I read words on paper. I’ve just never known the Latin for them.”
“Greek. Cassiopeia is from the Greek.”
“Then good, aye? Your father and I will have much to discuss when I come to ask for your hand.” He gave her a rakish wink.
Her tone grew instantly wary. “Please don’t . . . you’ll not . . . please leave my father out of this . . .”
For the first time he wondered what had brought the sequestered MacLeod daughter so far afield. “What brought a bonny lass like yourself to the bog? Dropped from the sky like an angel, is it?”
She seemed to fret over his question, but her darling shrug made him decide to press the issue.
“Truly, lass, it’s rare I’ve seen you outside your family’s keep. Trust me,” he said, cocking a brow, “I’d remember.”
“I don’t know . . .” she stammered.
“You don’t know.” He nodded thoughtfully. “So you are an angel.”
“No,” she replied coyly, fighting a smile. “I just came because . . .”
“Because?”
“I just wanted to see,” she said finally.
“Ah,” Iain said with mock gravity. “And have you seen?”
“Aye. Look,” she said suddenly. She pointed his attention into the distance, but not before he spied the blush warming her cheeks.
Her home was on the horizon, a stern, gray tower rising from a high rock at the edge of the sea. As they neared, he felt her bristle. Glancing down at her pretty face, he saw something pinch at her brow.
“Really,” she said, “you cannot carry me the whole way home.” Nerves strung her voice tight.
It would be the laird—her father—who’d be the cause. The notion made him defiant, and he pulled her more tightly against him. “You’re afraid of your father.”
“Aye,” she replied, and her plainspoken tone took him aback. “As you should be.”
He leaned in close to whisper at her ear, “I fear no man.”
He felt her breath catch, or maybe he imagined it, but an urge claimed him all the same. He took the barest nip of that ear, perfect as a wave-swept top shell on the sand.
“Go to the side then,” she said weakly. “If you must.” She pointed him to an entrance off a small courtyard and what would be the kitchens.
“Oh, I must,” he muttered under his breath.
They reached their destination, and reluctantly he let her go. She was shorter than he’d realized, her head coming only to his chest, and he fought the urge to pull her back and tuck her close in his arms. “Your home, fair mistress,” he said, sweeping a playful bow.
“You . . .” She froze. Battling a smile from her face, she pointed hesitantly at his cheek. “Oh my.”
“Oh your . . . ?” he asked, leaning into her hand. He raised his brows, determined to see that smile in full bloom.
Finally her grin spread. It crinkled the corners of her eyes and set a single, deep dimple on her cheek. Iain thought, until that moment, he’d never truly felt the sun shine upon him.
She rustled in the pocket of her skirts, retrieving a small square handkerchief. Lace trimmed the edges and an elegant blue C was embroidered in the corner. “I’m afraid you have a bit of . . . of bog on your face.”
She gave him an apologetic smile as she began to wipe at his face. Her features were still, her eyes determined, as she concentrated on swabbing the peat from his jaw. He savored the touch of her fingers, gentle and cool.
She was so close to him and, for the moment, unaware. He stared openly. She pursed her lips, and he noticed a faint brown freckle gracing the corner of her mouth.
His chest tightened. He was overwhelmed by the desire to twine his fingers through her hair, to cup her face gently in his hands and pull that fair mouth to his.
“There,” she said with a pat to his cheek. Her eyes grew quiet. “How . . . how can I thank you?” She struck him as reluctant as he to part, and it made him brave.
“You can kiss me.”
“I cannot!” Though her reply was immediate, awareness flushed from her cheeks down to the top of her deliciously plump bosom.
And he knew then that he would kiss her.
He bent to her and whispered, “You’re not going to thank me?”
“Of course. I . . . I am very grateful.”
“Then just a small kiss.” He tapped his finger on his cheek. “Just here.”
He leaned close, offering his cheek, and she reflexively pecked a prim little kiss. Whether her response had been involuntary or impulsive, he didn’t know. But he felt the breeze tickle her hair against his neck, and a great truth flashed to him in that moment: his life would never be the same.
“Now the other side.” His voice seemed to him ragged, uncooperative.
“What?”
“The other side,” he told her, turning his face to present his other cheek. “That was only half a thank you after all.”
She thought about it this time, and he worried he’d gone too far. But she leaned closer. The fresh, sweet smell of her filled his senses, and his heart swelled.
She leaned to buss his cheek, but he turned his face at the last instant, catching her lips in a quick kiss.
She gasped in surprise. And then, remarkably, she simply swatted his arm, smiling her scold. He felt a bursting in his chest.
“Och, bonny Cassie . . .”
And then it was his cheeks he felt grow hot, and she giggled. It was she, suddenly, who had the upper hand. She knew it and laughed. It was such a musical, sweet sound. A sound to fill him.
“But I don’t even know your name,” she murmured, and he decided he’d not rest until he could hear that sweet whispering voice, spoken for only him, every day, for the rest of his days.
“Iain. I am Iain MacNab.”
“Iain MacNab,” she repeated, her eyes locked with his.
His heart wrenched from his chest at the sound of his name on her lips.
“Say you’ll meet me,” he whispered. “Say you’ll see me again. Tomorrow. And the day after that.”
She blushed and looked away.
“At Callanish. Beneath the standing stones.” He took her chin gently, tilted her face up to him. The blush still stained her cheeks, but endless possibility danced in her sky blue eyes. “I’ll be waiting for you, bonny Cassie. Tomorrow, until forever.”
&nbs
p; Two
Iain sat down hard at the foot of the tallest stone. Leaning back, he let the cool granite leach the nervous heat from his body. He’d been pacing and sitting and rising and pacing all morning.
Opening his sporran, he peeked once more at the wee treasure he’d brought Cassie. He’d found the shiny, black seed that morning in the surf and had taken it as an omen.
“Naught but a fool’s whigmaleerie.” He gave a small, wistful laugh. “I’m as silly as a tippling fishwife.”
No surprise, that. Cassie’s beauty would inspire boyish foolishness in the gravest of men. Iain traced her features in his mind. Could her hair truly have been as shiny as he remembered? Her eyes as bright?
Where was she?
He patted his sporran shut and sighed. “What’d you fancy would happen, lad? Ah, but it would’ve been nice.” The peat boy and the laird’s daughter. Very nice indeed.
And very impossible.
“Enough lazing,” he grumbled. There wasn’t exactly a peat fairy who’d show up to do his work.
He stood and gave a brusque brush to his plaid, and with a last look at the stones, headed back toward the bog.
“Iain!”
The shout rang clear across the field. He stilled. Had thoughts of fairies among the standing stones well and truly addled his mind?
“Iain, wait!”
Had she come? He wanted to believe it but couldn’t. Slowly he turned.
But there Cassie was. And God save him, she was running. She’d hiked up her skirts and was running to him as though she were a girl half her age.
He laughed, and she looked abashed, and so he ran to her, too, shouting, “You’re the bonniest sight in all Scotland.”
They met halfway, and they stood for a moment in silence. She panted from the exertion, her lips trembling with a shy smile. He thought his own smile might split his face in two.
“You came,” he said finally. A burst of joy found his hands taking her by the shoulders. He couldn’t believe she stood before him. “You truly came, Cassie.”
Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion Page 17