by L. L. Muir
“Ye’ll catch flies,” he murmured. His hand came up around her to lift her chin and close her gaping mouth. Then he chuckled.
What upset her most was the way her body responded to the sound and feel of his laughter against her back! It was just as disturbing as looking upon his handsome face! She felt like a silly girl of twelve, and if she didn’t keep a firm hold on her thoughts, she was destined to make a complete fool of herself.
“My reputation will be ruined if I arrive in the city alone with you,” she said.
“Ye should have considered that when ye ran away from home, my lady.” Though he spoke flippantly, his disapproval rang clear. “But never fear. We will meet up with the others in the morning, at Linton, and travel the rest of the way together.”
“In the morning?” She laughed forcefully. “I grant you Lady Mallory might be easy to locate, especially if she is still on horseback. But you do not know Lady Bridget. Even if one of your friends finds her, forcing her to Edinburgh before she is ready will be a mean feat.”
The man chuckled low and so near her ear that his warm breath raised gooseflesh along her neck. “I doubt Rory will need to force her at all.”
Vivianne stiffened away from him. “I don’t understand why not. She means to go to the Highlands, and her sense of direction is too keen. If he lies to her—”
Sir Ian laughed outright. “My lady, he will have no need to lie to her.”
She twisted in the saddle to face him, trying not to notice the dimples just beneath his whiskers. But when his eyes were found to be far too beguiling, she concentrated instead on his nose. A harmless nose if ever there was one.
She shrugged and lifted her brows slightly. “Then I suppose your friend possesses some form of magic, for I cannot imagine another way to thwart Bridget Kennison once her mind is set.”
“Can ye not?” he asked quietly.
Suddenly that harmless nose was far too close to watch without her eyes crossing, and she realized he was leaning toward her. His gaze lowered to her lips.
He was going to kiss her!
The space between them disappeared quickly, but she knew immediately that if she allowed him to touch her lips with his, she would in some way be surrendering more than just a kiss. She would be handing him a sort of power over her and she couldn’t trust what he might do with that power.
His mouth was but an inch from hers when he paused, allowing her time to refuse him. She turned her head quickly. A shiver ran up her spine and shook her shoulders, and the devil chuckled.
Can ye not, he’d asked. And when she replayed their conversation she realized he hadn’t truly meant to kiss her at all—he’d simply been explaining how Rory might be able to thwart Bridget.
But could her friend be distracted by Rory Macpherson’s kisses when her goal was so much more important than merely stealing a Highlander’s kilt?
Then a much more disturbing question occurred to her—was it the plan of all three men to lure them all to Edinburgh in the same manner?
Poor Mallory would be the most susceptible, surely. She was ever the most carnal-minded of the trio. But Mallory was also driven by her love for Bridget and was resolved to fulfill her quest. So perhaps Sir Connor would have a more difficult time of it after all.
The goal was not to be herded to Edinburgh and sent home. The goal was to meet after they’d grasped their treasures, to dance and celebrate their victories as they’d always planned to do. Granted, Vivianne had always been prepared to compose that love letter herself if she was unable to inspire some poet to write it. But no matter. When the time came, she would have her treasure and a romantic story concocted to boot. The details did not matter. Ultimately, reveling with her friends was all.
It would be their finest memory together.
“Prepare yourself for disappointment,” she said over her shoulder to her unwelcome escort. “Your friends may meet us in the morning, but do not expect to see my friends anytime soon.”
“Ye think yer friends are above…distraction?”
“I do.” She wished he could see her smile, but didn’t dare face him for fear of him leaning toward her again. Or was she afraid she might accept that kiss?
“But not ye?”
“Of course I would not.” A heartbeat later, she gasped, realizing she had been thinking of the kiss and not the question. “That is… I would not…allow myself to be distracted. I will not permit…” She couldn’t bring herself to articulate the rest.
His insulting laughter put an end to their conversation.
They travelled for the rest of the day without speaking. She ranted and raged at him, but silently. Every brush of his body against hers, from his chest or his hands, made her stiffen in reaction. Her message was clear—she would never be drawn in by his attempts to seduce her. She knew his game and she refused to be defeated. In but a few days, she would be delivered to the duchess’ residence in Edinburgh and she could start worrying about that letter. She would be safe from his…distractions…forever.
They stopped more often than she expected, but when she noticed the way he walked, she realized that perching himself behind the saddle was rather uncomfortable for him. But still he never suggested she ride her own horse. That was how she knew his tactics would continue. If he didn’t care about seducing her—whether her mind, her heart, or her body—he wouldn’t care if they rode separately.
His was a grand saddle compared to her English one. It formed to her backside and was a combination of thick fur and red leather. An interesting and comfortable piece of workmanship that he apparently didn’t mind sacrificing for her.
Or was that simply part of his strategy, to soften her?
By the time they stopped for the night, she had worked herself into a fine temper, giving her mind little time to dwell on any physical danger she might be in. The danger such a handsome man posed to her heart was of greater concern, but if she remained angry, she might prevent such a travesty.
She sat rigidly against a tree trunk, not lifting a finger to aid her fair-haired and unnervingly fair-faced captor while he gathered wood and started a fire. The frequency with which he checked her position grew tiresome.
“Yes, you fool. I am still here.”
The man stopped and frowned, and when he took a quick step in her direction, she could not help but start. He noted her reaction and laughed before turning his attention back to his task. She tried not to enjoy the sound of it.
After that, Sir Ian seemed always to be a breath away from bursting into laughter, and she was determined not to be his source of amusement. But she failed horribly. Each time he looked in her direction, she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue. And no matter what she said, no matter how cutting her remark, it always made him hoot like an hysterical bird, or chuckle deviously.
The problem was his laughter had a deep, scratchy edge to it that troubled her and made her feel as if the sound were coming from inside her own body. And worse—the lines around his eyes when he smiled unsettled her even more. It was as if the devil himself had sent Sir Ian McDermott after her to lure her to her own damnation, for the thoughts he inspired were like nothing she’d ever imagined on her own.
A blond devil come to steal her soul.
Heaven help her! She simply couldn’t allow that to happen. Perhaps her best defense would be to close her eyes so she would no longer gaze up into his teasing face or appreciate the firm line of his jaw beneath the darkening start of a beard. When he stepped too close, she would have no need to tilt her head back to appreciate his dizzying height, or the broadness of his shoulders.
He turned toward her and she clapped her eyelids tight. Which also made him laugh, damn him. If she watched him closely, if she turned her attention to anything else, if she sighed—no matter. He laughed.
She fumed.
And while she fumed, she studied him—when he wasn’t looking, of course. With his twisting and bending, seducing the fire into life and feeding her from his stores, she no
ticed the occasional poke of an object beneath his long shirt, near his waist. A particularly carnal thought suddenly occurred to her and she sprang to her feet.
Before she could consider a plan, she fled.
Chapter Fifteen
Bridget had no problem staying warm while simmering over the indignation of being tied to her captor. And Rory Macpherson was certainly holding her captive, tethering her ankle to his. He was no better than his kidnapper of a grandfather! How could he possible expect her to sleep a safe distance from him? How could he expect her to sleep at all?
She acknowledged that might have been his game—if he kept her from enjoying any rest during the night, perhaps he thought she would be less able to outrun him on the morrow. And so, to foil that possible plan, she decided she would ignore the rope and his proximity and breathe deeply of the heather-scented night, finding peace as quickly as she could.
But that wasn’t easily done.
First of all, her warmth faded along with her pique. She had the grand idea of rolling closer to him, hoping to keep him from sleeping while helping her get warmer, but she was far too aware of his every breath, and the pauses in between them, to relax at all. So she rolled away again.
The man grunted and shifted behind her, then his heavy arm came around her waist and he pulled her back against him. In her mind, she was suddenly standing with him once more, hiding in the French cook’s room, feeling those chills, wishing for a kiss.
She banished the image and bucked against him, but he held firm. And though she was sensitive to every twitch of his fingers on the outside of her cloak, she was lured into submission by the melting heat of his body at her back. Her thoughts finally calmed and she breathed deeply, telling herself she would rest for only an hour or two before worrying about her dignity.
Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
In the strange hour between night and dawn, Bridget awoke. The warmth was gone from her back, but the Scotsman snored not far from her. At least one of his feet remained close since the tether attached to her ankle was slack.
The rhythm of Macpherson’s breathing was a wordless lullaby that lured her back toward sleep. She took a deep breath and blinked slowly. Her eyes flew wide, however, when she realized there was a strange pair of dark shadows standing between her and the night sky.
Mallory sat with her back to the curved rock and looked at the dark sky beyond the trees. She’d tried to convince the Scotsman to find Jacob and make sure the lad was all right, but he refused. However, it had grown dark enough to make her truly worry.
She sent the leaves flying from her lap and stood. “If you won’t go looking for him, Sir Connor, then I shall.”
The man rolled his eyes and he cocked his head to one side. “Come out lad. She’s worried over ye long enough.”
Mallory gasped. “What are you saying—”
There was movement off to the right. A disgruntled Jacob strode forward carrying a thick branch with five large fish hanging by their gills where smaller branches had been.
“I was waiting for ye to leave,” he grumbled at Connor as he passed the man. He walked directly to Mallory and offered the branch. The fish, she realized, had already been cleaned. “I wanted to catch enough for breakfast as well, Lady Mallory.”
Connor growled. “They could have been cooked through by now, lad. I’ve been smelling them for at least an hour.”
The boy’s chin lifted. “I…was but weighing my options.”
Connor stood in one fluid motion. “Ye but waited for darkness to fall so I could not, in good conscience, send ye home.”
The boy stood his ground. “The lady needs protecting. What she plans to do in Glasgow is dangerous—”
“Jacob!” Mallory nearly dropped the branch, but recovered it. “You vowed to keep my confidence. Remember that. And my business is no concern of Mr. McGee’s.”
The big Scot’s hands went to his hips. “Since I am now yer protection, my lady, I would say that fact has changed. Until I deliver ye to Edinburgh, along with yer friends, everything about ye is my concern.”
Jacob opened his mouth to protest, but Connor stopped him with a sharp look.
“Of course, ye may explain this dangerous business of yers, but unless ye’re on an errand for Queen Anne herself, I doubt I will bend—”
“Jacob?” She smiled at the boy and waved her fingers to get his attention. “I believe I’ll need two more switches to cook all these lovely fish. Would you mind?”
Jacob nodded and headed for the trees to the left.
Connor’s mouth gaped for a moment, then he shook his head. “Ye heard me plainly, aye?”
“Oh, ho ho, I heard you, sir. And now I’m more concerned with food than I am with your inanities.”
“Inanities?”
She nodded and waved to her right. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and take care of Jacob’s horse?”
“Inanities?” His volume rose with each repetition.
She sighed dramatically. “I apologize. Do go on.” She leaned the pole against the rock wall and folded her arms over her chest. “You have my permission to spout endlessly about your ability to overpower me and force me to do what you believe is best—or rather, what is most expedient for you. Then tell me how imprudent my plans are, even though you know nothing of those plans. Tell me that no woman might have important business save the queen herself, of course. And that I’d better be trusting and biddable by morning or I’ll have to see my way to Edinburgh through my tears because you will give no promises of holding your temper. Please,” she gestured widely to encompass the clearing, “proceed…so I can burn your supper on purpose and patch up the brave boy’s hurt feelings before I take my rest.”
He stared, expressionless, for half a minute before his brow slowly furrowed. “Did ye mean it?”
“What?”
“That y’ll burn my supper intentionally?”
A smile tugged at her cheek. Another tugged at his though it was hard to tell beneath a shadow of beard. She bit her lip to keep from laughing outright.
She lowered her voice. “That depends on how you treat the boy, I suppose.”
He gave her a wink and nodded. She turned to the task of spitting the fish over the fire. A thick bed of coals had grown while they’d waited for Jacob to show himself. If she wasn’t careful, she truly would burn the fish, and she found herself anxious to make the first meal she cooked in Scotland to be something memorable, and not because of the remarkable amount of charring to be scraped from its edges.
She pulled salt and herbs from her satchel and wrapped the fish in thick green layers of fern before hanging them over the heat. In no time at all, the fragrance escaped and three stomachs took turns growling.
Connor praised Jacob for the number and size of his catch, then listened patiently while the lad told the tale of each fish and gave the man advice on the best way to catch such fish himself. When the lad finally grew weary of speaking, the man winked at her over the fire. An acknowledgement of the exchange—a patient ear for a tasty supper.
It felt very much like a truce.
With their bedrolls laid out, their bodies made a triangle around the fire. Jacob fell asleep almost instantly, his face free of any expression while Mallory crouched over him to stretch a blanket over his limp and boneless form.
Connor stretched out with his head near Mallory’s and she narrowed her eyes.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I will not put my boots in yer face.”
She quirked a brow.
“And I would have a quiet word with ye.”
She exhaled loudly, but nodded. Before she lay down, however, she made certain to tie her steinkirk around her neck and tuck the ends of it into her bodice, covering up the cleavage she was willing to display earlier. She rolled onto her stomach and faced the Scot, resting her chin on her elbows, nothing in sight to tempt him. As eager as she was to tease a kiss or two from a handsome pirate, or distract a man or boy into giving her somethin
g she wanted, she was wretchedly terrified of finding herself at any man’s mercy.
It had happened to her once before, when she was much younger. She’d been lured into the tack room to see a kitten stuck in the bottom of a barrel. She’d never dreamed the stable master might lock the door and keep her inside. As soon as the man turned away from the latch, she’d nearly choked on her own powerlessness. She’d been doomed to whatever fate he had in mind for her.
She pretended not to notice the danger and rescued the kitten, but it was of no worth as a shield between her and the fully grown man stalking her through the room. He moved closer each time she paused to remark on some piece of leather, on some strange work of metal. She chattered away, not caring how pointless. If she stopped speaking, it would have been an admission of defeat. If she stopped moving, an invitation.
With foul breath and broken teeth, he cornered her between table and wall. She tossed the poor kitten in his face. He caught it and dropped it to the side. She remembered thinking he would take good care of the thing so he could use it again, to bait another…
The sound of an approaching carriage…
Horses coming to a stop just outside…
Finally, someone to hear her scream!
The stable master’s murderous look just before he unlocked the door…
Then it was over.
Though the man was punished severely and never seen again, she’d avoided stables and horse riding for nearly a decade…until Bridget and Vivianne needed an adventure.
“My lady, what vexes ye so? Upon my honor, I will not touch ye.” Propped up on his elbows as well, the black-haired Scot appeared worried.
Mallory smiled, grateful to be pulled from the memory. She wondered, though, if Connor McGee cornered her, if she might not mind a kiss or two…before she bashed the man’s groin as Bridget had taught her, if she ever found herself powerless again.
“My lady?” He frowned at her.
She laughed lightly. “And upon my honor, sir, I will not touch you.”
He reached over and laid his heavy, warm hand on her forearm. “Share yer burden, Mallory. Tell me of this dangerous business. Perhaps I can help ye.”