And now, as fate would have it, the literal woman of his dreams—the very woman he’d sworn to avoid upon pain of death if necessary—lay bound and gagged in the back of a wagon, wedged between himself and the dead body of Lucas MacGregor, and the responsibility of returning her to her father and betrothed had fallen to him. If her activities the night before were an indicator she would fight him every step of the way back to Wheaton Abbey.
How the hell had this particular streak of bad luck come to pass?
The sight of Lydia cringing away from the bloodied corpse snapped his mind back to the present. He had no idea how long they’d been traveling except that sunlight shone through the cracks in the tarp covering the back of the wagon. If the driver took Felix seriously and drove them clear into Scotland the trip would take an entire day buying them the time necessary to escape.
With little difficulty he managed to wiggle the gag down around his chin and spit out the dirty rags stuffed clear to the back of his throat. He suppressed the urge to cough, it wouldn’t do to let the drivers know his mouth was free, and drew his tongue across parched lips.
“Are you all right, Miss Covington?” he questioned in a low whisper.
She nodded quickly, her wide frightened eyes fixed on his. A wave of male protectiveness surged through him. Instinctively he longed to pull her into his arms and wipe away the fear marring her lovely face. Perhaps even kiss it away. With effort he halted the train of his thoughts. He knew better than to let those particular thoughts cascade else he find himself wanting her and jilted all over again.
“Can ye get yer gag off?”
She shook her head, mimicking his movements from a moment before, the cloth didn’t budge.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he murmured, inching forward the best he could. He raised his head, leaning awkwardly over her, and took the corner of her gag in his teeth, tugging the cloth down along her jaw. Being so close to her was the most exquisite torture. Her scent clean and uniquely feminine swirled around him, it was exactly the smell imprinted upon the handkerchief four years ago. Wisps of russet waves brushed his face more silken than anything he could have imagined. His lips brushed along the smooth curve of her creamy skin, and the feel and smell of her invaded his senses until he could taste her. He ached with longing from the tips of his bound fingers to his lips to other considerably more male parts that he would be wise to banish from his thoughts here and now. A vision of another time, another place, locked in the heat of passion with her pierced his conscious… but it could never be.
Lydia coughed softly and spit the rags from her mouth. “Sir, how—”
“The names Brian Donnelly, Miss Covington, I give ye leave to call me Brian.” He ground his teeth, suppressing the flash of anger that she’d so obviously forgotten him. With effort he reminded himself that he didn’t want her to remember him. More to the point he did not want her… Oh, but that was a lie, and he knew it. He wanted her… desired her… longed to hold her. The truth was he didn’t want to want her. Internally he warred. His gaze fell to the plump curve of her lips; her bottom lip quivered with such vulnerability… it was near to his undoing.
“Brian.” His inner war intensified. Oh, but why did his given name on her lips have to sound as though spoken by an angel? “How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for hours. I was so worried.”
The lass is no angel, he reminded himself, merely a flirtatious nymph. “No need to worry over me, love. Now, I think I have a plan to secure our escape.”
Her eyes lit at the prospect. “I’m listening.”
“If we can turn our backs to each other we may be able to untie the bonds around our wrists. Can ye get rolled onto yer other side?”
Eyes widening in horror, Lydia went deathly still. It took Brian all of three seconds to understand her apprehension. To face the opposite direction would mean to face Lucas MacGregor’s body. The poor girl had likely never seen a dead man before, at least not immediately before burial.
“Miss Covington—”
“Lydia.”
He hesitated. “Miss Lydia, I am sorry for this, if I could take yer place I would.”
“It’s all right. I can do it.”
Without another word she flipped onto her left side. Brian quickly followed suit, but found maneuvering the knots securing the ropes about her wrists exceedingly difficult without the use of his eyes. As such he was no less than surprised to feel the binds slipping away from his wrists in the space of a few minutes. Pulling his feet up, he made quick work of the thick straps around his ankles. On impulse he rose onto his hands and knees, taking care to remain low so as not to disturb the tarp stretched across the back of the wagon, and crawled over Lydia to position himself between her and the corpse. Lydia’s eyes radiated gratitude as she rolled her back toward his chest.
“Good work,” he whispered, fingers dancing nimbly across her knots. “I’m impressed.”
“Yes, well, women are not entirely worthless just expected to appear as such.” The bonds fell from her hands and she too loosened the straps around her ankles without difficulty. She shifted to lie on her back, her left shoulder nestling securely against his chest. She tilted her head to the side looking up to him with bright trusting eyes. His heart lurched. The position was comfortable, intimate… a bit too intimate for his liking. “What next? We must find a way out of the wagon before Keith’s men reach Scotland.”
The cart jostled, tossing him to the side. He braced an arm on the opposite side of Lydia catching the bulk of his body as it settled over the top of her. Well, Damn. With her pinned beneath him every curve of her vivacious body burned against him. Her breasts, unbound beneath the thin fabric of her boy’s shirt, crushed against the flat of his chest, and her arms settled naturally around his shoulders. His heart hammered a wild rhythm. It was as though they were made to fit together. Their gazes locked, it was physical, thick and real. Her eyes, just a shade lighter than her russet tresses, were alive with emotion, it was as though she possessed the magical power to pull him into her very soul. Dear, God, how many times had he imagined lying this way with her? She wriggled beneath him and his body responded fast, hard and primitive. Oh, God, not here, not now. He hauled the reins in on his rampaging, lustful thoughts, forcing his mind to the life or death situation at hand.
“If we bide our time, and keep our eyes open an opportunity will present itself.”
Lydia looked skeptical.
“Do ye trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Lydia, I need an answer, do you trust me?”
Her eyes danced across his face. “Yes.”
He moved his gaze from her eyes down the gentle curve of her face taking in the becoming spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks—how he longed for the time to memorize her—to her lips so full and perfectly pink they begged to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her. Sample her just once. Oh, what the hell, we’re about to die. Without another thought he slipped a hand beneath her neck and pulled her face to his catching her lips in the taste he’d craved for the last four years.
* * *
Heat fused Lydia like the sun in the dawn. The whole of her body melted around Brian welcoming his frame as though kissing him, lying beneath him, was the most natural act in the world. His lips, moist and firm, molded around her mouth and a smattering of dark whiskers bristled against her chin. Shockwaves of awareness rippled across her body. Every nerve ending responded to his kiss, even places she’d not known existed came alive, craving his touch. Instinctively she curled her arms around his neck not wanting this one perfect moment to end.
He responded with urgency, deepening the exchange. He slid a hand across her hip grasping the small of her back as his tongue teased the crease of her lips, begging them to part. She shuddered with a combination of shock and pleasure as his tongue swam into her mouth. Was it the danger of their situation adding such passion to the embrace, causing her to respond with such wanton abandon?
Ab
ruptly Brian broke off the kiss. “Stay quiet.”
“Huh?” she murmured, not yet recovered from his kiss.
“What do you think, Roark? Have we gone far enough to finish the job?” A voice drifted back from the driver’s seat.
Alarm, penetrated whatever haze of Brian’s kiss remained. “We must do something, now!” she hissed.
“Lydia, please, keep yer voice down. They’ll hear us.”
“I’m not talking any louder than you, Brian,” she whispered.
He scowled.
ignored him, mind whirling, searching for a plan of attack. Through the open back of the wagon naught but dirt road and thick foliage met her gaze. It would be far easier to lose their captors in the forest than to take their chances hand to hand with armed men. If she and Brian could escape the wagon without detection…
The cartwheel bounced in a large rut, sending both of them—and Lucas MacGregor—sailing toward the open back of the wagon. The rickety wood cracked beneath their combined weight, and using the momentum Lydia flattened her arms against Brian’s chest, heaved with all her strength, and rolled them both through the open bottom of the wagon.
Sunlight slammed Lydia full in the face a split second before she realized the hard packed road would be slamming into her next. There wasn’t even time to squeeze her eyes shut. “Ouff.” Brian landed flat on his back, and she squarely on top of him. Stunned, she clung to the front of his shirt, staring after the departing wagon. Her eyes darted to the wooded terrain around them, the middle of nowhere, or so it would seem.
“Christ, lass.” Brian groaned and rolled her off of him. “Ye’ll be the death of me. I’m sure of it. Did ye not hear what I said about bidin’ our time? Plannin’ a bit?”
“There is a time for planning and a time for action,” Lydia muttered, scrambling to her knees.
“You are yer father’s daughter,” he grumbled, and Lydia had the distinct impression the statement was not a compliment.
Lydia threw a harried glance over her shoulder to see the driver, and the man she recognized as Roark looking back at them in overt confusion. “Um, Brian? We’d better be going.”
Brian growled under his breath, following her pointed finger. He heaved to his feet, hauling her bodily along with him, and bolted for the cover of the woods.
The wagon rattled to a halt as one man drew a long bore musket. A cold rush washed over her. “Brian, look out!”
The shot went high, slamming into a tree above their heads. “By Christ,” Brian muttered, ducking his head away from the shower of splinters. He grabbed her upper arm, planting her firmly in front of him, once again positioning himself between her and immediate harm. “Run straight into the trees. Don’t look back for anythin’. We’ll lose the bastards in the thicket.”
Feet churching beneath her, Lydia obeyed running blindly through the wood. Leaves and gnarled branches slapped her face and tore at her breeches. Her lungs burned, but still she pressed on, reassured by the steady thud of Brian’s footfalls behind her; as long as she was moving she could hold herself together. A clearing appeared directly ahead of them, she turned to avoid the open space, but Brian grabbed her hand, guiding her into the field. Midway across, he looped an arm about her waist dragging her down into the tall grass beside him.
“What are you doing?” Unwittingly she whimpered, fighting his hold. This is madness! “Why, for the love of God, are we lying in the middle of an open field with naught but a foot of grass shielding us from certain death?”
“Listen to me for once,” he ordered, “and lie down.” Brian locked a strong arm across her middle, drawing her into the warm security of his chest.
Her body shook with such force she was sure the rattle of her bones was audible to the murderers’ ears. Utterly exposed, Lydia wanted nothing more than to wake from the miserable nightmare consuming her life. If only it was a nightmare. If only she could open her eyes, see the midnight blue canopy above her bed, and realize none of this had ever happened. A hard pit solidified in her stomach as the realization she may never see home again struck… hard. Suddenly the whole of her body itched with the need to run. “We’re going to die,” she rasped, balling fistfuls of grass into her hands as though rooting herself to the spot.
Brian speared her with an urgent, penetrating look. “Hush,” he breathed, pressing calloused fingers to her lips. “Lie still.”
“Where did they go?” The befuddled voice of Keith’s henchman rang out over the clearing. “It’s like the two of ‘em disappeared into thin air. Like ghosts.”
“Impossible,” the second brigand scoffed. “They’re ‘ere, and we’d best be findin’ ‘em before they have a chance to escape. Mister Keith’ll have our hides if we go home without proof that the little bitch and Donnelly are dead. How are you with trackin’, mate?”
“A fair sight better than you are with shooting, Roark,” disdain dripped from the man’s tone. “I can’t believe you missed the bastard! Donnelly was only ten feet away and his back’s near as broad as a barn.”
“Shut up, Jackson. I sure as hell didn’t see you trying to stop them.”
Lydia blanched, near out of her mind as the crunch of booted feet drew nearer. How exactly had all of this happened? When had life spun so suddenly outside the realm of her control? Not that anything more than choosing what color to wear had ever been in her control, but at least she’d been safe.
Lord, she prayed, please let us live through this!
Silent tears scorched her cheeks. Crunch. The men were close. Snap. Too close. Discovery was inevitable. A sob hovered at the base of her throat and she bit the inside of her cheek until the tang of blood leeched onto her tongue. She and Brian would be killed in a matter of minutes. All she wanted was to sink into the ground and disappear forever.
“They’re going to find us, we have to move,” she rasped, the hoarse whisper hysterical even to her ears.
Their eyes locked and the intensity in Brian’s eyes transformed from militaristic efficiency to a glow of compassion. A measure of warmth—his warmth—seeped from him and into her, lending her a sliver of calm to cling to. “Trust me, Lydia,” he murmured, each word a soothing balm, soft and smooth as velvet. Brian shifted silently to position the hard length of his body directly over hers, holding her in place. The weight of his hulking frame should have been suffocating, crushing, but with the shouts of their captors drifting ever closer she felt safe pinned beneath him, his strength enveloped her, hid her from the world. He dropped his mouth to her ear, the bristle of his chin softly scratching her cheek. “Steady, love,” he whispered, the words little more than a warm wisp of air in her ear. It was as though he knew her fear and held the secret to pull it all away—he’d been a soldier, he probably had more experience with this brand of fear than anyone should come to know. “Stay with me, now, it’s just you and me. No one here but us. Hold to this moment, love. Hold onto me.”
Lydia cringed into the warm strength of his chest, curling his shirt into fists. The rush of his breathing was slow and steady, his hand closed around her upper arm with firm, reassuring pressure. In his touch she keenly understood his unspoken promise… Brian would protect her, keep her safe. As long as she held to him no harm would come to her. A small measure of calm washed through her. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and drew a slow, steadying breath, doing her best to relax against the bed of sweet smelling grass. Already the men’s thrashing was growing distant and she understood Brian’s reasoning for hiding in the tall grass. Who would be fool enough to search for them in a wide open space?
Abruptly, Brian’s head raised. Lydia opened her eyes a crack to see what was going on. For a long moment he held perfectly still, poised and on alert, his green eyes taking in all that surrounded them. A loud crack sounded not five feet from away. Brian started. Lydia snapped her eyes shut again, there were some things one did not need to see and, in her book, impending doom was at the top of that list.
Soon all stomping of human feet dissipated and
nothing more than the twitter of birds or occasional scolding of squirrels interrupted the steady rustle of the leafy canopy surrounding their small haven.
Lydia sighed, opening her eyes, and was struck forcibly by the sight of Brian—still lying quite inappropriately on top of her—maintaining his vigil of the surrounding area. The man was a god, and not just for his looks, though he resembled a statue of Adonis in no small measure, but because he’d heroically rescued her twice in the last day. Or perhaps he’d saved her more than twice… given the jumble of events in her mind it was near impossible to separate them.
She sighed again, this time wistfully, and visually caressed the face she’d dreamed of over the years. He was more handsome than she remembered, his skin tanned from hours in the sun, a dark brow sat over deep set, thickly lashed eyes. Sensual eyes. The set of his jaw was formidable and rugged with a shadow of black whiskers lining his chin. His mouth, full and perfectly formed, was set in a grim line. How would it look to see him smile? How would his countenance change? Her eyes drifted across his powerfully broad shoulders, along his muscular arms. She turned her head to the side, observing the hand embedded in the grass beside her head. His were hands that had seen a hard day’s work, hands that were rough and calloused, scarred and fascinating. Sinfully Lydia strove to commit every hardened swell of Brian’s lean body stretched atop hers to memory. Her thoughts traveled back to Olivia’s lecture of what transpired between husband and wife. Lydia dared to picture Brian in the role…
Without warning Brian turned to lock his unsettling gaze on hers, his expression unreadable. The heat of a crimson flush seeped into her cheeks. Oh, no. Don’t blush. Not now! But it was too late, her cheeks must be flaming, and Brian would have no difficulty reading the improper train of her thoughts; it was mortifying. The hint of a smile rolled across his lips, lending a boyishly mischievous quality to his features. The heat in her face intensified.
“Were ye thinkin’ of somethin’ that should make ye blush, Miss Lydia?” his tone was light, teasing, as he leaned in until their noses might well have been touching.
Forget Me Not Page 3