by Amy Quinton
He wanted it all. Right now. Hard. Against the wall. On the floor. In the tub.
Hell, he would happily bend her over the large trunk she owned and take her from behind.
God, he’d slide right in and wouldn’t it feel divine?
He’d never been so achingly hard in all his miserable life. What power did this woman wield?
He looked at her, his gaze meeting hers in the dim light. And like the snap of a twig underfoot, he broke.
He pulled her closer, his lips diving for hers and in search of a kiss that had been in the cards since the moment she’d walked in to the taproom of The Quiet Witch Inn. He tasted and devoured her; her mouth as sweet and as hot as he’d imagined a thousand times since that fateful night.
Last night.
God, he was turned inside out. Since when had he lost such complete control of his own desires? It made him forget everything…his name…his job…his…
He was halfway to the bed, clenching her ass and nibbling at her lips, when it all came rushing back to him.
The mission. Dansbury.
“Aw, hell,” he ground out a whispered curse.
She might verra well be Dansbury’s sister.
It was like the proverbial bucket of cold water had been dumped on his head.
Shite. She might. Be. Dansbury’s. Sister.
MacLeod set Amelia at arm’s length and held her there while he caught his breath, which was sawing in and out of him as if he’d run the Newmarket Town Plate several times over on his own two feet. She smiled at him, utterly aware of the effect she was having. Hell, his cock was presenting itself front and center for her inspection leaving no doubt whatsoever as to the effect she was having.
Once he felt he was in control once more, he began searching for a towel. Anything to cover her.
Dammit.
He’d momentarily lost his head, lost sight of his honor…hell, he’d all but lost sight of his mission and the note he found shoved beneath his door this morning. The one practically burning a hole in his sporran that read:
MacLeod,
Don’t trust Kelly.
Spyder
Spyder—their most heavily used and least understood agent. His mind swam with the implications. Was Kelly a traitor? How in the hell did Spyder know where to find the man? His knowing Kelly’s whereabouts in and of itself lent credence to the missive’s warning.
MacLeod eventually spotted a towel. He reluctantly left her to retrieve it and looked away as he handed her the length of cloth. It was self-preservation, plain and simple.
The situation was serious and the woman before him was becoming more than a puzzle to solve or an inconvenience to manage, for she clouded his judgement. He could almost accuse her of being in cahoots with the villains. Almost. Yet he was reluctant to do so.
Ha, his mind shied away from convicting her with surprising vehemence.
Though perhaps in truth, he already had but didn’t want to acknowledge it, which made this odd, physical attraction to her unacceptable, dangerous, and damned exasperating.
She could be a villain or she could be Dansbury’s long lost sister; either way this attraction was a problem. It was as inappropriate as it was galling.
MacLeod turned back and glared down at Mrs. Chase, and she, rather than look worried—as she ought—glared at him in return, but at least a towel now covered her nakedness.
He crowded her, walking her backwards until her legs brushed up against the bed, an impenetrable wall of anger the only thing separating them from another inadvisable intimate embrace.
He refused to consider that his anger was over his own behavior, more than hers.
When he spoke, it was only a fraction above a whisper, though there was an unmistakable note of anger in his tone that left no doubt as to his level of irritation. “How did you know where Dansbury was headed?”
Many a man would be ready to piss their breeches at the sound of his tone.
But not Amelia Chase.
She plopped onto the bed, her towel gripped tight to her chest with one clenched fist. Yet her voice was steady as she replied, “I received a note.”
“From whom?”
“There wasn’t a name.” She enunciated each word, slowly and clearly, a sure sign that she was cross herself.
No name. Really? “So how did you know the note was legitimate?”
She lifted her chin a wee bit higher and straightened her spine. “I didn’t.”
MacLeod was incredulous. He stood back and looked her over. “Let me get this straight…you followed the directions left in a note…from someone you did no’ know…and rode my horse to a place you’d never been nor heard of before…on a…what? A whim? Was it a dare?”
She crossed her arms, but gave him a coy look he would have to decipher later. “Well, when you put it that way…”
He clenched his fists and tried to calm his mind lest he find himself tempted to throttle her. “What? What way, Mrs. Chase?”
She walked her fingers along a pattern in the bedding, “Well, it does seem a tiny bit ridiculous when you state it as such.” She looked up to him once more. “But honestly MacLeod, I had nothing else to go on, so I figured, what did I have to lose?”
Oh, Mrs. Chase, far more than you could possible know.
MacLeod searched her eyes for the truth. It pained him, this…not knowing. “May I see this note?”
She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “No.”
“No?” He had absolutely no qualms about searching her things for it, but it’d be easier if she simply complied of her own accord.
“I-I no longer have it.”
He crossed her arms lest he be tempted to tip her over his knee; she could use a good spanking. Or kiss her again. He could scarcely tell the difference anymore, his passion for her felt remarkably like anger. “Och, convenient, that.”
She shrugged, but remained silent, maintaining her story.
MacLeod considered everything he knew so far, but ended up no closer to understanding the truth. However, an idea began to take shape. Perhaps he could call her bluff? Aye…he could bring Dansbury to her. They could put a full stop to the narrative of this entire situation once and for all and move on.
Mrs. Chase could be in gaol by midday for her crimes. He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest; the idea of her in gaol did not sit well with him.
She could also be declared Dansbury’s sister…and that possibility was the only thing that stayed his hand from applying heavier means of interrogation, as he would with any other suspect who worked against his men.
Och, who was he kidding? He truly only wanted to touch her with passion and nothing else. Still.
And she might be precisely who she claimed. Hell, it was that very idea that had stopped him from fucking her senseless not five minutes ago.
His cock, which had settled, twitched the tiniest bit with renewed interest.
He ignored it. The damn thing apparently wasn’t very particular at the moment.
“All right, Mrs. Chase. I’m going to give you your chance.”
She looked decidedly nervous at that; he hoped she was. Better than seeing straight through the façade of furious indifference which he hoped he portrayed but knew he didn’t, not really. She was far too calm.
“How do you mean?” Her hands drew back into the folds of her towel and started tangling with the fabric. He pointedly watched her do this until she realized what was happening and clenched her fists instead.
He looked back up and caught her regard. “Easy…” he paused and settled his breathing; it was hard to hold her gaze for there was an unexpected depth to be found in her dark orbs. “I’m going to go fetch Dansbury now. You can tell him who you are, and we’ll see which of your stories holds true, aye?”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Well, I’m going with you. You’re not leaving me alone again.” She lifted her chin in defiance, all but daring him to argue against her.
“Oh no. You can wait right here,
and I’ll bring Dansbury to you. We would no’ want all and sundry to witness this…”
She crossed her arms. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he concurred.
Mrs. Chase lifted her chin further, if possible, her nose practically touching the ceiling. “Fine…” she repeated.
Shite. She was far too confident.
MacLeod opened the door, convinced at any moment she would give away her bluff.
“W-wait, MacLeod?”
MacLeod smiled, satisfied. Here it comes…
He stopped inside the doorway and leaned against it with one arm raised and gripping the frame above as he looked back at her. “Aye?”
“Tell me something. Why is Dansbury pretending to be Mr. Churchmouse? Don’t pretend he isn’t who we’re talking about; it’s beneath you and insults me.”
He looked her in the eye as he said, “I canna answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t? And which part?”
He stood away from the door and shrugged. “Both. All of it.”
“Well, then. I-I’m not ready.”
He raised a brow in query.
“…to tell Dansbury who I am, I mean,” she added.
MacLeod stepped back inside the room and slammed the door. Leaning back, he raked a hand through his hair. “Why?”
She swallowed. “I-It’s private.”
Of course it is, Mrs. Chase. “Private, aye?”
“Aye…I mean, yes.”
Unbelievable. “And I’m supposed to just trust ye, now?
She squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “It seems we both have to go on a little faith at the moment.”
Bloody hell; this woman.
He turned to leave, yanking the door open with enough force to make it creak. As he left, he called back over his shoulder, “We’re not through here, Mrs. Chase.”
Aye, far from it.
At the Same Time: In a Blackened, Unmarked Carriage - Not Far From The Sorceress and Lusty Hound Inn
Ciarán Kelly climbed into the black, unmarked carriage a few ticks after midnight. Inside a carriage lamp swayed in time with his steps, but the man waiting inside remained hidden in shadows. The only unique part of his person betraying anything to the light were the glint of silver rings which adorned every one of his fingers. An identifying idiosyncrasy to be noted, for sure.
Kelly seated himself across from his…host…and patiently waited for the man to speak. In the meantime, he looked around and surveyed his surroundings. Inside the carriage, luxury reigned supreme. Plush blue velvet shot through with silver thread and expert tufting covered the seats, which were firm yet comfortable enough to suggest they would remain so even after extended hours of traveling.
The shadowed man rapped on the ceiling with his silver-tipped walking stick and the carriage jerked into motion. He was fiddling with the rings on his left hand when he finally spoke. “You’ve had trouble apprehending Dansbury, I hear.”
The man’s accent was unmistakable: Spyder was Welsh.
Kelly shrugged in response, betraying no discomfort. “He’s a formidable opponent, as I’m sure you are aware.”
The man chuckled softly. “Indeed. Too formidable. But even for you?”
Kelly narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t present on that cockup of a job, now was I?”
The man chuckled again. “Of course not. How could I forget?”
Did he find this farce of a situation amusing?
“No. I do not find this amusing at all.” The man responded as if he’d read Kelly’s mind. He leaned forward, and his dark, scarred visage was revealed by the swaying lantern. He leaned heavily on his walking stick but held Kelly’s gaze without hesitation. “But let’s turn our attention to more important matters, shall we? I take it you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Chase?”
“I have.” Kelly agreed, somewhat hesitant regarding this line of questioning.
The man smiled, though one side of his mouth seemed to sneer as his lip curled awkward, forced so by a scar that pulled tight across his right cheek. “And do you, by chance, know who she is…who she really is?”
Kelly ignored the scar and shrugged once again. “I have a hunch.”
The man sat back again and resumed fiddling with his rings. “Do you now? Yes…I suppose you do. Your instincts serve you well, Irish.”
Kelly acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
“And I suppose you also realize that there is very little Dansbury wouldn’t do for his long…lost…sister?”
Chapter Eight
At a More Reasonable Hour in the Morning: The Sorceress and Lusty Hound Inn
A traitor?
MacLeod returned to the main room of the inn after talking privately with Dansbury in the stables about the possibility of a traitor amongst their team. It was a damn shame, for he respected and trusted these men…or had, especially Kelly. They were among the few people left in his world for whom he would lay down his life. Hell, he could count their number on one fucking hand.
MacLeod caught himself scratching absentmindedly at his chin and clenched his fists in frustration. It was a ridiculous habit he was determined to break.
To his surprise, he had learned that Dansbury and Lady Beatryce, who were still posing as husband and wife while on the run from a mad assassin, had been attacked en route by four men on horseback lending truth to the idea that there was, indeed, a traitor amongst them. Very few men knew Dansbury’s route out of London, which was far off the beaten path.
MacLeod had not told Dansbury of his suspicions regarding Amelia Chase; not when he needed to be more certain in his own mind about who, exactly, she was…friend or foe. Dansbury could ill afford another worry on his mind; he had plenty of his own troubles to deal with.
MacLeod swept his eyes across the room, taking measure of the few patrons up and about this early spring morning. Three regulars were at the bar; he was quite sure they were there when he’d retired last night as they wore the same clothes and sat in the same manner: heads in their hands, a mug of ale on the bar between their elbows. Four women sat at a table talking over each other about God knew what. They were there last night as well. At the same table. In the same seats, even, and still talking, though they were at least wearing different clothes.
MacLeod looked over to the only other occupied table in the long and narrow taproom, expecting to see Mrs. Chase and Lady Beatryce where he’d left them an hour ago. In the far corner, Lady Beatryce sat alone with a cup of coffee cradled in her hands.
He scanned the room once more, but there was no sign of her.
Though she was likely only taking care of her personal needs, MacLeod marched over, concern creasing his brow as he noted Lady Beatryce’s expression. She seemed to smirk, chastise, and smile all at the same time, making his gut churn with added tension.
He wasted no time with pleasantries, but braced his hands on the back of the chair across from her and demanded, “Where is Mrs. Chase?”
“La, she’s gone.” Lady Beatryce replied with a wave of her hand. Then, she took a sip of her drink, casual like, as if she had all the time in the world for coffee.
For a moment, it felt as if his heart stopped. He couldn’t have heard her right. “Och, what do you mean, gone?”
Lady Beatryce shrugged. “Just that. Gone. Left. Adieu. Adios. Good bye.” And she waved at him as if to demonstrate what she meant by good bye to a child in the process of learning to speak.
The chair creaked beneath his grip, and his brogue was thicker than ever when he asked, “Where. Did. She. Go?”
Lady Beatryce waved her hand in the air once again, as unconcerned as ever. “La, how should I know?”
He very nearly threw the chair across the room at her flippant response, yet he remained composed—only just. “You did no’ ask? She did no’ mention it in polite conversation as she said guid bye? She just got up and walked oot without saying a bloody word?”
If she dares to say no…
“My, my—so many words from a man who guards his words so judiciously.” Lady Beatryce shrugged. “Mrs. Chase didn’t leave in precisely that manner, of course not. She received a note from the barkeeper over there,” Lady Beatryce nodded toward a middle-aged man at the bar with wide, hairy side burns and a bald pate, drying glasses with a dirty length of cloth. “Then, she very politely excused herself while she read the letter. All the sudden, she popped up out of her chair and said she had to leave.” Lady Beatryce touched a finger to her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Come to think of it, she did seem somewhat startled and agitated by what she’d read…and, of course, in a bit of a hurry.”
“And you did no’ think to press her for more?”
“Why should I? It’s none of my business. Besides, she was in a hurry, as I just now pointed out. Who was I to slow her down?”
Damned difficult woman…no, difficult women; Mrs. Chase was definitely one of their number.
“Has that ever stopped you before?”
Lady Beatryce didn’t answer; she simply smiled into her cup. They both knew the answer to that question.
“What did you two talk about prior to her receiving the letter? Did she say anything that might give me a clue as to where she was headed?”
“Now, that, I’m not going to tell you.”
For the first time ever, he had the urge to reach over and throttle a woman until she confessed everything, a concerning feeling that he did not care for, despite there being what some might consider justifiable reasons for it. Fortunately, he was more of a gentleman than all that. But, damn, the impulse was there, manifesting itself in a clenched jaw, whitened knuckles, and now a cracked taproom chair.
MacLeod patiently clipped out, “How long ago did she leave; can you tell me that at least?”
Lady Beatryce rolled her eyes. “Of course, MacLeod. La, believe it or not, I am on your side. Let’s see…she left about two minutes after you went out to speak to Dansbury. Indeed, the barkeep was on his way over with her message as you walked out the front door.”