What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  It had been at least that long since he’d last laughed, a genuine, heartfelt chuckle of built up emotion, freed from its confines at last.

  He wanted to stay there forever like that, the moment was so perfect.

  She leaned back and peered up into his eyes. “What in the blazes was that sound? Did you just laugh, MacLeod?” she teased.

  He simply smiled.

  Aye, he’d laughed. Out loud. And he owed it all to the charm of this crazy, kind, mad ball of fire before him…who might very well exactly what he needed.

  But was he ready?

  Hours Later

  Och, Mel. She was far too friendly for her own good. When they turned a bend in the road and he spied another carriage up ahead, stalled upon the side of the road, he reached over and pulled on her mare’s reins before she had a chance to hail the occupants.

  “Mel. You cannae stop to help everyone you meet along the way.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Ye have.”

  “I have not.”

  He held up his hand to count off her transgressions. “First, it was the stranded delivery driver, the butcher, then the maid, then the lost butler, the blacksmith, the shepherd, and now who knows what lies in that carriage up ahead? And I canna fathom how these people seem to make their way into your path. I’ve no’ seen so many people in need of help in ma life. Ye’re like a magnet for…” his voice caught, “…lost souls.”

  “Maybe you’ve just never noticed before?”

  “Well, maybe you should start noticing less?”

  “Why? I mean, what is wrong with helping people in need? Look, MacLeod, this is me. This is who I am. I am capable; it is wrong for me not to help those who cannot help themselves.”

  “That’s fine in the normal course of things, but most of those people did not truly need your help.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “Yes, so. What is so wrong with taking the time to help others? It’s fine, MacLeod, really.”

  “It is not fine when there are men after us.”

  She laughed. She genuinely laughed. “Do you honestly think Kelly is still going to come after me? I hardly think so, and we’ve seen no evidence to support his continued pursuit since we started making our way to Greenwood Park. Upon further reflection, I think he was only half-heartedly carrying out his orders. I don’t think he really intended me harm.”

  “How can you be so naïve?”

  “Ha! I am hardly naïve, darling.”

  For a moment, her eyes took on a haunted look. There was darkness in her past. Experiences she had buried deep and refused to discuss. He both wanted to know what she’d seen and wanted to run from it as fast as he could go.

  Instead, he came out with the inanest response anyone could possibly utter. “But you’re Dansbury’s sister.” Why that should make a difference, he didn’t know. It sounded good, anyway.

  Actually, it didn’t. It sounded idiotic, to tell the truth.

  Amelia waved her hand in the air. “But I didn’t know that until recently, so that hardly signifies.”

  He reached for her reins again. She had him wound up in knots and he knew it. Hell, she probably knew it. “You are far too trusting, Mel.”

  She turned to look at him, her face grave now. “I’d rather have the courage to believe in the innate goodness of humankind than to be diminished by my doubt in it. Honestly, I cannot live in a world like that—a bleak world where trust doesn’t exist. Even if misplaced trust kills me.”

  MacLeod felt broken inside once more when he heard the pity within her words, but he had to make her see. Misplaced trust could kill. Very much so. He settled on, “I don’t have the luxury of living with that sort of optimism. It would be a gamble with more than my own life to do so.”

  “Pity, that.” She appeared genuinely sad about it.

  Then, without further ado, she lifted her nose, turned her attention toward the unidentified carriage, cupped her hands to her mouth, and called out, “Hallo up ahead! Are you in need of some assistance?”

  Och, she was going to be the death of him.

  At the Same Time: The Stevens’ House

  Ciarán Kelly loved women. All women.

  Big women, small women, tall women, petite women. Buxom, slender. Blonde, Ginger. Rich women, poor women.

  Strong women, even weak women.

  He genuinely loved them all. The way they spoke. The way they walked. The way they laughed and smiled. The way they cried, kissed, and batted their eyes.

  The way they made love…

  No matter what reason he had for being with a woman, he cherished them all. Though at times—and some might call it distasteful—he charmed them into spilling their confidences. Normally, in the name of the Crown.

  It almost made him the male equivalent of a whore.

  Hell, it did make him a whore. A man-whore.

  Alas, he was good at it. At this. Good at charming. Good at sex. Good at making a woman voice her deepest, darkest secrets; he loved them too much, and they responded in kind.

  Was it wrong to enjoy a woman’s company for a spell, so long as the feeling was mutual?

  He never harmed a woman to get at her secrets, he merely applied a healthy, hefty measure of charm. Generally, Mrs. Chase notwithstanding. That was an extenuating circumstance.

  A soft moan brought his attention back to the woman before him and her long, beautiful back—so soft and feminine. He felt a trace of guilt for allowing his mind to wander away from her.

  This woman, Millie was her name, was no different from so many others. She was pretty in the way he found all women, softer around the edges than a man, with a smile to remind him of sweeter times.

  Right away, she’d wanted him, and he returned the sentiment. She even wanted to have him the way she had him, with him riding her from behind.

  Not his preferred way to make love, but alas, who was he to deny a woman her desires?

  Kelly took a deep breath, the smell of sex and flowers carried on the breeze, the wind ruffling his hair. The woman he made love to started to shift off sync with his rhythm, and Kelly leaned forward to croon softly in her ear.

  “Hold on. Tighter.” Kelly stroked the maid’s back as he spoke, caressing her with the barest touch.

  The maid shifted her grip on the tree before her and held on as best she could.

  “Aye, that’s it Millie…so good, bean álainn…”

  “Cor…I…luv…Irish brogue…mmm…” Her broken words in her delightfully soft accent trailed off on a drawn-out moan.

  Kelly shuttered his eyes as he continued to love her. He literally couldn’t watch his cock as he slid in and out of her warm, wet sheath…or it’d all be over too soon. And that would be selfish; she needed her pleasure, too.

  His hips continued their rhythm, moving in and out, in and out, and he tried desperately to focus on Millie. On this warm, willing woman.

  But anxiety kept tugging at his mind. Again. Pushing against his concentration and dragging his mind off to a thousand other thoughts and images.

  And before he knew it, his mind fixed on a memory of her, of his Charlotte, and he nearly lost his stride and his erection. Just like that. Just like he did every time she danced across his mind.

  He shied away from her memory. Charlotte was lost to him forever, permanently out of his reach. He disciplined his mind to focus on the woman with him now.

  This woman, who coincidentally had spoken to both Mrs. Chase and MacLeod and whom the Puppet Master had suggested he find, knew something. Hell, the entire town, particularly the servants, would be gossiping about the unexpected visitors and what everyone knew of their plans. And this woman was a servant.

  So perhaps not so coincidental after all.

  He refused to evaluate whether he was a bad man for doing this because in truth, he’d enjoy his time with her whether she eventually told him everything or nothing at all.

  But ultimately, they always talked.


  The maid moaned again and Kelly zeroed in on her and her pleasure.

  Her moans became shorter, louder, and more frequent as she neared her crisis. Ahh, God he loved the sound of it, always so beautiful.

  All too soon, she began to climax around him, her warm sheath squeezing every inch of his cock. “Ah, that’s it, Millie. Let it go. Let it all go.”

  As the spasms gripping him began to subside, he picked up his pace as he raced to his own finish, pulling out with plenty of time and using his fist to finish himself off.

  He would not risk a child being born a bastard.

  The maid held on to her tree as she caught her breath, her eyes closed. After a few moments, she turned and flopped to the ground, her bare bottom upon the grass and a giggle upon her lips. Kelly buttoned his trousers and lowered himself to the ground beside her. He leaned back on one arm, all casual and open, and watched her a moment as she fiddled with her dress and looked out over field of wildflowers behind the Stevens’ home.

  He could easily sit back and simply enjoy the warm weather, but he hadn’t the time. It was a sincere shame.

  Kelly sat up, leaned in, and spoke softly near her ear, “So lass, what makes such a charming lady giggle so?”

  “Oh, Mr. Kelly, you are a fine bloke as I ever saw, you are.” She batted him away, but he didn’t budge.

  “Ah, ma lass, surely a woman in your position meets many an interesting man. I hardly believe you haven’t seen finer or bigger men than I.”

  “Cor, I must admit I did meet a big giant of a man…’twere only a few days ago. I swear his arms were as wide as the trunk of this tree.”

  He gave her a disbelieving look. “You jest.”

  She raised her hand. “Honest to God. He frightened me to death, he did. So much so I couldn’t get me mouth to work anymore than saying, ‘Cor’ or summat.” She giggled again at the memory.

  “Indeed?”

  “Cor, yes. He looked to be a rough and ready brute.”

  “Rough and ready? A man so big and rough as that? Why in the world would a man like that have need to speak to someone at such a respectable house as this?”

  “Cor…well…”

  Kelly leaned back on his arm again, his most charming smile firmly in place, and relaxed as the maid told him everything he needed to know. He watched her soft, pouty mouth as she formed the words that apprised him of everything she knew of MacLeod and Mrs. Chase.

  Meanwhile, in the back of his mind, the beginnings of a plan began to take shape because there was one thing that was absolutely clear:

  He was catching up to them.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Next Day: Still Traveling

  MacLeod and Amelia rounded a bend in the road and pulled to an unexpected stop. A large portion of the trunk of a tree blocked the road. MacLeod pulled on his reins, prepared to go around.

  “You cannot just leave it there, Alaistair. What would someone traveling in a carriage do?” What would she do if she were fleeing in a carriage and came upon something like this? Her seemingly selfless actions often had an ulterior, perfectly nonselfless motive. She was always looking out for number one, growing up an orphan and on the run from one’s crimes tended to do that to a person.

  MacLeod sighed in response.

  Well, that was too bad, they couldn’t leave a tree blocking the road when it was within their power to move it. MacLeod was a big man. Surely, he could see to it?

  He guided their horses off the road and proceeded to dismount, his movements jerky and forced. Amelia smiled to herself. He would do as she asked even though he didn’t want to. He hardly put up a fight, in fact. It was the tiniest bit endearing.

  He tied the reins to a nearby branch and removed his gloves. Then he removed his coat and she tried desperately not to stare as he peeled the garment from his body. But what a magnificent body it was, all brawn and hard. She knew what it was like to be crushed in those massive arms, delightfully so.

  Once finished, he tossed his jacket over his saddle and went to work on his waistcoat, his eyes now locked on her—the entire time. Was he warning her, daring her, or just letting her know he was angry? She couldn’t tell. All of the above?

  Regardless of what that look meant, his actions had her squirming in her saddle as more and more of his body was revealed to her hungry gaze.

  When he began to loosen his cravat, her mouth turned dry.

  Still, he never looked away. His eyes, locked with hers, daring her to look.

  And she did. Oh God, did she ever.

  Finally, after throwing the cravat on top of the growing pile of clothing on the back of his horse, he rolled up his sleeves while he turned to face their wooden obstacle.

  It was only then she could finally breathe.

  After looking over the situation for a few moments, he stepped forward toward one end of the tree and positioned himself with his legs braced apart.

  But as he bent down to grab ahold of the log, she yelled out, “Stop!”

  MacLeod stood and brushed his hands together, purposefully, as if he had all the time in the world. Then, he took of his hat to run his hand through his hair once before replacing it on his head. He took his time about it, his movements slow and deliberate.

  He turned to her, his face stoic, but Amelia felt his ire—and perhaps a touch of exasperation—burning just beneath the surface. “What nou?” His tone was clipped.

  “You should check for snakes. Who knows how long that tree has been lying there?”

  MacLeod shook his head and looked away, his gaze settling upon some unknown point in the distance. He seemed to do that an awful lot lately.

  “Mel.” She almost didn’t hear him with his face turned to the wind. “There will no’ be snakes beneath this log.”

  Winnie danced a bit in place as Amelia tugged a bit on the reins; like her rider, Winnie was ready for battle. “You don’t know that.”

  “Aye, A do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Mrs. Chase, do you see the branches towards the other end of the tree?”

  “Yes…”

  “How do they look to you?”

  “Green and large and—”

  “Green’ll do. And what do you think that means?”

  “That the tree only recently fell?”

  “Aye. Good. No snakes, ye ken?”

  “Aye…erm, I mean yes.”

  MacLeod bent down again. Amelia couldn’t help but mutter beneath her breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  MacLeod dropped his head for a moment, and she could have sworn she heard him growl beneath his breath in response. Or was he laughing? He seemed to do the growling bit an awful lot…around her, at any rate.

  She was struck completely mute by the sight of his shirt pulled tight across his expansive shoulders. The next thing she knew, she was imagining all sorts of naughty thoughts while staring at those massive shoulders. She imagined running her hands along the breadth of them, tracing the outline of his muscles with her fingers. She pictured the tension there as he reacted fiercely to her touch. She fancied he called her his pet name in that delightful, gruff brogue of his.

  “Shite…” MacLeod interjected, interrupting her pleasurable reverie. He dropped his end of the tree as if it were on fire and grabbed a hold of his left hand. He stood stock still, his back to her, his shoulders tense.

  Amelia slid down from their horse and rushed over to MacLeod, her ire lit like a spark to kindling. “You churlish, beef-witted lout. What did I tell you?” She grabbed at his hand, but he held it high above her head and then brought it around behind his back. “You were bit, weren’t you?”

  He glowered at her, but said nothing.

  “Scowling at me doesn’t change the fact that you were wrong and that you are bit. Let me take a look.”

  “Nae.”

  “Aye, you fool.”

  MacLeod searched her eyes and must have accurately read the determination there, for he sighed and reluctantly
thrust out his hand. She could see the two perfectly placed punctures in the beefy part of his palm.

  Amelia knew exactly what she had to do.

  She pulled his hand to her face, and opened her mouth. But before her lips met his palm, he jerked his hand from her grasped. “What are ye doing, lass?”

  “I’m going to suck out the poison, you silly man, what else?”

  “You doona need to do that.”

  “I do.”

  “You doona.”

  “Listen here, MacLeod, growing up in America, I know a thing or two about snake bites, and I know that when a snake has bitten you, you must suck out the poison. Now do hurry MacLeod, time is of the essence.”

  “Yes, well, in England, our snakes are no’ poisonous, so it doesnae matter, ye ken?”

  She worried her brow and stared at him to ascertain the truth of his assertion. “Are you sure?”

  MacLeod growled (again!) and turned to storm off toward his horse.

  His contention simply wasn’t good enough for her. “Well, bully for you, MacLeod, but I’m not taking any chances.” She grabbed at his arm. “Give me your dashed hand, you oversized…” He turned and scowled at her, anger blazing in his eyes. She smoothed her tone in response, as one might with an injured animal one was trying to soothe, and smiled, with a blush and an innocent flutter of her lashes. “…fellow.”

  He practically snarled at her, as if he was an animal, but he thrust out his hand in acquiescence. She grabbed ahold of it and gave him a warning look to cooperate, then looked down at the two tell-tale punctures in his hand. They really were quite small; one could almost miss them if one wasn’t looking.

  But after all her incessant nagging, as she brought his hand to her mouth, the intimacy of her actions became acutely transparent.

  At that precise moment, the entire world and everything in it seemed to slow, apart from her heart, for it—that contrary, disagreeable, unthinking organ—began to race.

  His hand, just there before her, was large—oh, so much bigger than her own—and rough; the hands of a man who had seen plenty of hard work in his life.

  She inhaled in steady, measured breaths, desperate to slow her racing pulse. What she got for her efforts was the complex scent of his very essence, the subtle hint of which sprang from his palm like a smoking candle.