by Amy Quinton
His was an intricate aroma made up of the smell of leather from his gloves and a distinctive scent she’d come to associate specifically with MacLeod, an earthy note that brought to mind the trees in the forest and the soil beneath her feet—a clean and practical scent.
His skin was hot, so much warmer than hers; she could feel the heat emanating from him as she drew his hand near. She had the almost irresistible urge to cradle her cheek in his palm and soothe her wind-chapped cheeks there.
Then, there were his fingers; they were long and broad and strong, so capable of work, of strength, of pleasure…
She glanced up into his eyes, as she bent to touch her lips to his palm, determined to see to the task she’d fought so hard to perform.
She was taken aback by what she saw there. His pupils were dilated and sharp with desire. He had zeroed in on her mouth as if she wielded a veritable weapon.
Regardless of the obvious danger, she ignored all the signs she should stop. Instead, she carried on, inching his palm ever closer to her mouth.
He hissed in a quick breath the moment her lips touched his scorching hot skin and her heart jumped in time with the sound.
She closed her eyes then, suddenly unable to do what she needed to do. She was completely overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that flooded her, sensations she’d never, ever felt before with such intensity. She felt weightless and dizzy and warm all over. She squeezed her thighs together, for she tingled and ached in the very heart of her womanly center.
She couldn’t stop. She wanted more, so much more.
She touched her tongue to the center of his palm, no longer thinking of snake bites and poison, no longer thinking of anything but him and his skin and his touch.
MacLeod let out an unmistakable warning, “Mel…”
Amelia looked up and was taken aback by the portent in his blazing green eyes. He looked raw. He looked hungry. He looked determined. The emotions swirling in his gaze were almost frightening in their intensity.
Yet she touched her tongue to his palm again anyway proving she wasn’t afraid of his fire.
That was the final straw; like the snap of a leather strap pulled too taut, he growled one last time like the beast he was before he ripped his hand free and grabbed a hold of her, his lips descending to hers with unerring accuracy.
Oh, sweet God!
He demanded. He conquered. He assaulted every one of her senses.
His lips were soft, yet commanding and fierce. He reached in for a hard kiss, then pulled back. He turned his head and charged in again, then pulled back once more. Their kiss was a dance and a tease and a force all in one.
He paused in his assault and pleaded, “Oh God, Mel…open up for me, lass.”
And when she did, his lips and tongue plunged inside, invading her soul.
Right then and there, he claimed her. All of her.
He refashioned her into someone utterly new.
Oh, God. In the end—the very end—she would never be the same.
She’d already changed.
At the Same Time
“We’ll take her when they stop for the night, most likely here. Until then, we’ll keep an eye out for them from this vantage point here.” Kelly leaned over a crude map of the area as he pointed to the area in question with his knife.
It had taken a lot of interrogation and hard riding to catch up to MacLeod and Mrs. Chase. Kelly suspected he had Mrs. Chase to thank for their success. He’d have to remember to express his gratitude.
“What’s a vantage point?” asked a small, lanky kid with two few teeth and even fewer brain cells in his head. Kelly tried to hide his exasperation. The men he had to work with were thick. It made him miss working with gruff, hard-nosed MacLeod. The man may have been stiff, but he was also brilliant.
On a positive note, MacLeod and Mrs. Chase were almost within reach; in fact, he would have her as his guest once again before the next day was through.
He rolled up the map and ignored the kid’s ignorant question. “I have one more person to speak to, then we’ll meet back here in an hour. Be ready to go then. We have at least an hour’s worth of hard riding ahead.”
The men were all snickering quietly before a particularly foolish man spoke up and related what they were all thinking. “Does this informant have plump titties, too? More ‘n a man can hold with his bare hands?”
A few whistles, lewd comments, and loud guffaws followed that remark, all of which had Kelly seeing red. He grabbed the loose-lipped man and shoved him against the wall by his throat. “Don’t. Disrespect. The women.”
The man tried to swallow; his false bravado lost through his penis as he pissed his pants. “I—I—I ain’t disrespectin’ nothin’,” he stammered. Then he tried to turn his head to spit on the floor to vouch for his oath.
The point was moot; his answer wasn’t the correct one.
One punch to the face was all it took to knock the blighter out.
God, he’d be glad when this was all over.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Next Day: More Dusty Roads
Amelia and MacLeod rode in absolute silence, each lost to their own thoughts. For MacLeod, he would normally be pleased with their mutually agreed upon quiet, regardless of the reason behind it.
But this time, his own thoughts were wholly unsettled.
It’d started with the look in her eyes as she’d brought his hand to her mouth, setting off a swirling heat which began in the pit of his stomach. Her eyes flashed, and the churning had intensified, a maelstrom springing to life in storm-tossed seas.
The feel of her lips to his palm had brought forth another surge of emotion, a flood of passion which seemed to undulate beneath his skin, heaving like giant waves, surging and crashing and surging again as he fought with absolute desperation to rein in his wild desire.
He’d given her fair warning should she continue, his self-control hanging by a thread.
She’d continued anyway, and the resulting kiss had been…staggering. Life-altering. Unforgettable.
Even now, in the morning light of the next day, he craved her. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. And again. And again. His hands itched to pull her from her horse and onto his lap so he could lay claim to her pouty lips while his horse wandered where it will. To hell with bad men and secret societies.
To hell with responsibilities.
To hell with his friendship with her brother.
But, alas, these were lines he would not cross. He would never forget his responsibilities nor betray his friend, whose trust he valued immeasurably. It was that thought that kept him from taking things further than a kiss yesterday.
It was that thought which stayed his hand today.
If he wanted her, truly wanted her, he would have to marry her. There was no other way. But could he? Did he want to? Was he even ready?
Could he trust her?
Despite his confidence in his own honor, he understood everything had changed. When they parted—and they would indeed go their separate ways—he would not be the same man he was before; her very being would leave its mark upon his soul. Hell, it already had. It was her kindness. Her ability to laugh so readily. Hell, her ability to make him laugh. It was her wit, her zest for life, her bravery. She made him want to be a little more carefree, to rediscover the man he’d been before treachery had taken his brother from him.
But he simply didn’t know if he could.
The sound of an animal wailing sliced through his turbulent thoughts, and he instinctively reached for his sgian dubh. He pulled his horse to a stop, his stallion’s ears flickering and turned toward the source of the sound. MacLeod scanned the trees to his left as his horse danced and pawed the ground.
He couldn’t see anything, but he suspected it was a fox. A faint shifting sound had him speaking without once taking his eyes off the forest before him. “Doona even think aboot it, Mel.”
He heard her huff of breath, an obvious sign of her displeasure,
and he interrupted her before she had a chance to begin her rebuttal, “I’ve told ye before, ye canna stop to help everyone you meet. That definitely includes wild animals, especially foxes, and don’t say we’ve set a precedent because we already picked up the cat.”
“But we left him with the farmer,” she refuted, as if that made any difference whatsoever.
“And then there was the bird…”
“But we left him with the owner of that public house in the last town.”
He shook his head with exasperation as he attempted to ignore the pleading in her eyes. He knew she had the power to sway his mind, to make him reject sound logic.
He continued making his case, “And for the life of me, I canna fathom how you managed to convince the publican to take it, even though I heard it all with my own ears. But, Mel, a fox?”
Mel smiled as if she’d won and turned in her saddle to dismount.
“Doona even think about it, or I will tie you up and throw you over that horse’s arse like a saddlebag for the rest of the journey.”
She hesitated for only a moment before she slid to the ground with a grin and began picking her way through the brush at the side of the road, one hand holding her horse’s reins, the other lifting her skirts.
Och, she was never going to heed his warnings.
“MacLeod, you really need to reconsider your approach to people.”
“Is that so?” he called as he dismounted to follow her.
“Yes. Every time we stop at an Inn, you put us in a private room and growl at anyone who enters.”
“We’re meant to be in hiding; it’s for your own safety.” He sounded like a petulant child. They were doing a piss poor job of hiding, unless he pretended they were hiding in plain sight. He would never own up to the fact she had him completely wrapped around her dainty little fingers.
But she did. And he knew it.
Worse, she likely did, too. Their journey to check on an injured fox only proved the point.
“If I believed that were the only reason, I’d let this go, MacLeod, but I don’t. And we both know it’s the truth.”
He wouldn’t own up to her accusations. He wouldn’t!
“You cannot be rude to everyone you meet and expect people to meet your lofty expectations—”
“That is the most—”
A shot rang out, the sound jarring them out of their argument.
“Mel, get doon now!”
Amelia’s horse jumped, spooked, then pranced and whinnied with obvious agitation. “I can’t. Oh, God, Alistair, my horse, she’s bleeding!”
MacLeod ran up alongside Mel and tossed her onto his horse, then climbed up behind her. If her horse was lame, leaving Mel to ride her own put them all at risk. Unless he could asses the seriousness of her horse’s injury, which he couldn’t with madmen and criminals having caught up to them, this was how it would be.
MacLeod let go of Winnie’s reins and headed off at a gallop through the brush at the side of the road.
“MacLeod, we cannot leave Winnie!”
“She’ll only slow us down.” he yelled over the wind.
Amelia looked over his shoulder, sadness and regret evident in her eyes.
“Lass, Kelly will no’ hurt the horse.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know the mon.”
“So you say, but could you have predicted he would turn out to be a traitor?”
She had a point, but he couldn’t explain it. He, of all people, would never leave a horse behind if he thought Kelly would harm it. Horses were too valuable, and if the horse were seriously lame, she’d have to be put down, anyway.
He wasn’t idiotic enough to point this out, though surely she had to know it.
Together they raced over stone fences and across fields, around shrubs and through the brush. No more shots were fired, but he did hear the occasional shout from the men attempting to follow them. There was more than one in pursuit.
Regardless, MacLeod wasn’t worried; he was the best horseman of anyone on the team, including Kelly. He could outrace them even with his unexpected passenger.
Ten minutes later, they made it to the tree line of a dense forest. He slowed his horse and carefully picked his way between the trees. Once safely hidden within cover of the forest, he turned to check on the status of their pursuers. There was no sign of them, no sight or sound to be heard.
Mel was uncharacteristically silent and had been since they first dashed away, leaving her horse behind.
She turned back to look at him, and he touched his finger to her face, lifting her chin. “Lass, are ye all right?”
Amelia nodded but still didn’t speak, her eyes downcast. That worried him more than any physical injury might have. “Lass, look at me.”
She complied, and he saw the anxiety in her expressive eyes. Eyes he had come to enjoy watching—reading—as she revealed every thought in her mind through their gold-flecked depths.
“Lass, Winnie will be all right, I promise ye.”
Amelia nodded once more, then laid her head on his shoulder, unable—or possibly unwilling—to look him in the eyes any longer.
It would be easier to tear out his own heart than to figure out how to deal with this. He would give his left arm to fix it now, though he had to be satisfied with the knowledge that he would see her horse returned to her. Sooner than she could possibly realize, for he recognized this wood.
Aye, they had crossed over onto his own land the minute they’d passed the tree line.
MacLeod waited another ten minutes before he was satisfied they’d lost their pursuers and could safely carry on. To be sure, he walked them along the very edge of the forest in case they had to jump into hiding with little warning.
They were only twenty minutes away now; less than half an hour to find a way to pull Mel out of her misery.
Seeing as how she was Dansbury’s sister and how she seemed to share some of his same characteristics, he considered how Dansbury usually broke out of one of his rare moods. It seldom took much effort.
Mel was clearly similar in that regard.
“Mel, look at me.” Maybe now that they weren’t running for their lives, he would convince her that Winnie was safe. “I know you’re worried about Winnie, but you needn’t be. I know where we are, we’re on my lands. I’ll have a man out to retrieve her the moment we arrive.”
Amelia smiled, the feel of it not dissimilar from the sun peeking out from behind a thick cloud. “Do you mean it?”
His eyes softened. He touched his palm to her cheek. “Lass, do I ever say things I don’t mean?”
Amelia laughed. It was at moments like this he saw her resemblance to her brother. Dansbury had an easy-going temperament as well. The man could be stark raving mad one minute, then carefree and relaxed in the next.
“Truth.”
Amelia touched one hand to his arm. “Thank you, MacLeod.”
MacLeod touched his forehead to hers once again. “Och, Mel, what are ye doin’ ta me?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thirty Minutes Later: Greenwood Castle, Scotland
“This is your home?”
“Aye.”
Greenwood Park was not what Amelia Chase had expected. She was not precisely sure what she had expected, but it was certainly not this quirky, magnificent, but barely capable of keeping the rain out, medieval castle.
Zounds! MacLeod lived in a castle. One that would benefit from one or two minor major repairs, but still, a castle.
The uneven walls, the crenellated towers, the MOAT, the small, narrow slits used by medieval archers which probably had a name but she had no idea what it was, the crumbly, moss-covered stones…it was all spectacular, marvelous, breathtaking, awe-inspiring. Och, as MacLeod liked to say, she simply didn’t have enough words. She couldn’t wait to explore every inch of it.
And there was a drawbridge! Yes, it had a blasted drawbridge!
This place had better have a suit of armor, medi
eval weapons, and some hidden passages, too, or she’d be quite let down.
Oh, and a dungeon. This place definitely required a dungeon.
Amelia closed her wide-open mouth as soon as she realized MacLeod was watching her over her shoulder, his expression unreadable, possibly bemused. She straightened her spine, pursed her lips, and crossed her hands on her lap. “I’m sure it’ll suffice,” she replied, her nose firmly in the air and she, pretending to put on airs.
He snorted in response, and she nearly burst out laughing at the sound of it. He shook his head and looked away, but not before she caught the slight lift of his mouth, indicating a smile had dared to tug on his lips.
Together they pulled up in front of the castle, and she waited while he dismounted, tied his horse to a post placed there for such a purpose, and turned to help her down.
She couldn’t stop her groan as she slid off the beast, allowing MacLeod to do all the work of her dismount.
Her arse hurt, dammit. She and her backside would be quite happy if she never sat in a saddle ever again.
Once standing, she hobbled up the stairs. With MacLeod’s assistance, of course.
She shot him a disgruntled look as they took the stairs one at a time, and she realized he walked normally as if he hadn’t been riding a horse for four days straight. At the very least, he should pretend to be in at least a little discomfort.
She was chafed between her legs and had to walk with them spread wide to avoid them rubbing together. She felt like her thighs were on fire, they stung so badly.
It was not ladylike, to say the least, and she began right then to think seriously about placing the blame for her discomfort squarely on his broad shoulders.
The massive oak door opened as they finally reached the top step, and a friendly-looking, elderly man stood there with a wide, toothy grin. His clothes were informal and wrinkled, but in good repair. He wore a loose-fitting Jacobite shirt and a blue and green kilt like MacLeod’s, which ended less than an inch above two knobby knees. He wore woolen socks, though one was pulled high to just below his knee and the other sagged a bit in the middle and clung to his leg mid-calf. He had a profusion of wild white hair as white as the clouds in the sky, and all of it scattered and sticking out in every direction as if he’d tried to cuddle up to a lightning bolt. His build was stocky, his nose prominent and hooked, and he was rather short, only a few inches above her diminutive height. But the most interesting bit was his face—it was weathered and wrinkled, but alive and animated, and his eyes were lit with abundant kindness.