by Elisa Braden
He kissed her. He couldn’t help it. She was the most enchanting, bewildering, unintentionally seductive woman he’d ever known.
This woman clawed at his neck and opened her mouth to his tongue. This woman cupped his jaw and panted for more. This woman claimed to be in love with him.
Him. With all his scars. All his darkness. All she’d seen him do.
And he had to leave her. The thought twisted his guts, stoked his hunger. He crushed her to him. Reveled in her sweet moans and soft mouth. Lowered her onto the sofa so he could kiss her properly.
“Shall I take that as a yes?” she panted, hooking one of her ankles over the back of his thigh and shifting her hips until his cock settled into a heated, heavenly cradle.
“Bluidy hell, woman.” He buried his face in her sweet-smelling neck. “Ye drive me mad.”
Nothing had ever been like this. So intensely pleasurable, he couldn’t control himself. So urgent, he couldn’t allow a single inch of space between his skin and hers. So powerful, he’d felt like a suffocating man when she’d withdrawn from him for four days.
He couldn’t need her this much. She couldn’t love him.
The thought cooled his ardor enough to say, “We cannae do this.”
“If you lock the door, no one will know.”
He groaned and forced her hips to stop writhing against him. “I cannae tup ye in Da’s parlor.”
“Let’s find a bedchamber, then, if you’re going to be prudish about it.”
He gathered every ounce of discipline the Bridewell had hammered into him and levered himself away from her. Then, he stood, turning his back to her. If he looked at her—the kiss-swollen lips and bone-melting beauty—he’d be tupping her in Da’s parlor and damn the consequences.
Instead, he paced to the window, forcing himself to ignore the ache in his groin, the clawing sensation in his chest. Every step of distance, the pain worsened.
“What ye feel for me is lust, Kate,” he lied, hardening his voice. Making it cold. “That’s all. Ye’re new to this, so ’tis understandable ye’d mistake it for more.”
Her quiet gasp knifed him through the middle.
Nevertheless, he must make her hate him. It was for the best. “The attraction between us is strong, I grant ye. But dinnae go thinkin’ it’s rare. The tuppin’ is like whisky. Makes yer head spin. Hardly uncommon, in my experience. ’Twill pass.” He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the ridges of the scars. “A month or two, and ye’ll be sickened by the smell of liniment, vexed by the thought of seein’ my face again, and wonderin’ what all the fuss was about.”
Behind him, he heard rustling. He squeezed his eye closed. Clenched his fist where it braced on the window casing.
He waited for her to say something. Instead, he heard the door opening. Felt the brush of air shifting. Heard it close behind her.
And felt a chill as bitterly sharp as an enemy’s knife. It shocked him. Cut him. Reminded him of precisely why he must let her go.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kate didn’t believe in weeping. It was pointless and foolish and only ninnies cried like little children when their feelings were injured.
Which was why, after a brief bout of childish tears behind the stable, she swallowed the ache in her throat and chest, reminded herself that Huxleys thrived on a challenge, and returned to Angus’s house to help Annie chop onions.
If she must shed tears, she would have a sensible reason, by God. Certainly not a cause as foolish as a humiliating, heart-bruising, soul-crushing conversation with her somewhat-husband. No, no, no.
She refused to play the lovesick fool any longer. Enough was enough.
“Katie-lass, I ken the onions are strong, but dinnae murder them. Half-inch pieces, nae mince.”
Kate blinked, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Apologies, Annie,” she mumbled, taking more deliberate slices.
So, a man didn’t want her. This was hardly the first time. She’d survived the previous mortifying debacle and even salvaged a lovely friendship from the ruins. She could do it all again.
Her chest tightened. Her eyes stung. A sob gathered like steam inside a sealed pot. She pressed her lips together and laid her knife on the board beside her pile of half-inch pieces.
Annie was busy ordering Mrs. Urquhart to fetch her a pint of cream, so Kate quickly untied her apron, retrieved her cloak, and slipped out the door. Behind the stable, between a pine and a willow, she let it out. The first sob was a gasp, the pain ceaseless. She leaned against rough pine bark, bent at the waist, and stopped fighting.
She’d spent four days wrestling with the notion of loving him. She’d feared losing herself, becoming daft and tedious like so many others before her. She’d paced, sleepless and hollow, missing him with every breath. She’d tried to write, wasting half a stack of paper before realizing the mind infection had infected her story, too.
That was when she’d recognized the severity of her wretched condition, the likelihood that it was permanent. Worse, she’d considered the appalling possibility he would reject her and that it might be worse than anything she’d experienced before. She’d even contemplated returning to England to spare them both. But sitting across from him in the parlor, she’d looked upon his beautiful, scarred face and known she must be bold.
This was what boldness bought her. And it wasn’t just worse than before. It was worse than anything she’d imagined.
“Kate?” The deep, masculine voice from the other side of the willow was filled with concern. Rannoch’s tall shadow emerged around the corner of the stable. “What’s wrong?”
She covered her mouth and shook her head. She couldn’t speak. Pain was crushing her lungs.
He gathered her into his arms, holding her the way she’d seen him hold Annie, with one hand on her back and the other cupping her head. “Nod if ye’re injured, lass.”
His coat was damp wool, cool against her hot cheek. He reminded her of Broderick sometimes, but he was leaner. Lighter. Easier. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him?
“Aye, then. Nae injured. That leaves other sorts of wounds, the ones ye cannae see.” His hand lightly rubbed her back. “Dinnae fash. Tell me who hurt ye, and I’ll see them tossed in a mash tun.”
Her next sob was a half-laugh.
“There, now. Ye’ll be all right, lass. Once yer enemy is bellowin’ about the blisters, the sweet sounds of his agony will soothe all those sore places.”
She swatted his arm and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Rannoch,” she croaked. “Please d-don’t tell anyone you saw me … like this.”
He handed her a linen handkerchief with an R embroidered in one corner. It was strangely clean and fine. “’Twill be our secret.” He patted her back and released her. “Now, then, are ye well enough to eat? Annie’s gravy is known to cure all manner of ills. A coo crushed my wee toe once. Hurt so bad, I thought the bugger might fall off. Annie fed me her gravy, and the next mornin’, the toe was still there, not a bruise to be found. A miracle, it was.”
By the end of his preposterous story, she released a wet chuckle. Then, she realized she’d ruined his handkerchief with her stupid tears and nose blowing. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“Nah. Keep it. I’ve a dozen more.”
She ran her finger over the embroidery. “Lovely. Where did you get them?”
“’Tis cold out here for a blether, lass. Let’s go inside, eh?”
He seemed uncomfortable, glancing around as though expecting an attack, so she let him lead her back into the house.
Fortunately, other guests had arrived while she’d been weeping behind the stable, which kept Annie from noticing her absence. Kate blamed the onions for her red eyes and pretended she didn’t have several large blades puncturing her chest. She avoided Broderick as much as possible, making a point of speaking with the pretty, blonde Mrs. Baird, Annie’s dressmaker and the object of Angus’s interest.
After Angus growled at Mrs. Baird for taking “too bluidy long” to arrive, the kindly woman drew Kate aside and asked how she was settling into her new home. Kate assumed her responses were adequate—Mama had trained her well.
At dinner, she sat between Angus and John, who described the amusing letter he’d received from Papa and the even more amusing one he’d received from Mama refuting everything Papa had said. She thought she chuckled in all the right places.
After dinner, she gamely drank a dram of whisky—at Angus’s insistence—and laughed along with her gruff father-in-law when he teased her for taking such delicate sips.
A short while later, they all gathered in the parlor, where John, Campbell, Alexander, and Rannoch traded tales about their past dominance in the events of the Glenscannadoo Highland Games.
The cider and whisky had made Kate a bit warm, so she retreated to a spot further from the fireplace. The move was not because Broderick leaned against the mantel, she assured herself. Not at all. She simply needed a bit of air.
“Do ye plan to play the pipes next year, Broderick?” Alexander asked. “Stuart MacDonnell won last summer. We cannae claim total victory for the MacPherson clan if a ginger-haired lad with naught for a chin wins the bagpipin’ contest.”
“Nah,” came the deep, tingle-inducing timbre Kate both craved and dreaded. “Mayhap Rannoch should have a go.”
Rannoch laughed. “He said he wants to win, brother. Ye’re the one with music in ye. My talents lie in impressin’ the lasses with my sword … dancin’.”
Music? Broderick played music? Why hadn’t he mentioned it? She was his wife. She should know such things. Or perhaps not, she thought with a pang. Perhaps she didn’t belong with him, and he’d known it from the start.
“Aye,” Campbell replied to Rannoch. “Keep to lasses and swords. ’Tis what ye’re best at.”
Meanwhile, Alexander pressed Broderick. “Do ye still have the bagpipes Da gave ye?”
Silence lengthened. “Somewhere, mayhap.”
“Same place as yer fiddle, eh?”
Kate half-turned, daring a glance across the room. Campbell glared at Alexander while Rannoch rubbed his nape. The brothers seemed wreathed in tension.
“’Tis full dark,” Broderick said. “Best we head home.”
Kate stiffened, realizing “we” meant her. She’d have to ride with Broderick. Alone. In the dark.
She forced herself to smile as she kissed Angus’s cheek, hugged Annie and John, and said her farewells to Mrs. Baird and Broderick’s brothers. As she donned her cloak, she gave another nod to Rannoch, a thank-you for his earlier kindness. He nodded in return, offering an encouraging grin.
It lent her courage as she avoided glancing in Broderick’s direction. To her, he was a blank space, a darkened corner of the stage she could ignore in favor of more interesting players. She ducked beneath the blank space’s arm as he opened the front door. A blast of icy wind burned her cheeks and made her nose prickle.
One of the stable lads held Ophelia ready for her. Another held a much larger mount. She marched toward her lovely mare and waited for the boy to help her into her saddle. He was swept aside with a grumble before two massive hands cinched on her waist.
She gasped and lurched sideways away from Broderick’s touch. Breath heaving and heart seizing, she glared at the ground in front of his boots. “Do not,” she begged. “Please do not.”
The boots stayed planted in place for a long while. Finally, they moved toward the larger horse.
The ride home was cold, dark, and silent.
Just before the last turn up the hill, his voice cut through. “I’m sorry, lass.”
So was she. Never had she been so sorry for anything.
Wind began truly howling, bending the pine trees to and fro. When a low-hanging bough whipped around suddenly, Ophelia shied and danced out of its path. Kate controlled her with steady pressure and calm reassurance. Then she heard a sharp crack. A tumbling collision. Saw heavy wood rushing down from high above.
Time distorted. Sound became a deafening roar.
The tree limb struck with such force, she scarcely felt any pain. Only the thrust. The weight. The fall.
She landed with a crushing whump. Rolled. Air collapsed outward. Wheezed inward. Gulped and gasped. Still, she didn’t feel any pain. The heavy limb had struck her shoulder, she thought. Or was it her side? She didn’t know. Everything was black and somehow, she was lying on the ground. Her skirts twisted around her legs, weighing them down. Wool covered her face.
Why did wool cover her face?
And what was lying on top of her? Something heavy and loud.
“Ye will answer me now!” boomed the roar. Strong, callused hands cupped her cheeks. Stroked along her neck. Slid behind her back and lifted. “Kate. Bluidy hell. Answer me!”
“Wha—what was your question?”
“Ah, God.” His forehead lowered until it brushed her temple. Hot, fast breaths washed over her skin. Heated lips slid over her cheek. Hard arms lifted her high against his chest and then high above the ground. He squeezed her so hard, she wondered why she didn’t feel any pain.
Shouldn’t she be bruised? Hadn’t the tree limb struck her? She blinked and automatically clasped his neck as he carried her with fast, hitching strides. “Broderick?”
He kept walking.
“Where is Ophelia? I don’t …” She clung harder as she began to shake. “I don’t understand what happened.”
“Inside. Must get ye inside, mo chridhe.”
She frowned. Why was he calling her “mockery”? Was she so piteous to him that he considered her a jest?
Perhaps she was. Useless, frivolous Kate. Nothing but a ninny with a head full of fancies. She drew a shuddering breath. Her shaking worsened. She buried her face against his shoulder.
Moments later, he carried her sideways through the front door. Warmth replaced the cold, and she distantly heard Mrs. Grant’s reassurances that tea and whisky would be delivered straight away.
He carried her up the stairs. Down the corridor. He passed by her door and instead entered his. Even when he stood between the bed and the fireplace, he didn’t set her down. Rather, he sat with her on his lap, crushing her against him until her breathing shallowed.
“Broderick?” she wheezed.
His grip loosened marginally. “Aye.”
“What happened?”
“A limb broke loose. Almost struck ye.”
“Is Ophelia injured?”
“Dinnae ken. She ran off.”
“How did I …” She swallowed. “You saved me, didn’t you?”
“I’ll be fellin’ every tree along the lane tomorrow. Every bluidy one.”
She tried to pull back and look at his face, but he held her too tightly, his chin resting upon her hair.
“This willnae happen again.” He ran his hands over her back, her legs. His touch was smooth yet methodical. He was checking her for injuries. “Ye must be safe, mo chridhe. I cannae keep my sanity unless I ken ye’re safe.”
Again, with the “mockery.” She didn’t understand him.
He began to undress her, and she squirmed to escape. He grunted as she shoved against his chest and struggled to stand. Then she caught a glimpse of his expression. It reminded her of the first night she’d seen him—a beast in the grip of madness.
He made her heart pound.
Her hesitation allowed him time to remove her half-boots and strip away her cloak. A white scrap of linen flew onto the carpet as he tossed the cloak toward a bench near the window.
He frowned. Focused upon the white cloth. His head tilted in a predatory fashion.
She used the distraction to scramble off his lap and stumble away, bumping against the washstand.
A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Grant entered with a tray, and Janet followed with blankets and a gown. Both wore worried frowns.
As the two women fussed over Kate, insisti
ng she drink whisky-laced tea and wrap herself in wool, Kate only wanted to know one thing: “Is my horse all right?”
“Dinnae fash yerself,” Mrs. Grant soothed. “Connor has her right and sound in the stable. Poor beastie has a scrape on her flank, but otherwise, she only suffered a wee fright. Appears the saddle took the brunt of it.”
Relieved, Kate went limp, collapsing onto the chair near the fireplace. Janet unpinned her hair and brushed the curls with gentle strokes. “There, now,” she murmured. “I’ve brought yer dressing gown. Shall I help ye prepare for bed?”
“Leave us,” Broderick said. He’d removed his coat, Kate noticed. He stood with his back turned in a dark corner near the window.
The two women obeyed his command, closing the bedchamber door behind them.
In the silence, the fire crackled and popped. She placed her teacup on the washstand and gathered her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It’s late. I should retire to my bedchamber.”
“Stay,” he said roughly. His fists were clenched, his neck tense.
She swallowed, her throat burning. “Thank you for saving me. From the sound of it, if you hadn’t knocked me to the ground, I might have been very badly injured.”
“Killed.” The word was a harsh grind. “Ye would have died, lass.”
“Yes. Likely true.” She licked her lips. “I’m very grateful, Broderick.”
If anything, his tension increased. She watched the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back tighten until they vibrated.
“Not bluidy good enough.”
She blinked.
“I meant to do the right thing,” he continued. “I meant to leave ye here, happy to be rid of me.”
Granted, it had been a difficult night, but he wasn’t making sense. She glanced at her cup. She hadn’t had that much whisky, had she?
“Pain is nothin’, I thought. But that pain and this pain arenae the same. Christ, they arenae on the same continent.” His voice was raw, his arm flexing as though he were clenching his fist over and over. “So, I’ll keep ye, mo chridhe. I’ll keep ye, and ye’ll be mine.”