Broden drew to a halt beside her, his celestial smile flashing across his sun-kissed face.
She’d always liked his smile; the way the devilish slant lit his umber-brown eyes and warmed the atmosphere. And despite her determination otherwise, that sinful mouth still had the power to send wickedly delightful chills scampering down her spine.
Stupid, stupid girl. It was just teeth and lips.
Aye, but what glorious teeth and lips. What would it be like—?
Kendra firmly quashed the thought before it had a chance to fully manifest. To her consternation, it was neither a novel nor infrequent thought, damn my eyes.
“Good mornin’, lass.” Must his merry eyes twinkle with whatever that was? As if he could read her thoughts and recognized the feelings he stirred in her? “What brings ye out on this fine day?”
“I’m pickin’ up yarn for Mother.” And she didn’t wish to be delayed by a suave, distracting devil.
He wore buckskins today rather than trews, the legs tucked into boots reaching mid-calf. His black cloak trailed over his expansive shoulders and fell in long waves over his mount’s sides. Instead of wearing a tam, a cocked hat topped his sandy-brown hair, worn long and tied at his nape with a black ribbon.
Black gloves encased his fingers, which she knew to be thick and strong. He raised his hand to scratch just left of his mouth. Stubble shadowed his jaw as if he hadn’t shaved in a day or two.
Instead of making him appear unkempt or slovenly, the beard gave him a roguish, pirate-like appearance. As if he needed anything to make him more attractive. Not that she was foolish enough to fall into that trap ever again.
Why, blast it, was she even noticing?
Hadn’t she spent years diligently recounting his many faults?
Broden McGregor was a womanizing flirt.
Once before, he’d burned Kendra. Badly. She still bore the scars, deep in her soul. She’d not make that mistake twice. Shifting slightly in her saddle, she stifled the unwanted fluttering in her belly as his approving gaze took in her exposed knees and calves.
If he told Liam…
A groan almost escaped her.
No. She wouldn’t show weakness. Not to him. She jutted her chin upward and squared her shoulders in a silent challenge.
“I take it yer brother and mother arena aware ye intended to ride astride?” he murmured, humor ringing in his deep voice.
Curse him for reading her mind again.
“Nae, and I’d appreciate it if ye didna mention it.” She hated asking him for a favor, but she so coveted her rides. “They’d restrict my outin’s to sedate trails, properly sittin’ atop a sidesaddle, and with a groom for a chaperone.”
Oddly, warmth and amusement glinted in his whisky-colored eyes, rather than the irritation, impatience, and exasperation that typically showed there when he gazed upon her.
They’d had more than one silent battle, glaring daggers at each other. And many more verbal spats, sparring with snipes and innuendos, and occasionally outright rudeness.
But today, he seemed in an uncommonly benevolent mood, which made her suspicious.
“What brings ye to town so early?” she asked, hoping to steer his hot, acute gaze from her legs. The clock hadn’t chimed a quarter past eight when she’d galloped Pandora from Eytone Hall’s stables.
The mare shook her head and backstepped, but Kendra brought her back under control.
Something inscrutable flitted across his face before he shifted his attention to a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. “I had correspondences that required postin’.”
A servant might’ve completed the task, but so might a footman have collected Mother’s wool skeins. Likely, Broden was as eager to seek the outdoors and take advantage of the break in the weather as she’d been.
In that way, they were alike. Both craved the outdoors and loathed being confined and cooped up inside. In the Highlands, one took the opportunity to partake of fresh air when it presented itself during the winter months. Such comfortable days were few and far between.
“Well, I’d best be on my way. I wouldna want my mother to fret if I’m away longer than she expects. Good day to ye, Mr. McGregor.” With a polite dip of her chin, she urged Pandora around him.
“Mr. McGregor?” He chuckled at the formality, and at once, ire stiffened her back.
The infuriating man was forever laughing at her. Since she was a young girl trailing after him, Liam, and Quinn, he’d teased her, mocked her, and gone out of his way to be a royal pain in the arse.
Not cruel or vicious. Except for that single time Kendra had overheard him.
What if…? What if that hadn’t been the only time he’d disparaged her? Could he have voiced his negative opinions regularly? And if so, why hadn’t Liam done anything about it?
The thought made her hot and cold at once and utterly mortified. And angry. Blood-scorching angry.
No longer was she an insecure, self-conscious child, worshiping the very ground he trod upon. The blustery wind carried her patience away as easily as thistledown, and she swung around to give him a proper set down.
Her breath stalled and cramped in her lungs as shock rendered her speechless. Jaw slack, she stared horrified into the trees, momentarily unable to move or speak.
Nae. Nae. Nae!
There amongst the fluctuating shadows, partially concealed by the trees’ roughened trunks, sat a man astride a horse. His lower face covered with a grungy handkerchief, he aimed a pistol straight at Broden.
Dear God!
That was why Pandora had been edgy. She’d sensed his presence. Probably had smelled the other horse. And like an idiot, Kendra had disregarded her intuition and the horse’s warnings.
Shaking loose the icy paralysis crippling her, Kendra jabbed a finger toward the gunman, screaming, “Broden, he has a—”
The explosion boomed through the chilly air.
Birds took to wing in a frantic flurry.
Rearing onto her hind legs, Pandora neighed in terror.
The echo of pounding hoofbeats filtered through the ringing in Kendra’s ears as she battled to stay atop the frightened horse.
The poltroon had made good his escape.
Blackguard. Fiend. Bloody coward.
Heart pounding louder than a battering ram against a keep’s door, Kendra fought to bring the mare under control. After several tense seconds, she succeeded and reined Pandora swiftly toward Broden.
Cold sweat pooled under her arms, terror yet clawing at her mind and throat.
He sat, slightly hunched over, but still in the saddle, thank God.
She’d never have been able to lift him back atop his horse. She swallowed the acerbic bile burning her throat and attempted to ignore the flurry of a thousand wings beating hysterically at her belly and behind her ribs.
Oh, God.
She swallowed reflexively.
When she’d seen that evil man, the gun’s barrel pointed straight at Broden. When the shock and terror had rendered her immobile.
“Broden,” she breathed, scraping her frantic gaze over him, noting his strained, white-as-chalk-face. “Are ye…?” She wet her lower lip, willing the waves of nausea to subside. Forcing her tongue to form the hated words. “Are ye shot?”
Rigid lines scored the hard planes of his face. He pressed one palm to his chest, just to the right of his left collarbone. A dark substance oozed between the black leather of his gloves.
Blood.
Jesus, help me.
Broden’s blood.
Dizzying faintness assailed Kendra, and she blinked rapidly, fighting to stay conscious. Clenching the pommel, she gulped in long, ragged breaths. She couldn’t abide the sight of blood. For as long as she could recall, it had always made her lightheaded and queasy.
She could not faint.
She could not.
I shall no’.
He needed her to be strong, not a swooning numpty.
With gritty resolve, she rallied her comp
osure and dug in her pocket for a handkerchief. She thrust it at Broden. “Here. Ye need to staunch the flow. Press hard.”
She didn’t know where she’d acquired that knowledge, but now wasn’t the time to ponder the source. Neither could she look at the widening circle for fear she’d dissolve into vapors before she saw him to safety.
For she must do so.
There was no one else close enough to lend him a hand, and he bled badly.
His mouth quirked the merest bit at the delicate lace-edged accessory before accepting it. Along with his own, he folded the cloth into a neat square and pressed them inside his cloak.
“Broden, we must see ye back to Eytone Hall. ’Tis closer than yer house.”
His face a ghastly shade of white, he grimaced as he pulled an eight-inch ballock dagger from a leather sheath within his boot. “Ye might need this, lass. Do ye ken how to use it?”
“Aye,” she choked out, emotion blossoming behind her breastbone.
Here he slumped, blood gushing from his wound, and he worried about her safety?
Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t quite the evil ogre she’d imagined him to be.
“Who would want to shoot ye?” She swallowed a gulp, gazing at the steel hilt, glinting faintly in the filtered light. She yanked up her gown and used the blade to help tear a long strip of a petticoat as she puzzled over who could want him dead.
Everyone adored Broden. Revered him even. Men and women alike. Especially the women. Townsfolk, clansmen, old crones, and toddlers adored the man.
Even in Edinburgh, amongst the toplofty nobles and snooty aristocrats, his keen intellect and warrior’s skills drew the appreciation of the males. As usual, the females fairly drooled over him.
Rich and poor. Servant and lord. Every blasted person worshipped Broden McGregor.
Everyone except Kendra MacKay, that was.
“I dinna ken,” he muttered, reminding her she’d asked him a question.
He wavered in the saddle, and in a blink, she made a decision.
She couldn’t risk him toppling from his horse, and there was no way in all of Christendom she would leave him and ride for help. Not with the would-be killer possibly lurking nearby ready to finish him off.
A wave of icy fear swept from her waist, up her sides, and streaked out across her shoulders and arms, raising her flesh.
I heard him ride away, she shakily reassured herself.
Yes, but how far?
For how long?
Even now, might he be reloading his pistol?
Might he come back to finish the job?
She slid from Pandora’s back then looped her reins through his Sheik’s girth straps and tied them off. The sheath he’d given her wouldn’t fit in her pocket, so she slid it inside her boot before offering him the piece of her petticoat.
“Here. This should help stop the bleedin’.”
He accepted the cloth and added it to their handkerchiefs then pressed his scarlet hand firmly to his stained cloak. Leading the gelding to a fallen log, Kendra clambered into the saddle behind him. She must put distance between Broden and his would-be assassin.
If the man should return…
Or if Broden lost too much blood…
Nae. Dinna think on, either.
“What do ye think ye’re doin’, lass?” His words were slightly slurred, his light-brown eyes framed by lush lashes, unfocused as he peered at her over his hard-as-marble shoulder.
She had to hurry and pray she was strong enough to keep him before her as they rode to Eytone Hall.
“Savin’ yer worthless life, ye big oaf.”
Chapter Three
The worst and longest minutes of Broden’s life passed as he battled to stay conscious. If he succumbed to the tempting blackness beckoning at the periphery of his mind, Kendra wasn’t strong enough to keep him before her.
She, of course, would chew hot coals before admitting that truth, stubborn lass.
Even now, he could feel her arms straining to help support him as she steered Sheik, Pandora docilely keeping pace beside them.
A low groan escaped Broden despite his effort to smother the sound, and he gritted his teeth against another vision-blurring, gut-wrenching stab of scorching pain.
He’d feared Kendra would faint dead away when she’d first spotted the bloody front of his cloak. He remembered well her penchant for swooning if she saw anything remotely gory.
Yet, she’d rallied valiantly. Brilliantly, in fact. Like a warrior, she’d set her mind to the task, ignoring her discomfort.
Even in his miserable state, he couldn’t help but admire her stoicism.
Her determined chin and set jaw. The way she’d cleverly dealt with her horse before clambering onto Sheik’s back. Her remarkable ability to control her fear and see to the task at hand.
Namely, saving him.
At that precise moment, Sheik stepped into a slight rut, thrusting Broden’s and Kendra’s bodies forward. Her shapely thighs flexed against his hips as she balanced herself and him, sending a jolt of incinerating desire straight to his groin.
A half-hiss, half-oath escaped between his gritted teeth.
“I’m verra sorry, Broden.” She cinched her slender arms tighter around his waist, which also caused her luscious breasts to press into his back—the damned firm nipples teasing and taunting sensuously. “I’m tryin’ to be careful. I ken ye’re in much pain.”
She believed his groans and oaths were pain-induced. Some were, but the torture of his body responding to her innocent touch nearly drove him mad with carnal desire.
Desire? Nae.
Nothing so timid.
What bubbled inside him was raging lust. Pure unadulterated, unappeased, unrequited lust. For the impossibly frustrating, undeniably exquisite KendraMacKay.
Siren. Sorceress. Forbidden fruit.
“Dinna fash yerself,” he managed through clamped teeth.
They’d crack along with his entire jaw if he clenched them any harder. But he’d not show weakness before this courageous lass. Neither would she ever know how much he wanted her.
He sent a thankful prayer heavenward she hadn’t clambered onto the saddle before him, or the very hard, very aroused, and very noticeable cockstand bulging at his groin would’ve swiftly apprised her of his true condition.
Not that he didn’t feel awful as hell from the bullet hole to his chest.
Or was it his shoulder?
Somewhere between, was his best guess without stripping his clothing to take a look.
If Kendra hadn’t warned him, he wouldn’t have had time to shift his stance at all. He very well might’ve taken the ball in the head. In point of fact, he hadn’t even had time to ponder who would’ve attempted to kill him, yet. And, by God, had been stupid enough to do so with a witness.
Those questions could be answered later.
When he could cobble together more than one thought. When every bit of his fuzzy focus and every ounce of his waning strength wasn’t on staying awake and atop his horse.
Christ on the blessed cross.
Was Kendra in danger now, too?
She’d seen the gunman. Broden hadn’t.
Dragging in shallow breaths—to inhale deeply simply hurt too badly—he concentrated on staying upright. Well, as upright as possible.
His pride smarted in no small manner.
Never having been shot before, he’d not considered how he’d respond, but he’d like to have believed better than this. It felt as if a hot poker burned non-stop in his chest and shoulder. Pathetically weak, freezing, and his stomach waffy from the loss of blood, he truly feared he’d pass out cold.
He’d prefer a stab wound. He was familiar with those types of injuries. Aye. Didn’t his body bear several scars from blades?
He sucked in an unsteady breath through his mouth.
God save him how he longed to surrender to the blessed darkness. To be rid of the permeating pain.
But Kendra would be frantic if he
tumbled from the horse. She wouldn’t leave him. He knew it beyond a doubt. And until the blackguard who shot him was apprehended, she was in as much danger as he.
“Ye’re doin’ splendidly,” she soothed into his ear, her warm breath a delicate caress. “Just a little farther, and ye can rest. We’ll send for the physician, and in nae time, ye’ll be plucky as a fat goose.”
The whole while, she’d murmured words of encouragement. Not at all what Broden had expected from the prickly lass. She kept Sheik to a brisk, steady pace, but hadn’t sent him into a gallop or trot.
Likely because she knew full well, she wouldn’t be able to keep him in the saddle if she did. She probably fretted the pounding movements might cause more blood loss, too.
Which was bloody worse?
The hole in him or the soft, ripe mounds torturing him from behind? How many times had he yearned to touch those full, tempting pillows? The luscious curves that were forever off-limits to him?
Kendra was Liam’s cherished younger sister.
And she abhorred Broden.
She mustn’t ever know how much he wanted her. Not ever.
He did have his pride, after all.
Thank the divine powers that she’d never know arousal caused half of his tortured moans. With her strong thighs cradling his arse, the tantalizing length of slim legs revealed for his admiration, her bosom bouncing against his back, and her light and delicate camellia and lemony fragrance nearly driving him out of his mind, he was as randy as a stag in full rut.
A stag who’d been shot.
She’d be livid if she knew. Might even shove Broden off his horse and leave him to die in the heather lining the rutted track.
Kendra MacKay held him in the lowest of regard.
It hadn’t always been thus.
He clearly remembered the awkward, little hoyden trailing after him and her brother, hiding in draperies and eavesdropping, popping out from behind bushes, a ready grin on her round face, her hair tousled about her and usually dirt smudges on her cheeks or chin.
Then one day, she’d just stopped.
No hiding. No giggles. No impish smiles.
She’d never attempted to follow her brother or him again. In fact, afterward, he’d often visit and never set his eyes upon her. Almost as if she avoided him on purpose.
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