The Scottish Rogue

by Heather McCollum

  “Bloody hell, Miranda, I’m about to fill ye full.”

  “Aye, aye,” Miranda’s voice pealed higher until she shook the rafters. No wonder Geoff had taken the loud lass far out into the woods.

  Evelyn’s lips were parted, and she breathed faster. Her hand came up to rest a fist on the boards. Grey couldn’t tell if she were flushed in the darkness, but he guessed that she must be just as affected as he. If she’d drop her flower crown…

  He sucked in through his nose and watched her as she turned her face to his. “We need to leave before they come out,” she whispered. “Or they’ll think we were spying on them.”

  “We are.”

  “No, we aren’t,” she hissed. “We are trapped here.”

  He looked out at the pouring rain. It hadn’t let up at all. In fact, it seemed to come down in solid sheets. He needed a cold swim to lower his rock-hard cock anyway. He grabbed her hand. It was cool and small, and he imagined it wrapped around him. Blast. He groaned low in his chest.

  Grey gave a small tug. “Let us get ye clean then.”

  “Clean?” she asked, her breath shallow. She looked down where their hands joined together.

  “Aye.” He placed his palm up under the rain. “Get your gown free of fish.”

  She groaned, her eyes shutting momentarily. The action caught his breath, but she was lamenting only the incident with Kirstin.

  “Come,” he said and pulled her out under the curtain of rain. They ran away from the barn. Within minutes they were soaked through.

  “Where are we going?” she called.

  “Soap,” he said, leading her toward a trough near where he worked with horses.

  “Soap?”

  The thick copse of trees near the fence sheltered them from the harder rain. Dropping her hand, Grey reached under a wooden bench to a box, pulling it up and opening it. In the darkness, he felt inside and found the bar of lemon balm soap.

  “I’m drenched through,” Evelyn said, her breath coming out in pants from their run. “At least the exercise warmed me.”

  “Turn around, and I’ll soap ye up.”

  “What?” It was completely dark, but his eyes had adjusted so that he could see the outline of her face.

  “The soap,” he said. “We may as well get ye clean in the rain.”

  A loud chuckle escaped her, and she threw her hands up to land gently on her hips. “This night couldn’t get any more bizarre.” She spun around, and Grey ran the lemon-scented soap down her back and the skirt to the hemline where the fish water tainted it.

  “I can wash the front,” she said, turning around. He handed the bar to her and, although she was hidden in shadows, he could see her rub it over her clothed breasts and down her bodice. He sucked in a shallow breath, the rush of rain a background noise to the pounding of his blood. His mouth pressed together as water dripped from his head. He wiped his eyes quickly so as not to miss any of her movements. She looked up, meeting his gaze, and handed back the bar. Her lathered hands rubbed across her naked chest above the wet, white linen of her smock. Even with the cold rain, his cock remained rigid.

  Grey cleared his throat. “Your hair,” he said. “Ye’ll want the fish scent out of your hair.” He caught the movement of her nod, and she turned around. Rubbing the bar between his palms, he dropped it to the grass at his feet and reached for her heavy tresses. He worked his fingers through the mass, the curls weighed down by rainwater. Over and over he stroked, working down to skim the curve of her spine.

  Building more lather from the soap and dropping it again, he paused as he spied the battered flower crown still anchored to the top of her head. He leaned in to her ear. “I’ll have to take off your crown, lass.”

  She turned her face, twisting at the waist to regard him in the darkness over her shoulder. “Of…of course.” Her voice was a whisper, drowned within the rush of rain hitting the leaves of the trees overhead.

  Grey untangled the flowers from her weighted hair, letting it fall with the soap. He ran his palms over the top of Evelyn’s head, curling his fingers in to rake along her scalp, such an intimate part of her. He half expected her to jerk away, but she didn’t. Och, thank the Lord or the devil, or whoever was keeping her still.

  He kneaded her head gently, the lemon scent rising with the lather. She tipped her face to the sky, letting the rain pelt her cheeks. Her eyes were closed. He wished he could see clearly, her beautiful pale skin, damp and clean, the long lashes he knew must be spiked with rainwater. Grey tasted the rain on his lips. Bloody hell. He wanted to taste Evelyn.

  His fingers combed down through her hair. He leaned closer to her, smelling the fresh lemon. She trembled. “Ye’ve grown cold,” he said against her ear. “Let us get ye rinsed and to the castle to dry.” He worked the falling water down through her hair, raking the tresses apart to release the soap and dirt. He ran his hands down her back and even down over her skirt-covered arse to make sure the soap was washed free.

  “I can finish,” she said, and he heard the chatter in her words.

  Taking the soap, he ran the lather quickly through his own hair, on his face, and up under his kilt where his cock stood proud despite the chill. He scrubbed his arse and legs down to the tops of his boots, too. Lifting the kilt, he let the rain wash him clean. When he turned back to Evelyn, she stared at him, and he dropped his kilt. How much could she see in the darkness?

  “All done,” he said, and rushed over to return the soap to the box, stowing it under the seat. “Now to run home.” He grabbed her cold hand.

  “I’m…I’m frozen,” she said.

  The need to warm her overwhelmed any of his worry over her reaction. Grey pulled her in to his chest, his arms coming around to her back, giving her his heat. He expected her to be stiff at the contact, but she burrowed into his offer. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head as his hands stroked her back, pressing heat into her.

  Her trembling ebbed to a small quake, and he lowered his mouth to the delicate curve of her ear. He yearned to kiss it, slide his lips along it. “We should get ye inside.”

  Evelyn nodded against him, tipping her face up to his, but didn’t pull out of his embrace. “Yes,” she said on a soft breath. “We should both get warm.”

  Their gazes held onto each other. Bloody hell, could she feel the swell of him between their pressed bodies? His blood churned with need and a building wish to taste the courageous, clever, beautiful woman before him. The fact that she didn’t pull away must mean something. Could she wish to moan and thrash like the lass in the barn? Strip herself bare and give him something she must be saving for her husband? The thought bored through his raging mind. He would never ask her to give him something he didn’t deserve.

  But she felt so natural in his arms, her warmth against him, her lips tipped to his. Somehow, they grew closer. Had she moved in to him, or had he given in to the draw he felt? His lips hovered near Evelyn’s, mere inches apart. Their heat mingled together, the night and rain masking them from all, maybe even from themselves. Surely from their rational minds.

  Water dripped off his face, but he didn’t turn away. Lips so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth. He waited, staring down, and focused on the outline of her eyes.

  Evelyn’s tongue came out to capture rain from her lip. “We…we should go.”

  Aye, they should go, before they threw all logic to the night and acted purely on human need and fire. Grey lowered his arms from around her, yet she still stood directly against him. A tremble came back quickly to her frame. “Aye. Hold on, lass.”

  Bending, he scooped under her skirt-encased legs to lift her up, settling her cold body against his chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pulled in to him, once again burrowing into his heat as if it were completely natural, as if they had never been two opponents with prejudice, war, and a castle between them.

  Tucking her head against him, his palm covering her cheek, he ran. His boots pounded the packed e
arth of the village center, splashing through puddles and crunching pebbles. He cradled Evelyn, sheltering her as best he could from the rain and his jarring effort. Except for the firmness of her entwined hands behind his neck, she relaxed in to him. They both smelled of lemon and rain. Her weight was easy, natural, as if she were a part of him.

  “Almost to the gate,” he said, his breath coming in controlled exhales over her head.

  The gate was still open. “Ho, Hamish,” Grey called as he ran through. Hamish yelled to the man at the chain. As Grey climbed the steps to the keep, he heard the cranking sound of the lowering portcullis. He strode through the torch-lit entryway into the keep, heading toward the fire-filled hearth.

  “Good God,” Scarlet yelled as she leaped up from a chair. “What happened? Where have you been? What did you do to Evelyn?” Alana stood up, too, next to Kerrick. They all looked wet through.

  Damp puppies ran about the room, giving a musty smell to the air, and Kerrick rushed forward as if to help. “She is well,” Grey said. “Just wet and cold.”

  “Evie,” Scarlet said, hands coming to Evelyn’s face.

  “I am well,” Evelyn said, lifting her head. She wiggled in his arms, and Grey lowered her boots to the stone floor but didn’t move away. Heat flooded the space before the hearth. Her hands came up first to the flames and then to the hair that was plastered to her head.

  “Ye smell like lemon,” Alana said, coming close.

  Evelyn smiled, wiping hands over her face. Her hair dripped. She still hadn’t looked at him. “Grey gave me some soap to wash in the rain.” She shrugged as if she bathed daily in rain showers. “We took advantage of the storm to wash the fish stench from me.”

  Scarlet made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and frowned. “I heard about Kirstin’s trick.”

  “She’s always been one to play jokes, but her heart is kind,” Alana said. “Usually. She’s been contrary lately.”

  “Contrary?” Scarlet said. “She nearly pushed Evelyn into a fire and then poured fish juice all over her.”

  Alana tipped her head side to side and pinched her mouth together. “Aye, very contrary. I think she is sweet on Grey.”

  Grey watched Evelyn as she turned her back to the flames, her gaze finally rising to meet his. “There is nothing between Kirstin MacGregor and me,” he said, letting her see the truth in his face.

  Evelyn exhaled, sniffing softly as if the cold rain was making her nose run. “Heaven forbid if there was. She’d have thrown me under the cattle or poisoned my flask.”

  “She must think ye have a liking for Evelyn,” Alana said, and when Grey finally looked at his sister, her eyes were round in question.

  Evelyn chuckled and turned back to face the fire. “Like a Scotsman could entertain anything with a woman who has stolen his castle and speaks with the devil’s accent.”

  Grey’s chest contracted, and he cleared his throat. “Or a proper Englishwoman could turn her eyes on a Highlander who stole her bedroom door and held her at sword point in the rain. ’Tis a jest to think of it,” he murmured.

  Kerrick laughed and scratched his neck. “Ye two do seem to get soaked alone in the rain often.”

  Evelyn propped her hands on her hips and looked over her shoulder at Kerrick. “It rains a lot in Scotland. It’s not like we seek it out,” she said, shaking her head. “Or desire being caught alone in a storm, or purposely stray into the wild without a care of our responsibilities or…” She broke off and met everyone’s stare before dropping her gaze back to the fire. “Rain happens.” She shrugged and tugged her long hair over one shoulder to let the heat reach it.

  Scarlet’s chin pulled back as she stared at Grey, her eyes full of questions, questions for which he had no answers. “Aye.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Rain happens.”

  Molly ran down the steps from above. “I’ve started fires in the ladies’ hearths. The flames will be dancing like heathens around a Beltane fire.” Like a wild and freely laughing Evelyn. Damn his traitorous thoughts.

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said, turning from the fire. “I will change and warm up under my quilts. Until the morrow, everyone.” Her gaze drifted to each, meeting Grey’s last. “Happy Beltane.”

  “Yes, we should all find our beds,” Scarlet said and looped her arm through Evelyn’s. “Izzy’s already gone up to get dry.” The two of them strode toward the stairs, Evelyn trailing her sopping gown behind her. Alana followed, tapping her skirt to get Ceò and the pups to follow.

  “Och.” Kerrick said, shaking his head. “No late Beltane night around the fire, giving the lasses a dram of whisky and seeing if I can steal a kiss.”

  Grey didn’t react, knowing Kerrick, despite his casual comment, was watching him closely. “Perhaps next year,” Grey said and strode toward the stairs. Kerrick would find his way out. Grey climbed the shadowed steps to the fourth floor, his gaze following the water spots on the stone where Evelyn’s gown had dripped.

  Rain happens. His mind grew numb as he rolled the two words within it. Rain happens. “As does fire,” he murmured, conjuring a picture of the flames that had spread when Burdock read the orders from Cross for the timbers to be lit. To smoke out the Scottish vermin. Yet the evilness of the English captain and his men didn’t extend to Evelyn at all. She was indeed refreshing water to their brutal fire, a balm to his hatred.

  He walked past her door with silent steps, slowing to listen, but there wasn’t a sound. In his room, he lit his own fire and stripped out of his wet clothes, throwing on a dry sleeping tunic and fresh kilt, for he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Turning his chair before the hearth, Grey stared at the door that connected his and Evelyn’s rooms. Was she already under warming quilts? Was she still cold, splaying her hands before her small fire? Did she wear only her white smock, her nipples peaked against the thin linen?

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered and pushed out of the padded chair to traipse across the distance. He braced his arms on either side of her door, his forehead near the wooden planks. What did Evelyn mean? Rain happens? Maybe it meant nothing. He should ask her if it meant nothing, or…

  His jaw slid to the side, and he raised his fist to the door, holding it close. He would tap to see if she was already asleep. He drew back his knuckles and…stopped. Exhaling long, he leaned his forehead on the cool wood of the door and lowered his hand.

  Mo chreach. She was English and the woman who was threatening his clan by taking Finlarig. Leave the woman alone. The order fell flat inside him, because he already knew that he wasn’t going to follow it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evelyn rested her hand on the door that separated her room and Grey’s. Wrapped in her robe over a dry smock, her mind raced. Had he already gone to bed? She’d heard the light tread of his boots in the hall moments earlier. Evelyn sniffed, touching the handkerchief in her other hand to her nose.

  Maybe she would catch an ague and stay in bed for the next week, not that hiding away from Grey would stop her from envisioning him. He practically commanded her mind.

  The feel of his fingers raking her head, rubbing along her scalp to wash down her hair. Good Lord. The press of his hard chest against her and his powerful arms around her as he held her in the rain. The awareness of his hard member rising up between them against her rain-flattened skirts. The warmth of his skin and breath upon her lips.

  She’d been certain he would kiss her there in the darkness, shielded by the rain and night. He’d held her as she thought a man would to kiss, sliding his hand along her back and lowering his face to hers. But he hadn’t met her lips. Perhaps she should have leaned in, offered him her kiss… Enticing Grey to tup ye would be far easier than convincing these people to come learn how to read. Scarlet’s words were either wise or horrendously improper. And she surely wouldn’t use Grey to get out of marrying Philip. But what if she wanted to lie with Grey, not for any reason save that he made her blood rush with frantic heat.

  Evelyn dropped her hand from t
he door and turned to pace back to her small bed in the far corner. She perched on the edge, her fingers curling into the quilt on top. Grey had been aroused. Although perhaps it was a reaction to the sounds of the couple in the barn. Evelyn rested her cool palms on her heated face. Just the memory of the woman’s moans and heated words shot fire through her blood.

  “Bloody hell,” she whispered, using the Scottish curse that was so prevalent in Killin. “Bloody hell,” she repeated, taking strength from it. Maybe she should take up the raucous art of cursing.

  She huffed, knowing, as she glared at her empty pillow, that she wouldn’t be falling asleep soon with such heat in her blood and passionate thoughts swirling in her mind. Feeling the cold wood floor with her toes, she located her slippers and jammed her feet into them.

  She would go to the library. Whenever she was troubled at Hollings, surviving the tongue-lashing from her father when she tried to argue for the rights of her sex or comforting her mother from one of her weeping fits, Evelyn had retreated to the library. Surrounded by her books, information and wise words never failed to calm her.

  Evelyn lit a tallow candle from the fire, grabbed an extra blanket from the end of her bed, and opened her door to the dark corridor. She cut a glance toward Grey’s closed door but turned away to stride toward the comfort of the library. It made perfectly good sense that he didn’t want to kiss her. It would cause complications or worse, feelings.

  Down two flights of curling stone steps, Evelyn found her sanctuary. Silent and smelling of the books she loved, the room drew her in. She rested the door in its frame, slightly open, so a click wouldn’t be heard if anyone was still awake.

  Lighting a few sconces within, she caught her reflection in the mirror that she’d asked Kerrick to move from the self-defense training room. In her next art lesson, Evelyn planned to have her students imitate the poses in the art reference, although clothed. She stood before the mirror in the shadows, watching how her long hair curled, brown and thick down past her waist, with the dampness that lingered. With the white linen robe and smock, she looked like a spirit haunting the library.