by Nichole Van
Such heaven. To simply kiss her again. Four years ago, at that ball, he had been bold, sweeping her underneath that staircase and into his arms.
But after that evening, he had lost hope of ever kissing Lady Sophie again.
And now . . .
To find themselves like this . . .
It seemed almost madness to not kiss her. To not dispel the lie that she was unwanted and unloved.
Using his teeth, he tugged off the leather glove of the hand not currently wrapped around her.
She leaned back slightly in his arms, eyes a question mark at his movements.
“I cannot promise to give up my hate for Kendall,” he said.
“You cannot?”
“No.” Dropping the glove into his lap, he lifted a single finger to her cheek, drawing it down the soft, downy curve.
Heavens but she was so soft.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth.
“I cannot forgive him,” Rafe whispered, “because he denies me you.”
“Me?!”
“Aye.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “How can you think yourself unwanted? Undesired? I desired you then.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I desire you now. That has never changed.”
“Oh!” Her sharp inhalation was more breath than sound.
He could no more stop gravity than cease the descent of his mouth to hers.
The first press was a testing, teasing sort of glide. A question.
Is this all right? Will you allow more?
The gentlest taste, her lips pillowy under his.
Sophie sighed and lifted upward in reply.
Yes. More, please.
Rafe needed no further encouragement. Cupping her head in his hand, he pressed his lips to hers in earnest.
He devoured. He feasted.
Sophie met him as an equal, no hesitation or shyness.
This woman.
She sang through his blood, the sheer rightness of her settling into his very bones.
And just as they had four years ago, his hands trembled at the thought.
22
After another hour, the snow finally eased, turning back to rain.
Though Sophie hardly noticed, as she and Rafe spent the better part of that hour shamelessly kissing.
Sophie supposed she should be shocked by such wanton behavior, but kissing Rafe was so delicious and her own heart so battered, she struggled to care.
Regardless, she knew they needed to continue onward. They had to make Aboyne before nightfall.
And so she followed Rafe out of the bothie and swung back onto her horse, continuing up the narrow road. But she feared she had left her ridiculous brain back in the bothie, because all she could think upon was Rafe’s thrumming, life-altering kisses.
In short, her body buzzed like a rung bell.
I desired you then. I desire you now.
How glorious to be wanted!
The magic of it hummed through her blood and addled her thinking and made her ache for a different future than the one she had been pursuing. A future where along with her barn cats and research, she raced across the Scottish moors with Rafe, the wind tugging her hair loose, their laughter floating around them as he caught her in his arms, pulling her against him while his head dipped down—
Enough.
You shall drive yourself mad with such thoughts.
She needed to focus on Rafe’s revelations about his own inner turmoil, about the hate festering in his soul.
Or, more immediately, the danger of the weather around them.
The rain was chill and the wind cut through her clothing, a rude shock after the warmth of Rafe’s arms. They pushed past the small forest which had surrounded the bothie and climbed up another rise, the road steep and muddy. The hill descended into more trees, meandering its way down the mountain.
The trees parted and, as if a mirage, a bridge appeared up the track, shimmering in the rain. Not a simple, perfunctory bridge, but an elegant curve of stone, spanning what appeared to be an imposing gorge.
Moreover, the bridge was enormous, wide enough for a haywain to cross or horsemen four abreast. The structure was a startling sight in the harsh landscape, like a fairy castle in a desert.
Two small towers flanked each side and a deserted house sat to one end of the bridge, testament to the structure’s history as a toll bridge.
But the buildings stood empty now. They rode over the bridge, past the towers with broken window panes and a battered door. Water rushed through the gorge far below, the wind battering their cloaks.
Once past the bridge, they ascended yet another ridge, climbing out of the trees again. They crested the hill, the ever-present wind whipping at Sophie’s earasaid. From the top of the ridge, she could see clouds gathering again over the mountains in the distance. Rafe guided his horse around a large puddle and began descending—
CRACK!
A loud retort echoed through the canyon.
A bullet whizzed past Sophie’s shoulder, disappearing into the heather and gorse beside her.
Her horse shied.
Sophie screamed.
Pandemonium erupted.
Crack! Crack!
Another bullet. And then another.
Rafe’s horse reared, nearly unseating him. The two spare horses pulled at their leads, causing Sophie’s horse to stumble. Only her skill as a horsewoman kept her in the saddle.
“Bloody hell! The shots are coming from the valley ahead!” Rafe wrested his mount under control and turned around, pointing behind her. “Run!”
Sophie turned her own mount around and kicked her horse into a gallop, the sturdy gelding needing little encouragement to race back up trail from whence they had come. Rafe followed, galloping alongside her.
“Damn brigands,” he swore, voice carrying over the wind. “It’s the men that were behind us before. They must have decided against seeking shelter, as we did, but skirted around us and then lay in wait ahead!”
Risking a glance behind, Sophie could see the men in the valley below, kicking their horses forward, rifles pointed toward Sophie and Rafe, that red bonnet clearly visible now.
Bruiser.
It had to be.
Bloody hell, indeed.
Sophie neared the summit of the hill, rushing over the curve and down the other side. A vicious blast of wind greeted her. Pelting rain soon followed. Fortunately, the path was more rock than mud, but the weather was rapidly deteriorating again.
She and Rafe raced onward, hearing no more bullets. Would putting space between them and Bruiser be enough? Or was it merely the landscape and weather providing them with some protection? How long would the men follow them?
And why, why, why had Bruiser done this? Followed them, circled around, and now fired upon them from the front?! What plans had the men been hatching while she and Rafe were blissfully unaware, kissing in the bothie?
“Make haste,” Rafe shouted, pointing ahead. The enormous bridge they had crossed earlier came back into view. “We can take a stand against them once we’re across.”
Excellent idea.
Sophie urged her horse onward, teeth chattering.
She raced back over the enormous bridge, Rafe right behind. He led them into the shelter of the trees beyond.
Swiveling in his saddle, he pointed back toward the road. “If we wait here, we can see the bridge. It’s likely they will give chase—I doubt they have come this far to leave us be—but they won’t be able to cross the gorge without using the bridge, not down in this weather.”
Sophie nodded, teeth still chattering. They dismounted, drawing their horses deeper under the cover of the enormous firs.
Rafe grabbed his rifle. “Fortunately, they don’t know yet that we are armed. So we will have the element of surprise if they continue pursuit.” He pushed the rifle into Sophie’s hands. “I assume your sport-mad father taught you to shoot?”
“Of course.”
“Do you mind keeping watch while I tether t
he horses?”
Despite the looming danger, warmth blossomed in her chest. After their discussion earlier, something had eased within her. Lingering pain from Jack she hadn’t even been aware of carrying.
She appreciated that Rafe handed her the gun and had faith that she could keep them safe. She knew she was competent, but most men would not assume so. Jack certainly would never have trusted her in this situation.
But Rafe was not like most men. He treated her as a partner, a friend in every sense of the word.
She and Rafe . . . they were equals. Working together.
She hid her body behind the trunk of a large fir tree, its enormous branches providing shelter. Once more, the weather was fickle. The clouds Sophie had seen at a distance had arrived, turning the drizzle into snow again, raindrops mixed with soft, white fluff.
“Blast it,” Rafe muttered coming to stand beside her.
Sophie nodded. “This weather is too changeable.”
“Aye. I hope they are still coming toward us. I would prefer a head-on confrontation. We cannot proceed forward with them between us and Aboyne.”
“Rafe—” She put out a hand, stopping him. “Why haven’t you asked the obvious? I am certain one of those men is Bruiser. I saw him quite clearly—”
“Sophie—”
“Are you sure your father isn’t behind this attack? That he isn’t willing to stoop to bodily harm to thwart us?” It was a dreadful question, but she felt compelled to ask it.
“I truthfully cannot say.” He clenched his jaw, looking at the ground, hands on his hips, before shaking his head. “I dinnae ken what to make of it, lass. Until we know for sure it is Bruiser who fired upon us, it’s a moot point.”
Silence for a moment.
Side-by-side, they watched the bridge and road beyond. No sound reached them. No jangle of horse tackle or clop of hooves. Just the soft rustle of water through the gorge underneath the bridge.
Sophie continued to mull over their predicament. “I am still puzzled. The men are obviously targeting us, specifically. They circled around us in order to stop our forward progress. You have been ambushed twice now on this trip, both times in broad daylight.”
“Aye.”
More silence.
“It seems impossible to believe both attacks are simply coincidence.”
“That it does.”
“Does someone wish you dead?”
“Wish me dead?” He laughed at that, a breathy, bitter sound. “Aye, there are a few.”
That got Sophie’s attention. She twisted to face him more fully. “Who wishes you ill?”
A slight hesitation, and then, “There is something of a list, though I doubt the people to be in this corner of Scotland, so it’s a bit puzzling.”
“Are you always so blasé about death threats?”
“I’ve heard it adds to my overall panache.” He smoothed a hand down his chest.
She found she greatly disliked him making light of his own mortality. She shivered and pulled her wet cloak and earasaid tighter around her shoulders.
“Could this be linked to the letters you all received?” she asked.
“Aye, it is possible. I am ruling out nothing.” He stilled, looking beyond her to the road. “I hate simply sitting here, waiting to be fired upon.”
Sophie followed his gaze, looking out over the bridge. The snow continued to melt on the road but was now sticking to the grass and trees. It would begin sticking to the bridge soon. The towers flanking the bridge were already sporting traces of snow.
Like Rafe, she did not like waiting here, passively accepting whatever might occur. Were the men following them?
She paused, studying the towers again. Her eyes darted to the coiled length of rope dangling from her saddle bag.
What if they . . .
She touched Rafe’s arm. “I believe I have an idea.”
23
Ten minutes later, Sophie was tucked once more against the trunk of the fir tree, rifle in hand.
Rafe had taken their two pistols and was crouched behind the stone ramparts of one of the towers that flanked the bridge.
Snow continued to fall, fluffy flakes swirling down.
Sophie forced herself to breathe calmly as they waited.
They did not have to wait long.
Horse hooves announced the arrival of the men. Sophie saw them as they cleared the small rise and descended quickly toward the bridge.
Ah. She had been right. Bruiser’s red hat and bulky body were unmistakable.
The men scanned the trees as they rode, rifles held loosely across their saddles, but they seemed unconcerned about any real danger from Sophie or Rafe, likely thinking them to be a pair of pampered aristocrats.
Sophie met Rafe’s eyes where he crouched, hidden.
She nodded. He winked in return.
Bruiser and his friend hit the bridge, side-by-side, their horses at a canter.
Please let this work, Sophie plead.
Bruiser was slightly in front.
He hit the rope first. The cord had been strung across the road, between the two towers, right at chest height, the snowy weather hiding it from view.
Momentum swept Bruiser off his horse; he hit the stone bridge with a loud thud.
His companion immediately followed.
Both their horses continued onward, unharmed.
The men moaned on the stone bridge, the tumble having badly jolted them.
Rafe leapt over the bridge railing and was on the men in an instant. He rounded on Bruiser, making quick work of tying up the man’s hands as he lay on the ground, gasping for breath.
The other man rolled to his stomach, trying to get his feet underneath him.
Sophie pushed out from her hiding place, pointing the rifle at the man.
“Don’t move!” she ordered.
The man froze, his back to her.
Rafe finished tying Bruiser’s hands, propping the man up against the side of the bridge. He then grabbed the second man, trussing him up as well.
Sophie walked a few feet closer, keeping her rifle trained on Bruiser. The Scot glared at her, blood trickling down his cheek from a cut above his ear.
Rafe finished with the second man, dragging him to sit beside Bruiser. He retrieved his pistols and then surveyed both men.
“Well, I’m right glad we could have both of ye here for a wee blether.” Rafe gave the men a cheeky grin, brogue broad.
Sophie kept her rifle trained on them.
“As ye can see,” Rafe continued, pointing at Sophie, “I have my trusted assistant with me. She may look like a proper Sassenach lady, but she is dead aim with a gun, so dinnae think that ye will catch her out.”
Bruiser scowled at Sophie.
“Now,” Rafe said, “I have several questions I would like ye to answer. Ye will answer the questions eventually, so ye may just want tae volunteer the information easily.”
Bruiser shifted his gaze to Rafe. “Why should I talk to ye?”
“Why? Because I’m holding a pistol, you lot are tied up, and this snow looks tae get worse afore it gets any better. We’ll start easy. What is your name?”
Bruiser paused, shifting his gaze to Rafe’s pistol, perhaps gauging how serious Rafe was.
“I am dead earnest, I assure ye.” Rafe’s grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a grim intensity.
Bruiser shifted, as if what he saw in Rafe’s eyes gave him pause.
“Michael Grant,” the man said.
“Thank ye, Mr. Grant.” Rafe nodded. “Do ye know who I am?”
“Lord Rafe Gilbert, son of the Duke of Kendall.”
“Excellent. Are ye in the employ of my father, the Duke of Kendall?”
Grant paused.
“Come now,” Rafe continued. “I dinnae understand why ye would protect Kendall. The man’s a right bastard. He will show no loyalty tae you. He’ll cast ye off for this mishap regardless. You’re better off tae talk to me. I, at least, will treat ye both fai
rly.”
Sophie shifted the rifle, reminding the men that she was there, too. Grant’s eyes darted to her and then moved back to Rafe.
“Aye. I am employed by the Duke of Kendall,” he admitted.
“Why are you firing upon us?” Sophie asked. She had to know. Why was Rafe’s father trying to kill them?
Grant glowered at her. “Ye are both fools tae be up here on Cairn O’Mount in this weather, chasing after Dr. Ross like proper eejits. I was merely trying tae warn ye off.”
Sophie froze, mind churning. “You fired on us as a warning? That seems . . . the opposite of warning. A warning is more along the lines of a timely note or a shouted word.”
“Aye,” Rafe agreed.
Grant shrugged. “’Tis the truth. Ye werenae exactly friendly in Edinburgh, were ye?”
“Pot meet kettle,” Sophie muttered.
Grant continued, not having heard her. “I was merely encouraging ye to turn back. Ye are daft tae be out here in this.” He tossed his head, indicating the falling snow. “Kendall is concerned about ye, as any father would be.”
“Concerned? Kendall has never once expressed concern for my well-being.” The scorn in Rafe’s tone was palpable. “Besides, Beadle sent you, not my father. Kendall doesnae know I’m here—”
“Beadle is a good man who intuitively understands his employer’s wishes,” Grant all but growled.
“Beadle has an odd way of showing concern.” Rafe laced the word with heavy sarcasm.
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Your father would not want ye here. You’ve taken it into your head tae go chasing after Ross, but the doctor is likely dead. He was ill last year, and his sister begged tae take him home to Drathes Castle to die. The man is long passed on.”
Sophie’s heart sank.
Was this all true? Was Grant to be trusted?
But they had come so far. How could their quest end without any hope at all?
“That’s a likely story,” Rafe said, his tone reflecting Sophie’s own skepticism. “Why would Kendall know or care about what happened to Dr. Ross?”
“They were friends,” Grant shrugged.
Rafe laughed, a bitter sound. “My father doesnae have friends. He has lackeys and sycophants. Beadle’s a sycophant. Which are you?”