He finally did look at her then, the slight arch of one sable eyebrow warning her she had only succeeded in amusing him. “That would be a waste o’ perfectly good gunpowder, wouldn’t it? Especially when you’re worth far more to me alive than dead.”
She sniffed. “A touching sentiment, sir, but I’m afraid you’ve tipped your hand. If I know you have no intention of killing me, then what’s to stop me from running?”
He came around the horse then, his strides as even and resolute as his voice. “Me.”
Now that Emma had succeeded in gaining his full attention, she had reason to regret her brashness. Her heart began to pound wildly in her chest as she scrambled backward, knowing even as she did so that she had no hope of eluding him. He was everything her bridegroom was not—young, muscular, virile… dangerous.
He might not have any intention of killing her but there were other things he could do to her that many might consider even worse.
Much worse.
Her back came up against the knotty trunk of a pine, leaving her with no choice but to stand her ground before his relentless approach. The air must be even thinner up here on the bluff. The nearer he drew, the more breathless she became. By the time his shadow fell over her, blocking out the milky daylight, she was positively light-headed.
She had believed those light green eyes with their thick fringe of sable lashes to be his most striking feature but at this proximity she could no longer be sure. He might be nothing more than a common brigand but he had the high, broad cheekbones of a king. His nose was as straight as a blade with nostrils that flared slightly over a pair of full, almost sinfully sensual, lips. The faintest hint of a cleft shadowed his chin.
He planted both hands on the tree trunk above her head, leaning so close to her she could feel the heat radiating from every muscled inch of him. Both her fear and her light-headedness deepened a dangerous degree as she breathed in the warm, masculine musk of his scent.
Despite its rough edge, his voice was as soft as crushed velvet against the delicate cup of her ear. Its message was not intended for his men’s ears but for her and her alone. “If you run, I’ll have to put my hands on you. So unless you think you’d enjoy that—and you just might—you’ll want to think twice about trying to escape.”
Then the sheltering heat of his body was gone and she was once again exposed to the icy bite of the air. As an uncontrollable shiver wracked her, one that had more to do with his tender threat than with the chill hanging in the air, Sinclair went strolling back to his accursed horse as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
She glanced over at the other men to discover their brief exchange had garnered an audience. A sallow fellow with a dark arrow of beard on his chin even dared to elbow his companion and chuckle aloud.
“You needn’t be so smug, sir,” she called after Sinclair, her stinging pride shouldering aside her fear. “I suspect your triumph will be short-lived. The earl is probably notifying the authorities and dispatching his own men to retrieve me even as we speak.”
“Once we climb high enough on this mountain, he’ll never find us and he knows it,” Sinclair tossed back over his shoulder. “No one ever finds a Sinclair if they don’t want to be found. Not even a Hepburn. But don’t fret, lass,” he added in a gently mocking tone. “If everything goes as planned, you’ll be back in the arms o’ your adoring bridegroom before his bed grows cold. Or at least any colder than it already is.”
As he returned to grooming his horse, his men hooted with appreciative laughter. Emma hugged back a fresh shiver, chilled to the bone by the discovery that her captor’s contempt was not for the earl alone.
STEALING BRIDES WAS A time-honored Highland tradition but James Alastair Sinclair had never dreamed he’d be driven to steal another man’s bride. It had long been whispered his own great-great-grandfather, MacTavish Sinclair, had swiped his fifteen-year-old bride from her irate papa while on a cattle raid when he was only seventeen. She had refused to speak to him until after their first child was born, then spent the next forty-six years of their marriage chattering incessantly to make up for it. When he expired in his sleep at the ripe old age of sixty-three, she wept inconsolably and died a few short days later—some said of a broken heart.
Jamie could only be thankful his own heart had never been in such dire peril.
As the clouds cleared and the stars began to wink to life in the night sky, his men polished off the earthenware jug of scotch whisky they’d been passing from hand to hand and settled down in their bedrolls. Jamie squatted next to the fire and ladled a steaming dollop of rabbit stew into a bowl, shooting his captive a wary look.
She sat on a rock at the very edge of the trees, shunning both the fire’s seductive warmth and his company. The shadows from the overhanging branches dappled her pale face like bruises. The last of the pins had tumbled from her hair, leaving it to hang around her face in an untidy mop of copper-tinted curls. She sat with her slender arms wrapped around herself, the dirt-smudged tatters of her once-elegant gown a poor protection against the brisk mountain wind. Despite her forlorn posture, her soft mouth and sharp little chin were still set at a mutinous angle. She gazed right past him and into the crackling flames of the campfire as if she could somehow make him and his men disappear simply by ignoring their existence.
Jamie scowled. He had expected the earl’s young bride to be some wilting milksop of an English miss, none too bright and easily cowed. Knowing what he did of the Hepburn, he had assumed the auld wretch would have deliberately chosen the chit most likely to die in childbirth minutes after she’d handed his squirming spawn over to the wet nurse who would raise it.
Her stubborn show of spirit despite her fear—both in the abbey and here in this clearing—had unsettled him and stirred a twinge of admiration he could ill afford. After all, the lass was naught to him but a means to an end; a brief inconvenience he could be rid of just as soon as the Hepburn conceded to the demand that would be delivered to him a few days hence.
Jamie felt as if he had already waited a lifetime for this moment and now his time was running out. But he was still determined to give the Hepburn a day or two to consider all of the grim fates that might befall his innocent bride at the hands of his sworn enemy should he fail to comply.
A bone-chilling gust of wind breached the boughs of the pines and whipped through the clearing. Although it felt like no more than a gentle breeze against Jamie’s tough hide, the lass shivered, hugging herself so tightly her knuckles went white. Jamie suspected her delicate teeth were no longer clenched in impotent fury, but to keep from chattering.
Swearing softly in Gaelic, he straightened and strode over to her. He stopped right in front of her, holding out the bowl of stew. She continued to stare straight ahead, scorning both him and his humble offering.
His hand did not waver. “If you intend to starve yourself to death just to shame me, lass, it won’t work. Your precious bridegroom would warn you that neither I nor any o’ my kin have any shame.”
He waved the bowl beneath her haughty little nose, deliberately tempting her with the succulent aroma. Her stomach betrayed her with a lusty growl. Shooting him a resentful glance, she snatched the bowl from his hand.
He watched, torn between triumph and amusement, as she used the crudely carved wooden spoon to down several greedy mouthfuls of the stuff. It was an unexpected pleasure to watch the color seep back into her cheeks as the stew warmed her belly. He had heard whispers that the Hepburn’s bride was no great beauty, but her freckled cheeks and finely chiseled features possessed a winsome charm few men could deny. Against his will he found his gaze drawn to the softness of her lips as they closed around the bowl of the spoon, to the supple grace of her little pink tongue as it darted out to lick the utensil clean.
The innocent sight stirred a surprising hunger low in his own belly. Afraid he might just start growling back at her, he started to turn away.
“Just how long am I to be your prisoner, sir?” she dema
nded.
Sighing, he pivoted to face her. “That depends on just how much your bridegroom values you, now, doesn’t it? Perhaps you’d find your lot in life more bearable if you tried thinking o’ yourself as my guest.”
She wrinkled her nose, drawing his attention to the dash of cinnamon freckles across its bridge. “Then I’d have to say your hospitality leaves much to be desired. Most hosts—no matter how miserly—will at least provide a roof over their guest’s head. As well as four walls to keep them from freezing to death.”
Propping one foot on a fallen log, Jamie tipped back his head to survey the majestic indigo sweep of the night sky. “Our walls are the sheltering branches o’ the pines and our roof a vaulted dome dusted with gems sprinkled by the hand o’ the Almighty himself. I challenge you to find a grander sight in any London ballroom.”
When silence greeted his words, he slanted her a sidelong glance only to catch her quizzically studying his profile instead of the sky. She quickly lowered her eyes, hiding them beneath the wary russet sweep of her lashes. “I was expecting little more than an unintelligible grunt. It seems the earl was wrong, sir. Your education wasn’t wasted after all. At least not judging by your vocabulary.”
He sketched her a mocking bow so flawless it would have done any gentleman proud. “With enough time and determination, lass, even a savage can learn to mimic his betters.”
“Like Ian Hepburn? From what you said in the abbey, I gather he was one of your betters at the university?”
“There was a time when he might have considered himself my equal. But that was when he only knew me as his dear friend Sin. Once his uncle informed him I was nothing but a filthy, stinking Sinclair with dirt under his fingernails and blood on his hands, he wanted nothing more to do with me.”
“After having known you for only a few hours myself, I can’t say that I blame him.”
“Och, lass!” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his chest and giving her a reproachful look. “Ye cut me to the heart wi’ that wee, sharp tongue o’ yers. Hae ye no’ an ounce o’ pity in yer soul fer a puir ignorant Scotsmon?”
Hoping to hide the melting effect his velvet-edged burr had on her, Emma surged to her feet to face him. “My name isn’t ‘lass.’ It’s Emmaline. Or Miss Marlowe if you’re civilized enough to observe the social niceties. My father is a baronet—one of the gentry.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Jamie snorted. “Genteel enough to auction his daughter off to the highest bidder?”
She lifted her chin again, refusing to quail before his scorn, and said softly, “The only bidder.”
Her confession caught Jamie off guard. The lass might be willowy and small breasted, but there was still no denying her feminine charms. If she had been born and raised on this mountain, besotted suitors would have been lining up to cast themselves at her feet.
“And you needn’t make my father out to be some sort of grasping villain from a Gothic melodrama,” she added. “For all you know, I could be madly in love with the earl.”
Jamie barked out a laugh. “And I could be the King of Scotland.” Ignoring his better judgment, he allowed his gaze a bold foray over her. “There’s only one reason a woman like you would wed a moldering auld bag o’ bones like the Hepburn.”
She rested her hands on her slender hips. “You just abducted me a few hours ago. How can you possibly presume to know what manner of woman I am?”
Before he even realized what he was going to do, he had stepped closer to her—close enough to stroke his roughened knuckles down the irresistible softness of her cheek. He’d never been a man given to bullying women but there was something about this tart-tongued girl that made him want to put his hands on her, to coax some sort of reaction out of her, even if it was to his own detriment.
He put his mouth against her ear, deliberately lowering his voice to a husky whisper. “I know you’re still young enough—and comely enough—to need a real mon in your bed.”
A shiver having naught to do with fear or the brisk wind raked her tender flesh. When Jamie drew back to survey her face, she was gazing up at him, her parted lips trembling ever so slightly and her dusky blue eyes large enough to reflect the rising moon.
Before he could succumb to her unwitting invitation, Jamie turned away from her, determined to fetch her a bedroll and be done with her for the night.
Her next words froze him in his tracks.
“You’re wrong about my father, sir. He’s not the greedy one. I am.”
Jamie slowly turned, his eyes narrowing as a prickle of wariness eased up his spine. He’d felt that unsettling sensation numerous times before, usually just seconds before he was about to be ambushed by a roving gang of Hepburn’s hired guns.
His captive’s posture was no longer forlorn or fearful but openly defiant. Her voice was steady, her eyes as cool as the silvery moonlight playing over her high, freckled cheekbones. “Surely even a common ruffian such as yourself must know that most women would barter not only their bodies but their souls to wed a man as wealthy and powerful as the earl. Once I’m his countess, I’ll have every treasure a woman could desire—jewels, furs, land, and more gold than I could spend, or count, in a lifetime. And I can promise you I’ll not lack for a mon in my bed,” she added with a scornful toss of her head. “After I’ve provided him with an heir, I’m sure the earl won’t begrudge me a Season in London and a strapping young lover… or two.”
Jamie simply gazed at her for a long, thoughtful moment before saying, “My name isn’t ‘sir,’ Miss Marlowe. It’s Jamie.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left her standing there, her slender frame buffeted by the wind.
Chapter Four
JAMIE, EMMA THOUGHT. SUCH an innocuous name for such a dangerous man.
As the moon crested and slowly began its descent, she huddled deeper in the nest of scratchy woolen blankets her captor had provided. They smelled of him, a realization that only sharpened the jagged edge of her misery.
The rich masculine musk with its earthy undertones of leather, woodsmoke and horse should have been offensive to her delicate nose. Most men of her acquaintance, including her father and every gentleman she had encountered during her three Seasons in London, smothered their natural scents beneath a choking layer of shaving soaps and floral colognes. One could hardly draw breath when walking into an assembly room crowded with dandies drenched in the most popular of that Season’s sweet waters, whether it be honey or rose. Instead of being repelled by Sinclair’s exotic scent, she caught herself breathing deep to draw it into her lungs, almost as if it had the power to warm her chilled blood.
She rolled over. The cold, hard ground was as unwelcoming as a slab of rock. Every time she stirred, a new stone or twig seemed to rear up to jab her tender flesh. Not that she was likely to sleep anyway while lying a few scant feet away from a pack of dangerous outlaws in the middle of the Scottish wilderness.
Not even their drunken snores could completely drown out the echo of her own mocking voice: I’m sure the earl won’t begrudge me a Season in London and a strapping young lover… or two.
Emma moaned aloud and buried her head beneath the blankets, wondering what had possessed her to make such a preposterous boast. She had managed to survive her parents’ forced cheer and her sisters’ pretended envy over her nuptials to the earl, so why had a stranger’s opinion of her proved so galling to her pride?
Somehow as she had stood there in the moonlight, being judged and found wanting beneath the cool appraisal of Jamie Sinclair’s eyes, it had seemed better for him to think her a grasping shrew than some sacrificial lamb marching meekly to her doom. Better to have him loathe her than to pity her. For a few precious seconds, she had felt strong and powerful and in command of her own fate.
Now she just felt ridiculous.
She might have been able to restrain her temper if he hadn’t kept calling her “lass” in that infuriating manner. Thanks to that whisky-and-velvet burr of his, the word had sounded
more like an endearment than the overly familiar insult it was. It had made her desperate to put some distance between them, even if it was only by insisting he acknowledge her social superiority by calling her Miss Marlowe. He would probably laugh in her face if he knew her genteel father was one flask of brandy and one unlucky round at the faro table away from being cast into debtor’s gaol.
I know you’re still young enough—and comely enough—to need a real mon in your bed.
As she struggled to pummel a fold of the blanket into some semblance of a pillow, it was his words and not her own that returned to haunt her. A fresh shiver raked her as she remembered how his knuckles had grazed her cheek with such disarming tenderness. His husky whisper had summoned up mysterious and provocative images of the things a mon might do to her in that bed. These images had little to do with the disagreeable duty her mother had described. Even now, they held the power to send a rush of heat sizzling through her veins, to burn the chill from her aching bones.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Was Sinclair bold enough to imply she needed a man like him in her bed? A man who wouldn’t simply climb atop her and wiggle and grunt as her mother had told her the earl was likely to do? A man who would woo her with tender, breath-stealing kisses and skillful caresses until she was begging to surrender herself to him?
Her eyes flew open. Being bounced around on the horse’s back must have scrambled her wits. It wasn’t as if a barbarian like Jamie Sinclair could ever be that man. From what she’d heard of the wild Highlanders who still roamed these hills, he was more likely to bend a woman over a table, toss her skirts up over her head and take his pleasure roughly and swiftly without a care for her own.
Emma poked her head out of the blankets, hoping the icy air would cool the sudden fever raging in her cheeks. She was accustomed to hearing her sisters whisper and giggle in bed each night after their mother extinguished the lamp. It gave her an unsettling start to hear instead the low rumble of two men talking between themselves.
The Devil Wears Plaid Page 3
