“Oh, Jamie,” she breathed, trailing her fingertips through the warm, silky water. “It’s beautiful!”
She lifted her head to find him surveying her with an odd light in his eyes. Her smile faded. “What is it? Why are you staring at me?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard my Christian name on your lips.” His gaze dropped to those lips, its smoldering caress warming her in places even the whisky had not been able to reach. “I rather fancy the sound of it.”
Before she could fully absorb the impact of his words, he was gone, leaving her all alone to run a trembling finger over her parted lips.
OH, JAMIE…
Jamie went striding from the cottage, trying not to think about just how badly he longed to hear those words on Emma’s lips again, this time ending on a breathless sigh of pleasure or perhaps even a deep-throated moan of surrender as he knelt between her fair, freckled thighs and…
He bit back a groan of his own. His restless strides carried him to the very edge of the rocky slope behind Muira’s cottage. The snow was still tumbling from the sky but the brittle flecks of ice did little to cool his fevered flesh. Despite the frigid bite of the wind, all he could see was Emma peeling off her damp garments and sinking into the warm water just as he longed to sink into her.
It was far too late to entertain such a foolish notion. He’d already waited a lifetime to wrest what he wanted from the Hepburn and now his time was running out.
If the Hepburn gave him what he wanted, he would have no choice but to honor his word and send Emma back to the front of that abbey, where she would take the earl to be her husband, her lord and master, and the father of her babes.
His hands clenched into fists. He’d managed to convince himself long ago that there was only one thing the Hepburn possessed that he could not live without. He’d scorned the man’s greed, his arrogance, his insatiable lust for power.
After all, why should he—Jamie Sinclair—envy an ancient pile of stones when he possessed something far more precious—his freedom? He wasn’t caged by four walls, but slept beneath the star-spangled expanse of the sky, the entire mountain his kingdom. Why would he require a bevy of servants to be at his beck and call when he had loyal men willing to ride by his side for little more than the promise of companionship and adventure?
And yet here he stood coveting the Hepburn’s proud and prickly tempered bride. Why couldn’t she have been some spoiled, grasping creature willing to sell her succulent young body to the earl for a pair of diamond earbobs or a cloak trimmed in ermine? If she had been, he might not want her so badly for himself. He wouldn’t be standing out there in the cold, every inch of his body burning so hot he could almost feel the snow melting beneath his boots. He might still be content with the sort of woman who would welcome him into her bed without requiring so much as a kiss, much less a lifelong pledge of devotion.
Almost as if his thoughts had conjured them from the swirling snow, a pair of warm female arms materialized to slip around his waist.
Jamie closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine for the space of one heavy, thudding heartbeat he felt all the way to his groin that they were Emma’s arms. That it was Emma who had braved the snow to seek out his company, fresh from her bath, her skin still damp and rosy, the irresistible softness of her breasts pressed against his back.
But it wasn’t the intoxicating scent of rain-washed lilacs that tickled his nose. It was a hint of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire underlaid with the unmistakable musk of female desire.
He turned, his sigh visible in the frigid air. “You should get back in the cottage, Brigid, before you freeze your silly self to death.”
The buxom servant girl twined her arms around his neck, laughing up at him. “Ah, but there’s no danger o’ that as long as ye’re around, is there? As I recall, ye’ve yer own special way o’ warmin’ a lass.”
Jamie groaned as one of her greedy little hands ventured between them, rubbing the rigid length of his staff through the soft buckskin of his breeches.
“Oh my,” she breathed, shooting him a coy look. “I told Gilda ye’d be eager to see me tonight. But I had no idea just how eager.”
Jamie didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d been eager ever since he’d tossed a certain willowy young English miss over the front of his saddle two days ago.
It seemed she wasn’t in the mood for conversation anyway. She was too busy nuzzling his throat with her moist, hot lips and rubbing her plump breasts against his chest.
Jamie knew he’d be a bluidy fool not to hike up her skirts right there where they stood and take her up on her offer. Perhaps if he could relieve the unrelenting ache in his groin, he would be able to shunt some blood back to his brain. He’d be able to quell his growing obsession with another man’s bride.
Biting off a savage oath, he wrapped his arms around Brigid and gave himself over fully to the ripe, open-mouthed carnality of her kiss.
EMMA RESTED THE BACK of her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes, letting the water melt the last of the chill from her bones. A delicious drowsiness stole over her as the lingering burn of the whisky in her belly mingled with the seductive warmth of the water lapping at her breasts.
The serving girls had left a clean rag, a ball of soap and a linen towel perched on the rim of the tub. Although the crude soap was no doubt made by Muira’s own hands, Emma would have found it no more divine had it been French-milled in Paris and reeking of lavender. She had worked up a generous lather with it and taken her time scrubbing the grime of their journey from her skin and hair.
She sank even deeper into the water and listened to the wind whistling around the eaves, biting back a moan of pure pleasure. She knew she would have to emerge from the tub eventually. If she dallied too long, she was afraid Jamie might just come strolling back in and decide to join her.
Against her will, her wayward imagination conjured up an image of him sinking into the water as naked as on the day he was born, reaching to tug her into his arms with a wicked come-hither smile, his well-muscled body as wet and sleek as a seal’s. A heat of another kind swept over her, tightening the rosy peaks of her breasts and making the fire in her belly snake lower until it settled into a dull ache between her thighs.
She sat straight up in the tub, her eyes flying open. Despite the brisk air caressing her cheeks, she suddenly felt feverish and cross. She pressed the back of her hand to her brow. Perhaps the exposure to the elements had been too much for her. Perhaps she was taking a fatal ague. She’d spent countless hours mooning over Lysander in the privacy of her bath—the only place she could escape her sisters’ inquisitive eyes—but she’d never before been troubled by such disturbing visions. Even in her boldest fancies, Lysander had been garbed in the full regalia of a gentleman, his fashionable Hessians perfectly polished, his cravat flawlessly knotted. She’d never dared to imagine him doing anything more audacious than stealing an innocent kiss from her puckered lips.
She frowned. Now that she thought about it, she could hardly recall his face. Features that had once been incredibly dear to her eyes were nothing more than a vague blur. His curling hair no longer gleamed like gold in her memory, but seemed as pale and lifeless as corn husks. His perfectly modulated voice with its precise diction and crisp consonants sounded as tepid as a day-old cup of tea. There had been no hint of smoke in that voice, no echo of simmering passion to make a woman dream about more than just kisses when she was alone in her bath.
As that unsettling fever swept through her once again, Emma quickly clambered out of the tub, toweling herself dry with the rough linen. She was already dreading the prospect of trying to wriggle her way back into her clammy garments when she spotted the nightdress hanging on a nearby peg.
She drew the crisp, freshly laundered folds over her head. A stray gust of wind struck the window beneath the dormer, sending it banging open. Cold air flooded the room, pebbling Emma’s damp skin with gooseflesh.
She rushed over
to close the window but her fingers froze on the latch when she spotted the two figures locked in a torrid embrace at the edge of the slope below.
Chapter Sixteen
THE SNOW SEEMED TO cast a supernatural glow over the stony terrain behind the cottage, making it that much easier to spot Jamie in the arms of another woman.
The sight made Emma feel strangely hot, then cold—as if the icy flakes were no longer swirling outside the window but inside her heart.
As she watched, longing to avert her eyes but unable to look away, Brigid twined her arms even more tightly around Jamie’s neck and tipped her head back to laugh up at him, her teeth a flash of white against her swarthy skin. Emma couldn’t hear what the woman was saying, but when her hand glided downward and disappeared between the two of them, Jamie threw back his head and gritted his teeth, his expression only too easy to interpret.
It was the expression of a man in the throes of some sort of terrible, yet exquisite, pain. A man willing to do whatever it took to turn that pain into pleasure.
Pressing her advantage, Brigid nuzzled his throat and rubbed her breasts against the broad chest where Emma had so recently rested her head. Then Brigid’s head fell back in wordless invitation, baring the graceful line of her throat. Emma squinted through the falling snow, almost willing to swear she saw Jamie hesitate. But it must have been nothing more than a trick of the spinning flakes and the ghostly light because the next thing she knew Jamie had wrapped his powerful arms around the woman and was devouring her lush mouth with a hunger that refused to be denied.
Resisting the urge to slam it with enough force to shatter the glass, Emma gently eased the window shut without a sound.
BRIGID MOANED AGAINST JAMIE’S lips, her voice deepening to a throaty purr, “Oh, Jamie…”
Jamie’s eyes flew open. Even with Brigid’s voluptuous curves in his arms, it was Emma’s voice he heard sighing his name, Emma’s eyes he saw shining up at him, Emma’s lips he felt moving beneath his—parted and wet and hungry for his kiss. And for all the pleasures she would never know at the earl’s hands.
Closing his hands around Brigid’s upper arms, he set her gently—but firmly—away from him. “You’d best get back to the kitchen before your mistress finds you gone. It’s been a very long journey and I’m wearier than I realized.”
Brigid rested her hands on her hips, her eyes slowly narrowing. “Not too weary to cart that scrawny bag ‘o bones up the stairs. Since the rain didn’t do the job, I was rather hopin’ ye were goin’ to finish drownin’ her in the tub.”
If Brigid in the throes of lust was an impressive sight, Brigid in the throes of jealousy was even more magnificent. Jamie half-expected the buxom, raven-haired beauty to start hissing and spitting at him like some furious cat.
“Why don’t you let me walk you back to the cottage?” he offered, hoping to distract her from clawing his eyes out.
“Don’t trouble yerself overmuch on my behalf, sir,” she snarled with mock sweetness. “I’m sure Angus or Malcolm won’t be too weary to warm a bonny lass on such a cold night.” She gave her curls a defiant toss. “Or Angus and Malcolm.”
Eyeing the saucy twitch of her rump as she whirled around and went storming off toward the stables, Jamie shook his head and muttered, “God help the lads.”
Unfortunately, he might be in even greater need of the Almighty’s assistance. His brief encounter with Brigid had only succeeded in rendering him more eager than ever, sharpening the dull ache in his groin to an incessant throb that was as painful as it was impossible to ignore.
Still shaking his head, he started back toward the cottage, already cursing himself for being a bluidy fool.
WHEN JAMIE’S KNOCK FAILED to garner an answer, he gingerly pushed open the door of the bathing chamber to find Emma sitting in the ladder-backed chair, her hands folded primly in her lap.
Muira’s billowing nightdress enveloped her slender curves. Her freckled face was still pink from the bath. A halo of damp ginger curls framed her face.
“Well, that certainly didn’t take very long,” she said, shooting him a vaguely contemptuous glance from beneath her lashes.
Studying the sulky bow of her mouth, Jamie frowned. When he’d left her, she’d appeared to be on the verge of throwing her arms around his neck and smothering his face with grateful kisses. Now she looked more inclined to hold his head under the cooling water in the tub until the bubbles stopped rising.
It seemed to be his night for infuriating women. At least he knew what he’d done to send Brigid stomping off in such a snit. Emma’s sudden bout of ill temper was a complete mystery to him.
“I was hoping to leave you enough time to finish your bath,” he said cautiously.
“How very generous of you to consider my needs before your own,” she replied with a scornful sniff. “From what I understand, most men are only concerned with satisfying themselves. By any means necessary… especially the most convenient”—her delicate upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer—“or the most common.”
Almost as if responding to her mood, the wind whining around the eaves surged to a howl. The window in the corner rattled in warning, then flew open with a bang, sending a dervish of icy wind and snow whirling through the room.
Jamie strode over to secure it, but paused with his hand on the faulty latch when his gaze fell on the stretch of ground below. The thin blanket of snow reflected every available scrap of light, including the gentle glow of the lamplight streaming through the kitchen windows, making the night seem as bright as dawn.
He glanced over his shoulder at Emma. She was still staring straight ahead, her delicate jaw squared. Her shoulders were rigid, her spine so stiff it wasn’t even touching the back of the chair. A knowing smile began to steal over his face.
He eased the window shut, then sauntered back into her line of view, hiding his budding grin behind an exaggerated yawn. “I’m so spent I can barely keep my eyes open. I wager I’ll sleep like a babe tonight.”
“I dare say you will.” She slanted him a look that made him glad he’d left his pistol belowstairs in his pack. “Sudden and violent exertion frequently has that effect.”
He extended his arms in a mighty stretch, deliberately giving her a languid look from beneath his shuttered lids. “I don’t think I can remember the last time I felt so turribly… drained.”
The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees, prompting him to steal a glance at the window to make sure the latch had not failed again.
“I’m surprised you still have the strength to speak. Much less stand.”
As if in total agreement with her, he leaned against the tub, bracing his weight on its edge, and heaved a lusty sigh of contentment. “Aye, my legs are as weak as a newborn lamb’s. I’d like nothing more than to just collapse.”
“Well, by all means, don’t let me stop you!” Springing to her feet, Emma gave his chest a surprisingly hearty shove, sending him teetering backward into the tub. He landed with an impressive splash, the water closing over his head.
When he surfaced, still sputtering with surprise, Emma was stalking toward the door as if she had every intention of marching all the way back down the mountain in her nightdress and bare feet.
Jamie struggled to his feet, his garments plastered to his body, and tossed his dripping hair out of his eyes. “And just where do you think you’re going, lass?”
“To sleep with the hound on the hearth rug. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone to share your bedroll. My companion will probably have better manners than yours, though. And fewer fleas.”
Bracing one hand on its edge, Jamie vaulted out of the tub and caught up with her in two long strides. Without slowing his pace, he swept her into his arms and tossed her belly-down over his sodden shoulder.
“Put me down this instant, you overgrown oaf!” she snapped, beating on his back with her small fists. “I’m tired of being hauled all over this godforsaken country like a sack of potatoes
!”
Ignoring the furious scissoring of her feet, he carried her out the door, his water-logged boots squelching with each step. “I really wish I could be there when the earl discovers he’s wed a wee wildcat instead of some mewling English kitten. In case no one has ever told you, lass, you’re quite fetching when you’re jealous.”
She sucked in a scandalized gasp. “Jealous! Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be jealous just because I saw you pawing some slattern in the kitchen yard? Why, I’m not the least bit jealous! I’m relieved! Now that you have your very own trollop to satisfy your baser needs, you can stop finding ridiculous excuses to kiss me and put your hands all over me. And you can stop looking at me in that intolerably impertinent manner!”
Jamie addressed the shapely rump draped over his shoulder. “And just what manner would that be?”
“As if I were a fresh strawberries and cream trifle and you’d had nothing but bread and water for all your miserable life.”
Jamie stopped in his tracks, his stillness so complete Emma stopped kicking and pounding and simply hung limp over his shoulder like a side of mutton.
When he started forward again, his strides were even more determined. Muira’s maidservant Gilda had just emerged from a chamber at the end of the corridor, her stout arms piled high with rumpled linens. As Jamie came barreling toward her, she let out a startled shriek and plastered herself to the wall.
Both of her chins quivering, she jerked her head toward the door. “The mistress had me lay a fire on the hearth. She says the puir wee lass can have her bed fer the night.”
“Tell your mistress the puir wee lass and I are much obliged,” Jamie replied, striding right past her and using his heel to kick the door shut in her astonished face.
He marched over to the bed and tossed Emma none too gently on her back in the middle of the heather-stuffed mattress. The dampness from his shirt had transferred itself to her nightdress, rendering the linen translucent. The fabric clung to the soft globes of her breasts, outlining the tantalizing thrust of her pert nipples with a diligence that made him want to lower his head and taste them with the tip of his tongue.
The Devil Wears Plaid Page 13
