Without missing a beat, she leaned in, bringing their lips close enough that he could smell the honey from the tarts they’d just eaten.
“I should be ashamed to admit that I…have committed sins of the flesh.”
He swallowed, his bollocks pulling up into his body as his shaft hardened. “Tell me…” God, he was only torturing himself—nay, he was allowing her to torture them both.
“I have lain with a man…well, many men, and…”
He wanted to hate that she wasn’t an innocent, but he wasn’t a hypocritical prude. He had lain with many, many women—especially over the last four years, so it wouldn’t be fair to think her a whore for doing the same thing. Still, though…he was jealous.
“And?” he prodded, his hands rising to cup her face.
“And what?” she murmured, her brown eyes hazy. She blinked up at him, confusion flirting with the heat of desire in her gaze.
“And…you wish to know what it feels like to lie with me, in my bed, beneath me,” he answered for her, his whole body on fire with the promise in his own words.
Something must have happened in her mind because she stiffened before pulling away as if burned.
“Nay, ’tis not possible,” she grumbled.
Thorn growled, reaching for her, determined to return to whatever it was that was happening between them.
“You are my betrothed, Rose, we can damn well pleasure one another—”
“Briar,” she snapped, pinning him with a cold glower. “You are betrothed to Briar. I have never, not once, lain with a man who belonged to another, and I will not start now. No matter how much I want to.”
She whirled, her skirts flying out around her as she strode away, leaving a frustrated and guilty-hearted man in her wake.
Chapter Thirteen
After their moment outside Mrs. Jenkin’s cottage, Rose did everything she could to turn off the fountain of longing that Thorn had tapped. It didn’t help that the scoundrel had made it his personal mission to touch her at every opportunity, brushing against her when they walked, sliding his knee or thigh against hers when they sat to question another villager, and damned if she wasn’t enjoying all that touching. And that was the problem. The more time she spent with him, the more she came to realize that he truly and honestly believed her his lost betrothed.
He was considerate, protective—placing the flat of his hand against her lower back to direct her and to show the male villagers that she was with him. She knew that if it had been anyone else, any other time, she would have broken that hand. But, since it was Thorn, and she liked Thorn’s touch—much to her chagrin, she allowed it. The best part, though, was a smile was never far from his face. Save for those moments after her refusal of their mutual pleasure, he had kept up a show of joviality, introducing her to the villagers with a grin, and constantly keeping her laughing.
She hadn’t laughed so much—true, honest laughter—in years. In ever, probably.
But no matter how charming and wonderful Thorn was, she could not have what she was beginning to realize she wanted.
A home of her own, a man who treated her as precious in public, but lit her on fire with his touch in private.
I could have that with Thorn. Nay. She might not be a woman of high morals, but she would never cross that line, the one that would make her the other woman, the woman that tore families apart. As her adopted grandfather had done too many times.
She couldn’t remember much about her own parents, but it pleased her to think that they were faithful to one another. Perhaps…if she were to ever marry, she would have a marriage she could pride herself on.
Marry? You? What man would have you, soiled goods. Criminal. It pricked her conscience, even more so that those things had never bothered her until now. Until it mattered what someone else might think of her.
Aye, Thorn believed he wanted her, but that was only because he was determined to marry to fulfil an obligation to two dead men.
It wasn’t real. So, she would endure the smiles and the touches, and she would return to her bedchamber at Gleneden, and she would pack her meager belongings and return to the village. There was an inn, and the food looked tasty enough, and she knew the whiskey would be watered down, but she could wrestle the good stuff from the barkeep without too much effort.
Aye, she had a plan now. Now to do it without getting distracted, or allowing Thorn to sway her.
That is easier said than accomplished, Rose.
And what else had she accomplished thus far? She thought about the day, and the lack of information she’d learned about the MacDearghs. It seemed hopeless; how did an entire clan disappear and no one know about it?
Flustered, she stopped mid-stride and turned to Thorn who was, as always, following along beside her. He drew up close to her, his face hidden in the growing shadows of the falling sun.
“How is it that you do not know what happened to the MacDeargh clan?” she said, sourly. She hated feeling as though she were treading on uneven ground. Never in her life had she been so close to the truth and yet so far. Her parents had spent time in this village, they had been close friends with the former laird of the MacPhersons, so why couldn’t she even get a sliver of information from anyone?
Thorn sighed, lifting his arm to run his fingers through his shoulder-length black hair. Rose tried to ignore the way his corded bicep muscle flexed and bunched as he moved.
“There are records in my father’s study, and I spent all of last evening poring through them, but there was nothing there that will help us.”
“Records? Can I see them?” she asked, hope sliding up on the scale, even a fraction of an inch.
“Aye, you can,” he replied.
“And there is nothing you know, nothing you remember about them?” she prodded, unwilling to believe that someone who was to marry into the MacDearghs hadn’t learned anything of importance about them.
“I wish I could tell you something, Rose, but, well, I left for Wales at a young age, and I didn’t hear from home all that often, and when I did, it was always talk of the house, the villagers, and the less than pleasant dealings with the MacDougals.”
MacDougals? It was the first time she’d heard that name, but from the way Thorn’s voice dropped, the MacDougals had been trouble for some time.
Focus!
“But, surely, you heard something about what happened after the shipwreck,” she pushed, her frustration mounting.
“Nay, I only heard about it, and I mourned for your parents…and for you,” he said, his voice soft and yet heavy. Rose noticed that his hands had clenched at his sides, opening and closing, as though he wanted to reach out to her. To comfort her or to stir her, she didn’t know.
But I want to…
“But you did not think to ask about the rest of the clan? Perhaps who would take on the mantle of laird after my father had died?”
If she could see his face, she wondered if she’d see guilt or shame coloring his face.
“I was a lad, I did not think about the long-term consequences of your father’s loss. I was more interested in riding horses, playing tricks on maids, and exploring the woods outside of Cylldon.”
A sense of guilt rushed her; of course, Thorn, as a lad, would think and act as a lad would. She was a fool to think he would care about matters an adult would.
Pressing a hand to her forehead, she let out a slow breath.
“I understand, Thorn, and I am sorry,” she offered, a sort of grimace-smile on her face. “I am such a fool—”
Thorn growled. He moved quickly—faster than she’d ever seen—and took her into his arms. Wrapped around her, his arms felt like heaven. Dazed by the sensation, she didn’t even think to push him away, and she certainly didn’t push him away when his lips crashed down on hers. His kiss was unexpected in that it was softer, gentler, more coaxing. She leaned into him, welcoming the warmth of his body, the blazing heat of his mouth on hers, and the slow building comfort she hadn’t known she ne
eded.
But Thorn had.
Rose, in his arms, her taste in his mouth, had been better than any fantasy he’d ever had.
And he was determined to taste more, to experience more, to touch and devour more.
She was the sweetest, tartest, most delicious woman he had ever tasted, and in a second, he’d become addicted to her. He would have her. Forever. As his wife. Damn anyone who got in his way.
Thorn couldn’t stop the tingling in his lips, nor the pulsing in his groin, nor the need to gallop home, steal Rose upstairs to his chamber, and not let her leave until he’d made her come a dozen times. Until neither of them could walk, and she had agreed to become his wife.
Shortly after they departed the village, Rose and Garrick began bantering back and forth; Garrick was sharing stories of his younger sister, Marbeth, and Rose would laugh and ask questions, and make short yet shallow comments. Since their kiss, Rose had seemed less engaged, as though she wasn’t all there.
And neither was he. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think, couldn’t make his body settle down.
He could understand why she was withdrawn; she’d apparently wasted a whole day asking questions about a clan no one could speak about.
There has to be more out there, there has to be something someone is not telling. Perhaps he would send a company of men north to Dearghrose Castle. He’d have them deliver a letter reporting the return of the former laird’s daughter. They would rejoice, wouldn’t they? They’d send someone to Gleneden, wouldn’t they? Who better to tell her about her parents than someone who knew them personally?
Why haven’t I thought of that before? Because he’d been so caught up in Rose, in who she was to him, that he didn’t consider what she would want or need, like details about her people. The people who made her who she was. Her blood.
As they continued on the wide dirt road, sounds in the lines of trees on each side made the hairs on his neck stand erect.
Thorn opened his mouth to tell Garrick to be aware, but before the words could leave his lips, a blood-curdling screech filled the air just before darkly dressed men poured from the covering boughs and into the road, cutting off their progress and their retreat.
The horses screamed as Thorn, Garrick, and Rose pulled on their reins. Alarm shot through him, and Thorn immediately turned to check on Rose.
She was seated on her saddle, her face pale and her expression grim, but there was a welcomed and somewhat surprising flash of pure anger in her eyes. Aye, his lass was a spirited and fierce woman—she had bested five of his men on her own. Then again, he doubted his men were fighting to hurt her; though they were battle-hardened men, they were also husbands and fathers, and they wouldn’t have truly harmed Rose.
But these men, brandishing swords and sneers, they would hurt her for the fun of it.
Not if I kill them first!
Pulling his sword from the scabbard tied to his saddle, he dismounted in a single movement, landing on his feet with a shout. Garrick appeared beside him, his sword raised.
“Dammit!” Rose yelled and Thorn turned to spy her trying to get off her horse. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she kicked to free herself from them.
Before he could tell her to remain where she was, the men who’d flooded from the woods attacked. Two against eight—the odds were deadly.
Raising he sword, Thorn delivered a stinging blow to the sword of the first man to advance. The sword broke in half from the impact. Stunned, the man dropped the broken piece from his hand and stepped back, right into Garrick’s swing. That man was dead before his head rolled from his shoulders.
One down, seven to go. Damn!
“Ha!” A feminine voice cried, but before Thorn could look to see what had happened, another two men advanced. Struggling against the force of two men, Thorn fought to catch his breath, his heart racing.
He saw her then…Rose was warring beside Garrick. While Thorn was busy fighting, she had dismounted, picked up the broken sword the first man dropped, and was easily holding her own against two men. God how he wanted to watch her fight, her movements graceful and yet brutal, but he had his own problems to deal with.
With the three of them fighting, the fight was over much sooner than Thorn had expected. He could only assume that the men weren’t trained fighters because up against Thorn, Garrick, and the surprisingly skilled Rose, they did not stand a chance.
Sheathing his sword, Thorn strode to the only man left alive.
“Who sent you?” Thorn demanded, wrapping his hand around the bastard’s throat. He could feel the man swallowing, his body trembling as the warmth of his own blood fled his body through the slash in his side. “Who sent you?” he demanded again.
The man’s eyes grew wide then slid closed. Thorn shook him, damned if he let he man die before he got his answers.
“Ma-MacDougal,” the man sputtered, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
That name rocked Thorn back on his heels. MacDougal sent these men? But why?
Thorn shook the man again. “Why did he send you?”
“Ca…capture…”
“What?” That wasn’t answer enough; there was still too much left unsaid. “Explain!”
A wet gasp escaped the man’s chest before he fell limp against Thorn’s chest.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Rolling the man’s body to the ground, Thorn stood, wiping the blood from his hands on the dead man’s own tunic.
Garrick came up beside him, his chest heaving from having put down three men of his own.
“MacDougal? Why would be send mercenaries to capture you?” he asked, his face ashen.
Thorn spat, his great body vibrating with unspent rage.
“I do not know, but I aim to find out.”
The loud thud sounded from behind them and they both spun to find Rose standing over a dead body. She was kicking it and cursing under her breath.
“Rose!” Thorn shouted, hurrying to her side. “Are you injured?” His gaze scanned her for any sign of wounds even as his hands skated over her arms, neck, back, and head. God, he wanted to pull her into his arms and just feel her, to physically experience the rise and fall of her chest, to know, in the very pit of his being, that she was alive. She was breathing.
“Nay, I am not injured, but this bastard—” she kicked the body again—“tore Marbeth’s tartan!”
Of all the concerns he expected to hear after a life or death battle—three against eight—he had not expected anger at a dead man for tearing a piece of clothing. His gaze caught on the tear she’d mentioned; it was a ragged rip down the left side, which allowed a teasing showing of long, womanly leg.
She huffed, dropping the sword she’d so expertly wielded onto the ground beside her boot.
Despite all that had just happened, she wasn’t acting as he expected a woman to act. Then again, she was Rose Rees MacDeargh, daughter of two fierce, hardy clans, raised by the most cunning of smugglers; she would never act, think, or be like other women.
And he was damn grateful for that.
She’d just killed two men with a broken sword, jumping into battle with a shout of excitement and a blinding grin. God, she was glorious, absolutely breathtaking.
He stared at Rose, the pink in her cheeks, the glitter in her eyes, and tension in her stance, and he knew that she was the woman fated for him.
Mine.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time they returned to the castle, Rose’s whole body felt weighted down with cannon balls tied around her limbs, and her head was spinning, spinning, twisting and turning—who were those men?
She’d heard Garrick and Thorn discussing a man named MacDougal. Who was MacDougal and why had he sent men to capture Thorn?
Removing what was left of Marbeth’s tartan, Rose ventured to the wardrobe where several loose tunics hung. She removed one, slipped it on over her head, and tried to untangle the knots from her hair. Fighting always made her hair a nest, which was why she so o
ften wore it in a braid.
A knock on her door made her pause, but her heart continued going, increasing in its tempo, because she knew who was on the other side.
Her hands still in her hair, she walked to the door and said, “Come in.”
Thorn opened the door, and she held her breath as he strode in, his gaze on her.
She glanced down, quickly realizing that she was wearing less than she ever had in his presence, but she wasn’t ashamed of her lack of clothing. So it wasn’t shame that was making her body turn to liquid fire.
“I told her…” he broke the heavy silence with those three words, and Rose didn’t need him to elaborate. She knew exactly who “her” was and what he told her.
“I see,” she replied, pulling her suddenly trembling fingers from her hair. She swung the loose hair over her shoulder, brushing rebellious strands from her cheeks. “And what does that have to do with me?”
His dark eyes pierced her; they were hooded as a hawk spying its prey. There was a smoldering there that made all sense flee, not that she’d had much to begin with, not when she had wanted him so badly for so long.
“If Briar is no longer your betrothed…should I feel sympathy for her?”
His gaze traveled over her face, searching for something.
“Only if you wish her to have what I am offering to you instead,” he answered, his deep voice thick.
“And what are you offering me?” she asked, her blood racing as tingles of awareness zig-zagged up and down her back.
Instead of answering her immediately, Thorn marched to her, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. Her breasts, swollen with anticipation, were crushed against him. She shuddered, the delicious sensation of her nipples rubbing against the rough fabric of her woolen tunic sending hot want into the crease between her thighs.
“I am offering you everything,” he growled, bending down to capture her lips. She gasped as something hard and large pressed into her belly.
The Rebellious Red Page 8
