“Do you wanna go to bed?”
Lust flared hot and bright in his blood as his gaze flew to hers.
What did she just ask him?
Seeing his confusion, she nodded toward the floor where he’d made his bed the night before. “Were you planning to go to bed right away? I don’t usually retire so early, but I wouldn’t want to keep you awake.”
Oh. Of course. “Not at all,” George replied with a vigorous nod. “I’m a bit of a night owl myself.”
“Great,” she replied.
George forced his blood to cool as he watched her cross the cabin to kneel in front of a large wooden trunk tucked in the shadows beneath the loft. Opening the trunk, she sat back on her heels to sort through various scraps of furs and tanned hides and large patches of oiled leather, carefully selecting the right pieces for whatever project she intended to work on. His position in the chair allowed him a perfect view of her gorgeously curved backside, narrow waist, and strong shoulders.
He could practically feel the softness of her buckskin breeches beneath his palms as he imagined sliding his hands up her firm thighs to the lush curve of her bottom.
Dammit, George. Think of something else.
He quickly shifted his gaze and tried to focus on the next nearest thing, which happened to be the shelves of books lining the low wall beside her. Perfect.
Rising to his feet, he asked, “Do you mind if I look for something to read?”
She paused to look back at him as he approached the shadowed corner. “I, ah…” She glanced from him to the books, then back to him again. “You can look, but I doubt you’ll find anything.”
He’d take his chances. It was the only distraction he could come up with at the moment. “I’m a gentleman of varied tastes and experiences. I imagine I’ll find something…” he replied as he crouched down beside her to scan the titles on the worn spines of the books.
He noted a copy of Moby-Dick, Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, a couple titles by Dickens, a well-worn copy of Jane Eyre, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Nature by Emerson, and nearly a dozen others. In addition to the novels, there were at least three plays by Shakespeare and a large tome of British history.
“How did you acquire all these?” he asked.
“Pa was a man of letters before he came west and took to trapping. He made sure I had a proper education, mainly supported by whatever books he came across at the trading posts. Every year, I’d have a new stack to read. Most of them were eventually traded back for something else.” She gestured to the books in front of them. “These are the ones I couldn’t bear to part with.”
George skimmed the titles once again, and a smile curved his lips. The selection revealed a bit more about the intriguing woman beside him.
“I said you wouldn’t find anything,” she noted as she pushed to her feet.
“On the contrary,” he replied, “there are a number of books I’d enjoy.” He leaned forward and withdrew a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Rob Roy, then stood to full height. “Now, this is a worthy tale.”
He didn’t realize she had paused before walking away, and it surprised him—in a wonderful, wickedly inappropriate way—to find himself suddenly standing quite close to her. Close enough to hear her swift inhale and see the jump of her pulse in her throat. Close enough to see the black centers of her eyes dilate as she looked up from the book in his hand to meet his gaze.
“That one? Really?” she asked in surprise.
“Why not?” he asked. “It’s got adventure, history, romance, outlaws,” he added with a wink.
She smiled, and George was pretty sure his heart stopped for a moment. “It’s the romance part I wasn’t expecting.”
He lifted his brows. “And why not?”
Her features shifted into a jaded expression. “I suppose I should have considered that with your…reputation, you would make it a point to be well versed in romance.”
Her tone and the stress she put on the last word suggested an attempt at flippancy, but he didn’t quite believe it. “It’s true. I have some experience, lass.” His voice lowered as he dipped his head closer to hers. “But it might not be in the way you’re imagining.”
“I’m not imagining anything,” she denied rather quickly.
“You can if you want to,” he said, a smile lifting his mouth. “I don’t mind.”
Her eyes darkened, and her lips parted as though she was doing exactly as he suggested. In that moment, he would have given up all worldly possessions to know what went through her mind. Then she furrowed her brow. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna try to say you’ve never lain with a woman.”
He chuckled at the thought. “Of course not. But being in love and making love are two separate things,” he explained. “One I’ve done plenty. The other’s been as elusive as the farthest star.”
A moment of silence fell between them. Then she murmured, “It’s hard to believe an outlaw has much time for stargazing.”
“You’d be surprised,” George replied, surprising himself at the admission.
Her expression suggested she wasn’t quite prepared to take his words as truth. She was wary of him, and he could understand why. He was a charmer, a ladies’ man, a self-indulgent scoundrel. But he’d been completely honest in suggesting he’d prefer something more real and lasting than the quick tumbles of his past.
He just wished she’d believe him.
He looked down at the book in his hand, then turned to place it back on the shelf. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “with Christmas only days away, I find myself in the mood for something a wee bit more festive. Do you have anything befitting the holiday season?”
There was a lengthy pause following his request before she stepped up beside him. Shifting some books aside, she reached into a shadowed corner and withdrew a slim volume.
“I haven’t thought of this book in years,” she noted softly as she smoothed her hand over the worn cover. “It enchanted me as a child. A mysterious stranger, a guardian angel in the form of a cricket, a selfish old miser transformed by the spirit of Christmas… I loved it, but my father would never have let me keep it if he knew what it was about.” Looking up, she gave George a rueful smile. “Pa didn’t believe in traditions or holidays or anything like that. And for some reason, he especially hated Christmas.”
George was stunned. “How can anyone hate Christmas?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just grew up knowing it was not something to discuss or celebrate. I used to imagine what it might be like to celebrate the holiday as it is portrayed in the story: family and friends, food and warmth and laughter. I guess I’d forgotten about it in the last years,” she added in a voice that faded away.
“So, you’ve never celebrated Christmas?”
She shook her head.
George held out his hand. After a very brief pause, she handed the book to him. Turning it over in his hands, he read the title out loud. “The Cricket on the Hearth: A Fairy Tale of Home, by Charles Dickens. I don’t think I’ve read this one.”
Glancing upward, he met her dark gaze and something warm and urgent flowed through him. For some reason, it felt imperative that he share this story with her as she had been unable to share it with her father. “Do you mind if I read it aloud?” he asked.
There was a flash of something unreadable in her eyes before she glanced away and took an abrupt step back. “If you wish. I doubt it will bother me.”
George hadn’t realized the amount of heat that had surrounded them until a waft of cool air rushed in to fill the sudden space she left behind.
As she took a seat and arranged the various scraps of fur and sewing materials across her lap and the arms of her chair, George claimed his spot in the chair beside her. Then he opened the book and began to read. It was not long before he became lost in the words he spoke aloud over the quiet crackle of the firep
lace. He didn’t even notice when her hands stilled, ceasing their work, and her head fell back against the tall back of her chair. When he first realized that her eyes had closed, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep, but then her lips curled into a smile as he read over an amusing passage. It was not a very long story, but by the time he reached the uplifting conclusion, George knew what he wanted to do.
Seven
Lucy woke with a start the next morning as a gust of cold air swept through the cabin. Bolting to the edge of the loft, she looked down to see George coming in from outside with his arms overflowing with tree branches.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked in sleepy shock.
He glanced upward with a wide grin as he kicked the door shut behind him. “Decorating.”
He’d lost his mind.
She scrambled down the ladder, reaching him just as he set the pine boughs on the floor where he’d made his bed the last two nights.
“Decorating?” she asked with her hands planted firmly on her hips. “With those?”
His eyes were bright and twinkling, and he gave a hearty nod. “Aye, with these.”
She reached up to press her palm to his forehead. “Are you feeling all right?”
His laugh was warm and rich as he grasped her wrist and brought her hand down to hold it gently in his. “There’s nothing like the smell of fresh pine over a crackling hearth to put one in the spirit for Christmas. Trust me,” he added in an earnest tone before giving her a jaunty wink.
He wanted to decorate her cabin for the holiday.
Lucy was speechless as he moved about, locating a hammer and some nails. Then he carefully sorted through the fresh-cut boughs and formed them into a sort of garland that he tacked to the logs above the fireplace.
It was amazing how the minimal effort managed to transform the space. And he was right; the smell of warming pine filled the cabin and inspired Lucy to add her own touch to the festive arrangement. It took a bit to find what she was looking for, but when she approached George with the scraps of old cloth, his wide smile made her feel self-conscious and a little giddy.
Together, they tied the pieces of cloth to the branches, and when they were finished and stepped back to get a look at the full effect, Lucy was amazed as how beautifully it had come together.
“What d’ya think?” he asked.
Lucy smiled. “I think it’s wonderful.”
“Aye. ’Tis, indeed.”
“Thank you,” she added quietly.
His voice was low and warm as he replied, “You’re very welcome.”
* * *
The snow continued to fall over the next few days. Sometimes it came down in sweeping gusts of wind, and other times it was in quiet, thick flakes. Either way, the trails remained impassable.
A few times a day, Lucy would head out to assess the status of the blizzard, fetch fresh water, and check on the horses.
And George would accompany her.
There was no reason for him to do so. On more than one occasion, it had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stay in the cabin, but she appreciated his company. And he seemed to enjoy getting out as much as she did. With the shutters still tight over the windows to keep out the frigid drafts, the cabin existed in a perpetual state of night.
They’d fallen into an oddly cozy routine. George was often the first to rise, and he set right about getting coffee on and breakfast started. Each evening, they’d settle in front of the fire. Lucy would work on her furs while George read out loud from Rob Roy. She had read the story at least a half dozen times, but just as when he’d read The Cricket on the Hearth, it had never been so richly woven and densely satisfying as it was when spoken in George’s rolling Scottish burr.
On the morning of the fourth day of being snowed in, they went outside to find a clear sky. And not only that, but the air had lost its chilly edge and the trees dripped with melting ice and snow. Neither of them commented on the shift in the weather that day or the next as the warmer temperatures continued, but it seemed to inspire a strange sort of tension between them.
She wasn’t sure what George was thinking, but to Lucy, it felt like something lovely was coming to its inevitable end.
She’d spent her entire life in that cabin and the last couple years of it alone. Though she loved a great many aspects of her life, she had never been able to fully accept the sense of isolation that came with it. It had been easier to ignore when her father had been alive. But in the time since his death, she’d started to feel…trapped in the way of life she’d always known.
The changing weather would soon allow George to be on his way again while she remained.
Unless she left, too…
But where would she go? And what would she do?
The only life she knew was to live off what the mountain provided. And she enjoyed it. She just wished it wasn’t such a solitary existence.
After George finished reading that night and closed the book on another chapter, Lucy found herself asking something she’d been curious about for a while. “It’s clear by the way you read that story how much you love your homeland. Why did you leave?”
He’d stood up to tend the fire as she started speaking and didn’t turn around right away.
Lucy studied the sturdy width of his shoulders and the long line of his muscled back. His tousled hair was a deep shade of burnished auburn in the flickering light, and his forearms tensed beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he shifted the logs to make room for a couple more to keep the cabin cozy through the night, though not nearly as much wood had been needed lately.
She waited patiently for him to answer, knowing he would despite how prying the question might have been. She’d come to expect his openness.
At first it had thrown her off balance—his willingness to offer up his thoughts on just about anything. It was the exact opposite of her father, who had been able to go days without really speaking. But she found that she rather enjoyed speaking with someone who answered in more than monosyllables.
The fact that George paused so long before answering told her the topic was more intimate than she’d realized. She almost wished she could take the question back even as the yearning to know grew stronger.
He rolled his shoulders and cast his gaze up to the rafters before he shrugged. “I was young and stupid. I had to leave, or I would’ve ruined my entire family.”
Lucy set aside the furs she was working on and asked pointedly, “What did you do?”
“You want the sordid details, lass?” he asked with a jaded, teasing look tossed over his shoulder.
She didn’t give in to his flippancy and nodded.
With a sigh that chased away his half-hearted attempt at humor, he turned to face her. “I was a young man with more wealth and freedom than I knew what to do with. As a younger son, I was quite happy to forget that along with my privilege came a responsibility to my family and my station. One night—or very early morning, rather—my mate and I were racing our horses through the narrow streets of Edinburgh. We were foxed out of our minds and could barely keep our seats in the saddles, but we thought it was glorious fun to dodge the street vendors that were starting to set up for the day to come.” His brow darkened and heavy lines of regret scarred his handsome features. “I misjudged the space needed to get around an apple cart and sent it toppling to the cobblestones. Right in front of my mate.”
George met her gaze with a haunted look in his eyes. “His horse took a tumble. He fell from the saddle and broke his neck, dying instantly.”
Lucy took a breath before speaking in an even tone. “It was a terrible accident. No one was at fault.”
He laughed, but it was a painful sound. “Not so, lass. When the heir to a dukedom dies, someone is most definitely at fault. The scandal cast a long and heavy shadow. With my brother and sister’s futures and a grand estate to
think about, my father had no choice but to ask me to leave, hoping that in my absence, the scandal would die a quick death.”
“Did it?” Lucy asked.
He lifted his brows. “I’ve no idea. I haven’t been back.”
“You received no letters over the years?”
He shoved his hand back through his burnished locks. “I never told them where I was going.”
“That sounds rather cowardly.”
He smiled. “I should have known I could count on you to be blunt and honest with my faults.”
“We all have faults, George. I don’t see how a letter to your family, letting them know you still live, could cause any harm to anything but your own pride. We all make mistakes.”
“I bet you don’t,” he teased, and Lucy was grateful to see a bit of his usual humor return.
She narrowed her gaze in mock severity. “I can’t say I’ve ever done anything so drastic as join a gang of outlaws, but I’ve certainly experienced moments of poor judgment.”
“Like when you dragged one of those outlaws out of a blizzard?”
“No,” she replied in earnest. “Not that.”
His eyes warmed, making Lucy’s belly tighten. She tried to ignore how the subtle evidence of his pleasure made her feel all soft and tingly, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Clearing her throat, she asked, “So how did you end up joining the men in the valley?”
“It was mostly luck that brought me to Luke and the gang, but once it did, I knew it was a good fit. We watch out for each other. In a way, it’s like a family. After wandering for years, the gang gives my life purpose.”
“Stealing is your purpose?” she asked skeptically.
He smiled. “It’s a little more complicated than that. We’re not just a bunch of criminals stealing for greed or the selfish pleasure of it. You may not believe it, but we often manage to help people who have no option but to trust in strangers.” He lowered his voice. “In a lawless land, sometimes the outlaw becomes the hero.”
Lucy lifted her brows. “Don’t tell me you’re likening yourself to Rob Roy now.”
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