“Hurt ye?” His gaze softened, and for a moment Maggie couldn’t breathe. Then he raised his hand and swept a few strands of hair back from her face, his fingers slipping against her cheek and then above her ears as he tucked the tendrils away. “Och, lass, the last thing I want to do is hurt ye.”
Maggie sucked in a sharp breath as he held her gaze for a long moment, before looking away and dropping his hand back to his side. She swallowed hard, feeling completelybereft. “Well, good,” she said into the silence, “that’s good to know.”
He raked his hand through his dark, raggedly beautiful hair. “The last thing I’ve ever wanted is to hurt anyone, though God knows, that seems to be all I do.”
For a moment, Maggie couldn’t speak. Her heart ached too badly for this tortured soul, this extremely sexy bad boy, this beautiful, passionate nut. It suddenly struck her that she didn’t even know his name.
“Tell me who you are. Please?” she whispered.
He lifted his chin and seemed to grow visibly taller beforeher eyes. “My name is Quinn MacIntyre.” The fire in his eyes dimmed, and he looked away from her, even as he continuedto speak. “I dinna wonder that ye hesitate, lass, but I swear upon my mother’s grave, no harm will come to ye.”
Maggie swallowed hard. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Quinn, but uh, I really think that . . .” Her voice faded as he cocked one dark brow and his jaw tightened.
“If ye regret what happened,” he finally said, “prove it now by helping me.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “After all, I did rescue ye from a fate worse than death.”
Maggie gave him a hesitant smile. “Fate worse than death?”
“Aye,” he said, sounding serious, “being pissed on by an irritated stallion.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go with you to the duke’s house. But I need to go back to the cairn first. Do you know where it is?”
“A large cairn? Many small stones?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly. “If you’ll take me there first and let me check in with my friends, I’ll be happy to go with you.”
“Of course,” he said, still smiling, as he led her to his horse.
As Quinn helped the woman up into Saint’s saddle, he once again marveled at the strange clothing she wore underneath his plaid. For one thing, she wore a pair of breeches that were pale pink, with what appeared to be a pattern of—he had to look twice—the head of a white cat. The blouse she wore with it was made of the same odd but soft material, and cut in a mannish style.
Her footwear was equally strange—heavy black boots that laced up the front—totally incongruous with the pastel clothing she wore. The heavy jacket she’d worn was too difficult to hold and too hot to wear, so Quinn tied it behind the saddle, along with the pack she clung to so fervently.
She had trouble mounting the horse, and without thinking,Quinn put the palm of one hand on her backside and pushed, the pressure lifting her up and into the saddle. She looked down at him, startled and lovely, her auburn hair unbound and waving down her pink-covered back. Meanwhile,the hand that had touched her soft and rounded bottomfelt as if it had been dowsed in flames.
“Thank you for letting me ride your horse,” she said. “I feel guilty that you have to walk, though.”
He raised both brows. “Do ye now? Well, dinna worry on that score.” Quinn placed his foot on top of the stirrup, grasped the side of the saddle, and with an ease born of long practice, slipped into place behind her. She gasped slightly as he lifted her, letting her bottom rest on his lap and her legs curve over the top of his. He drew in his own sharp breath. The cloth was very thin.
Perhaps this was not such a good idea.
“Of course, if I make ye uncomfortable, lass—”
“No,” she said quickly. Her cheeks were red, but she seemed calm enough. “I’ve done enough to you and yours since I met you without making you walk.”
Weel, not quite enough. The wicked thought danced through his mind before he could stop it. Saints above knew that it was hard enough—nay, dinna think that thought—it was difficult enough to be pressed beneath the lass without he himself entertaining lustful thoughts. A cloud passed in front of the sun and a cool breeze suddenly kicked up. He tossed his plaid around his shoulders and draped the rest of it around her, enclosing them, creating a heat that chased away the chill in the air.
Long tendrils of her red gold hair drifted in the wind and against his face, the perfume of the locks sending a shudder through him, straight down into his nether parts. This was never going to work. He should get off and walk.
But he didn’t want to get off and walk. He wanted to stay right where he was, pressed against the softness of this strange lass. Truth be told, he wanted to take her from the saddle and bundle her away to some wee bed where . . .
“Are we going?” She turned slightly and looked back at him, her blue eyes wide with concern and a little fear.
“Aye, we are going.” He slipped one arm around her waist. Her sharp intake of breath told him that she was no more immune to their bodies touching than he was, and for some reason, that made him bold. He gathered the reins in his right hand and pulled her firmly against him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“Keepin’ ye from fallin’ off, lass. Of course, if ye’d rather walk . . .” There was challenge in his words and the woman glanced back at him hesitantly. Then he saw somethingnew in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before. Strength.
“No, I don’t want to walk,” she said, as she shifted her weight to find a more comfortable spot and sent another surge of lust straight through his body.
She leaned her head back against him and yawned. “Is it all right if I go to sleep for a while?”
“Aye, lass,” he said, “go to sleep.”
“You won’t let me fall, will you?” she asked, her voice anxious.
Quinn resisted the urge to rub his face into her tresses, resisted the urge to slide his hand upward from her waist to cup one of the full, firm breasts above it, resisted the need growing within him, and instead answered her with a steadiness to his voice that surprised even him.
“No, lass,” he said, “I willna let ye fall.”
six
Maggie was bone tired and weary, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of every movement of the man straddling the horse behind her. Every time the sure, steady hooves hit a hole or a downward slope, Maggie had no choice but to feel Quinn MacIntyre’s hard, muscled chest pressing against her and his strong fingers holding her tightly to keep her safe.
Safe—that was the craziest thing of all. She did feel safe. Even though she was mounted on horseback with a guy who liked to run around the countryside playing cowboys and Indians, or the Scottish equivalent, she felt completely and utterly safe. He wouldn’t let her fall.
“So tell me more about yourself,” she said suddenly, as they ambled across the countryside.
“I thought ye were sleeping.” His rough voice rumbled against her back, and she closed her eyes from the sheer physical joy of feeling it.
“Too bouncy. So where are you from originally?”
“Glenoe.”
The silence stretched between them again.
“So do your parents live there, in Glenoe?”
He didn’t answer for several long minutes. “Nay, my parents are dead.”
“Mine are, too.” Maggie couldn’t help thinking that this coincidence gave them a common bond. She cleared her throat. “Any brothers or sisters? I have two sisters.”
“Nay,” he said again, “my only brother was hanged by the Duke of Montrose, along with my father.”
Maggie went cold inside. Hangings? Did they do that anymore? Maybe in Scotland they did. Or maybe the guy was, as she suspected, nuts.
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “Why were they hanged?”
“They reived the duke’s cattle.”
“Reived?” she frowned, and then whirled around in the sadd
le, sure her outrage was dancing in her eyes. “You mean stole? They hanged them for stealing cattle? That’s crazy!”
“Aye, mad as a fox, that’s Montrose. The day he hanged them, ’twas said he stood at the foot of the gallows as he guzzled his wine and ate a turkey leg. And laughed.”
He sure sounded sane. Maybe it was true. Maybe there was some kind of “Wild West” justice in the Highlands. She decided to go along with him, for the moment.
“To think that in this day and age, a person could be hanged for such a thing—why, it’s outrageous!” Maggie said. “Why don’t you write your congressman, or Parliament, or whatever you have up here? Why don’t you protest? Demand to see the Queen!”
A wry grin made his mouth quirk up even as he frowned at her. “I have no contacts at court, and Parliament was dissolvedwhen they signed the Act of Union.”
Maggie remained silent. It didn’t seem polite to remind him that the Act of Union was signed in 1707, and the Scots had their own Parliament now. The guy really was messed up. But so, so hot.
His fingers contracted against her waist, and Maggie closed her eyes, not wanting to feel the warmth and safety, afraid to feel the sheer, unadulterated comfort his touch promised. And the possibility of sex with him.
Oh yeah, he was promising that, too, or at least offering, no doubt about it. Even though she’d come to Scotland to find excitement in her life, she probably ought to draw the line at making love to delusional Scotsmen.
Probably. She tried to steer him back into reality.
“So you don’t mean that the duke actually ordered your brother and father’s execution? The court did, right? I didn’t know Scotland had the death penalty.”
“My father was no one important. The duke will kill any man caught reiving his cattle. Now, ye should try to sleep. We’ve a ways to go before we reach our destination.”
“All right, I’ll shut up,” she said, fighting a yawn. She began nodding off as the steady rhythm of the horse beneaththem lulled her to sleep in his arms. Some time later she awoke. They were riding over a tall hill and when they came to the top, Quinn pulled up on the reins and paused.
Groggily Maggie realized she’d spent precious little time on being a tourist since this strange part of her vacationbegan. Now, she sat up and released her breath in wonder.Below them a big, dark lake stretched like a crazy black opal in the middle of an emerald, with purple amethyst mountains beyond. Mist hovered over the water and across the green grass beside the loch.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Aye, Loch Lomond is lovely this time of year.”
She nodded, and then his words hit her. Loch Lomond? She knew little about the geography of Scotland, but she knew that you couldn’t see Loch Lomond from the cairn. She squinted in another direction and saw something familiar—a very large mountain. It was just in the wrong place. “That mountain,” she said. “What is it called?”
“Ben Lomond.”
Maggie turned, one hand unfortunately landing on his thigh as she gazed back at him, her heart pounding. “We aren’t going to the cairn, are we?”
Quinn’s long-lashed eyelids drifted down and then up again, and she saw regret mirrored in his green eyes.
“You said you would take me,” she said, her voice shakinga little. It had been so easy to trust him. “You promised.”
“I’m sorry, lass. I swear I will take ye, but first I must find out about Ian.”
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, she thought, fightingto maintain her calm. She just had to think, decide what to do, make a plan.
Oh, to hell with it. Maggie threw her head back and screamed bloody murder, struggling with all of her strength against Quinn’s tight hold until he finally pulled the horse to a stop and released her. She half slid, half fell to the ground and glared up at him.
“This is where I get off, bucko.”
His dark brows collided. “Have ye lost yer wits? That screechin’ will bring every man in the Highlands. Now climb back up here. We must ride on. Ye must be ready to work in the morning.”
“Work?” Maggie frowned up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Get back on the horse,” he ordered, ignoring her question.
“No. I think it’s time you told me exactly what your plans are.” She put her hands on her hips and glared.
Quinn hesitated and then gave her a brilliant smile that lit his entire face. She stood there for a moment, feeling stunned, almost like someone hypnotized. If he told her to get on the horse again, she’d probably walk forward like a zombie and obey him. Maggie shook her head and tried to find her anger again.
“Och, lass,” he said softly, leaning over the saddle horn to gaze deeply into her eyes. “I’m sorry. ’Twas my hope that I could persuade ye to pose as a scullery maid and be my eyes and ears in Montrose’s manor.”
“Oh, really?” She cocked her head to one side. “So you just thought you’d send me into the house where the guys with the guns are? Forget it. Call. The. Police.”
Quinn threw his right leg over the saddle and jumped down in front of her, glowering. “Ye promised—”
“I didn’t promise.” She cut him off, her voice sharp, as she began to back away. “I never said ‘I promise to be some kind of servant.’ I just said I’d help you—after you took me to the cairn.”
“Ye said ye would do anything,” he said, advancing towardher.
Maggie started to step back again, but instead stopped and held her ground.
“I said almost anything. But I didn’t say I’d put myself at risk. And really, this is a dumb idea. You just need to go to the police.” He frowned and she sighed. “Okay. Whatever.The law. They’ll help you.”
“Why is it so important for ye to return to the cairn right now?” he asked. He stood with one knee cocked, the reins of his horse trailing from his hand. The wind swept Quinn’s hair back from his rugged face, and Maggie bit her lower lip as she gazed at him. If only they could have met under less—weird—circumstances.
“My friends are at the cairn. They’re waiting for me, I told you.”
“Yer friends will have to wait a little longer,” he said, his green eyes dark and narrowed. “If we ride toward the setting sun, we can be at the manor by nightfall and—”
He broke off suddenly and grabbed Maggie by the arm, pulling her roughly against him with one sharp tug. As she knotted her fingers into his shirt to keep from falling, she realized his chest was fast becoming her favorite place to be. Still, she ought to protest—at least a little.
“Hey, what’s the idea?”
“Get on the horse,” he ordered. She looked up at him, startled by the dark tone of his voice. His eyes were fixed on something behind her, and she didn’t like what she saw mirrored there. Maggie swallowed hard.
“Don’t order me around,” she said faintly.
Without another word, Quinn picked her up and strode quickly to Saint, where he tossed her into the saddle. As Maggie sprawled over the stallion’s neck, Quinn vaulted into place behind her and sent Saint plunging forward, just as a shout pierced the Highlands behind them.
Maggie craned her neck around and wished she hadn’t. A dozen or more men on horseback charged after them, waving swords, some of them brandishing pistols. Old pistols.“Who are they?” she cried, clutching the saddle horn and part of the horse’s mane. Quinn didn’t answer.
Maggie couldn’t remember ever being on a horse and going this fast, and she closed her eyes, absolutely terrified. They rode for some time, pounding across the Highlands, when all at once she heard Quinn curse. Saint lurched sharply to the right, and her eyes flew open as they skidded to a stop.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, and then lost her breath as he pulled her leg over the saddle and pushed her off the horse to the ground. She landed on her side and lay there gasping, trying to get the air back in her lungs as he thundered away from her.
Maggie stared after him in horror. He’d realized h
e could make better time without the extra burden and was abandoning her—leaving her for the cutthroats chasing after them! She found her breath.
“Quinn!” she screamed his name, her heart thudding so hard she thought it would burst from her chest.
He looked back over one shoulder and pulled back on the reins, making Saint rear back. “Take cover!” he cried. “I will return for ye!” He threw her jacket, pack, and the extra plaid to the ground, then dug his heels into his horse’s sides and was gone, leaving Maggie to stare after him.
Another shout from behind blasted her out of her shock. Trembling in terror, she ran and grabbed the things he had tossed down and threw herself behind a nearby cluster of bushes just before a dozen or more horses came barreling up the hill in her direction.
“Quinn MacIntyre,” she whispered, “you are dead meat!”
Right at the corner of her hiding place, the mountain and trees and bushes around her met. There was a narrow passage for the riders and they slowed as each man urged his horse through, giving Maggie a chance to see exactly who was chasing Quinn.
The leader of the riders was a man in a long, curling wig and a tricornered hat, like something out of the 1700s. His long, embroidered coat and knee pants were just as astonishing,and the other men surging by were dressed in a similar manner, except they didn’t wear wigs; their hair was pulled back in short ponytails under their tricornered hats.
It didn’t make a lick of sense, but maybe they were just the local authorities. How else could they track down criminalsin the Highlands except on foot or by horseback? Riight.Wearing costumes. Or maybe they were part of some kind of reenactment society and they were also the police. And maybe the pistols she’d thought she’d seen in their hands—old muzzle-loading pistols—had just been a trick of the eye. They’d probably been brandishing tasers or something. And the swords—well, this was Scotland. That well-worn excuse was losing its luster as far as Maggie was concerned.
She thought about heading for the cairn, but had no idea where she was. Quinn might be nuts, but so far he seemed to be a harmless nut. The guys chasing him hadn’t looked quite so innocuous. The safest course of action was to wait for Quinn to return.
Highland Rogue Page 8
