Megan Frampton

by Hero of My Heart

  “Don’t I?” She took his hand again and placed it on her hip, wiggling closer to him as she did. “This is what a loose woman would do, isn’t it?”

  She pulled his hand around to the small of her back and tilted her head back. His throat was working, and she could see the tendons of his neck. Good. If he could concentrate on her, it would keep his mind from wandering to the past. To the drugs.

  And to the desolation she’d heard in the tone of his voice, seen in the lines of his face, felt in the weariness of his body as he finally succumbed to sleep.

  His hand slid away from hers onto her backside, and he grasped her with a firm grip, pulling her body completely against his. “This is what you want?” he managed to rasp before leaning his head down and taking her mouth, taking her whole soul with his kiss.

  She leaned into him and reached up behind his neck to twine her fingers in his hair and pull him closer, even though the lengths of their bodies were already touching. It wasn’t enough. It might never be enough. His tongue dove into her mouth and explored, a wet, sensual exploration that stole her breath even as it weakened her knees.

  But she didn’t fall. Instead, she slid her hand down his back, leaving the other cupping his neck to draw him close. She stroked the flexed muscles of his back, down to his waist, further down to the strong muscles of his buttocks. She could feel the muscles there, too, clenched as if he were thrusting. Oh, God, how she wished he were thrusting. She felt him hard against her, and had to touch there. Just there.

  He groaned at the first impact of her fingers, lifting his head to stare down at her for a second before claiming her mouth again. His eyes blazed with a green intensity that made her shudder.

  Dimly, she felt his hand at her shoulder, sliding the sleeve of her gown down, his fingers stroking, caressing. And still she moved her hand against the front of his trousers, feeling his flesh jerk and respond with her every touch.

  He tore his mouth away from hers and bent down to place his mouth against her skin. Hot and moist, his teeth nipped her flesh in quick bites, soothed almost immediately by his tongue. And his hands—they roamed all over her body, his fingers teasing her nipples into stiff peaks, his hands grasping her to pull her up to him. He was so strong he had her on her tiptoes. She felt breathless, alive, wanted.

  “Have I proven myself, then?” she asked in a husky whisper. His eyes widened, and then he smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile that let her know he wasn’t fooled.

  She was trembling.

  Still gazing into her eyes, he lowered his head to trail his mouth over her jawline. Her skin prickled, and she shivered. He chuckled, the sound of which sent a trail of fire up her spine. “You are very convincing, love. And we will have to see what else you can do,” he finished in a voice that held a dark promise.

  ***

  He did not want to die. Not anymore. Not even after he’d had her again, which he promised himself would be as soon as they were out of danger. Of course, the way she made him feel, he was always in danger of forgetting everything, all the sorrow, the pain, the agony. For a few brief moments in the past few days—when she wasn’t completely aggravating him—he’d felt happy. He couldn’t recall the last time that had been true. It felt odd, and he kept probing at it like a sore tooth, but it didn’t go away. And she seemed to enjoy him as well, his kisses, his touch, his supercilious attitude.

  The perfect woman. Only he was not the perfect man.

  “Should we go?” he asked, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. Wiping her taste from his lips, except he could still taste her.

  She smiled up at him, her blue eyes dancing. “Unless you want more proof that I can act, my lord,” she said in a voice that made him want to fling her over his knee and spank her. Just thinking about hoisting her skirts up to reveal her lush, ripe arse—he grabbed her elbow and spun her around before he could act on his desires. Not until they were free of Hugh, he repeated in his head as he gritted his teeth. Not until then.

  But then? Damned if he wasn’t going to do everything he could to her, just to hear her scream in pleasure.

  “Let’s go, before your mouth gets us in trouble,” he said, wishing he didn’t have quite so active an imagination.

  ***

  They walked silently through the tall grass toward the village, Mary with a little extra twitch to her hips as she walked. He wished she weren’t so … enthusiastic about playing her part. He couldn’t help noticing her curves, how she had finally let her bodice ride low on her breasts, displaying her creamy white flesh. He was having trouble swallowing.

  Maybe he was catching a summer cold?

  “Just to make sure,” she said, breaking the silence, “I will be the distraction while you steal—”

  “Borrow,” he interjected,

  “Borrow the carriage. And you’re just going to assume the horses will be all hitched up?”

  He hadn’t thought of that. When he saw a carriage, it was always after he’d called for it, and it was prepared to take him wherever he wanted. “Of course they will be,” he said in his most obnoxious voice.

  “Of course,” she echoed. Her tone indicated she had no idea, and he felt guilty that he had caused her to assume she was wrong.

  “And then we leap into the carriage and take off at a breakneck pace toward London, hoping we can escape our old enemies, and our new enemy, the carriage owner?”

  “And here I was thinking you were just another pretty face,” he replied. “Here, help me.”

  He removed his cravat and bunched it in his hands, wrinkling it even more than a few days on the road had. Then he knelt down, scooped up some dirt, and rubbed it on his face. His hair was already disordered; he knew he’d been running his fingers through it constantly in the hours since she’d walked out the door.

  “Am I suitably disreputable?” he asked, planting his hands on his hips. She regarded him with a wry smile on her lips.

  “Hardly,” she said. “I don’t think you could look disreputable if you tried.” She slid her gaze down his body. He felt it like a caress.

  “Never mind, then,” he said in a rough voice. He took her arm and led her toward the edge of the village.

  ***

  Mary knew she wasn’t playing fair; he was attracted to her, but he’d also promised to leave her alone. And, in addition to having seduced him on their wedding night, she was continuing to act the coquette with him, making his green eyes spark with desire.

  She had to admit it wasn’t just to keep his mind off the drugs, and Lord knew what else; his attention, the intensity of his gaze, made her knees weak, made her body crave his touch. And since this was only for a short time, she should enjoy it while she could. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  The fact was, she’d never felt so alive. So dangerous. So wanted.

  “Over there?” Mary pointed to where a gig stood on the main thoroughfare, one potbellied pony hitched to it.

  Alasdair grunted. “It’ll have to do.” He looked at her and motioned for her to be quiet, then took her hand in his strong grasp and walked forward.

  Closer up, the gig looked capable of making it to London, although the pony appeared less energetic. Alasdair looked in either direction and with deft hands unhitched the pony from the post it was tied to, then sprang up onto the seat. “It appears your distraction won’t be needed after all. Come,” he said in a low voice, holding his hand out to Mary.

  She stepped forward and placed one foot on the runner—

  “What’cha doing?” an irate voice called out.

  Mary froze. Alasdair tried to yank her up, but her skirt hooked on the bottom of the runner. She was suspended in air, Alasdair’s hand holding her up toward the seat while the runner and her skirt were conspiring to bring her down.

  “Get offa my property before I harm you somethin’ fierce,” the man said. His voice was closer than before, although Mary couldn’t see him on the other side of the gig.

  Presumably, it was too la
te to distract him from what they were doing.

  “Get up here,” Alasdair commanded, turning to look at the presumed owner. “Sir, we are merely borrowing your property,” he called out in his most lordlike tones. “It’s a wager, you understand.”

  “I don’t care if it’s to meet the king,” the man retorted.

  “Not a loyal subject, then,” Alasdair muttered. He managed to pull Mary up onto the seat, tearing her skirt in the process.

  Please don’t let us get caught. Please don’t let us get caught, she chanted in her head as she leaned against him. The gig took off with a jerk, and Alasdair guided them onto the road at a fast clip. The pony went surprisingly quickly, and Mary was able to catch her breath. Her prayers had been answered.

  The next moment, another voice rang out. “Halt, thief!”

  “Hell,” Alasdair muttered, slapping the reins harder on the pony’s back. Mary clutched onto the side of the seat and looked back.

  A man was riding toward them on horseback at an impossibly fast pace. His expression was intent, deadly, and determined.

  So much for her prayers.

  Chapter 20

  As Mary continued to look back, she saw the man lift a pistol and point it at them. Too startled to yell, Mary shoved Alasdair sideways. The bullet whizzed by. Alasdair started to lift his head.

  “Stay down,” she yelped, pushing him again. And then the pony faltered. They were flung onto the road, the pony stumbling onto the ground, a red blossom appearing on its side. It screamed, an unearthly cry of pain.

  Mary had fallen on Alasdair, and she tried to scramble up, to make her way to the pony to try and ease its suffering. He grabbed onto her skirt and yanked her back. “This way.”

  “But we have to help—” Mary heard the hooves pounding behind them and glanced back.

  Now more of the townspeople were heading toward them, the man on horseback still waving his gun, a look of triumph on his face.

  “All right,” she said, hoisting Alasdair off the ground. “Let’s run.”

  They ran off the road, into the thicket of trees at the village’s edge. Mary caught her skirts up in one hand and allowed Alasdair to pull her along with the other. His much longer legs could cover greater distance, and at times it felt as though he were dragging her. He looked back at her, a frustrated look on his face. “Run,” he commanded.

  Mary felt as if her lungs were going to explode. And then the real pain started.

  It all seemed to happen at the same time. The bullet struck, her foot caught on a root, and she flew through the air, landing on her side. It felt as though she’d been impaled by a lance, and she lay there, gasping and clutching her arm. A warm liquid streamed through her fingers.

  Alasdair’s face, which had been frowning, turned to alarm. “You’re hurt,” he said, bending down to her.

  “Never mind that,” Mary gasped. “You should go.” She winced with the throbbing in her arm.

  “Not without you.” Alasdair reached under her legs and back, hoisting her up as easily as if she’d been a stack of books, rather than a fully grown person. He straightened and glanced back, toward their pursuers.

  “They’ll catch us if we can’t move fast enough.” Mary said, her heart thudding in her chest. What would happen when they were caught? Because she had no doubt they would be, and it was all her fault.

  “No, they won’t,” Alasdair replied in a determined voice. His face was fierce with concentration, as focused as she’d seen him.

  That must be what he was like in the army, she thought.

  He took off running, holding her against his chest, barely seeming to notice the additional weight. Instead of staying on the slight trail they’d initially followed, he veered sharply left, glancing up at the trees as he tore through the forest.

  Mary buried her head against him. She’d never regretted all the scones and extra pastries she’d eaten until now. Even though it didn’t seem to bother him, she knew there were lighter women he might have carried through the forest.

  But he was with her.

  He kept running for another five minutes. His sweat dripped onto her, his distinctive odor enveloping her.

  Just as she was going to remonstrate with him again, he stopped and placed her on her feet, holding his finger to her lips. He motioned with his head toward a clump of trees and began to walk toward it.

  Not another night in the forest, Mary thought. Although it did seem better than the alternative.

  She limped after Alasdair, her hand clutching her arm. The pain had receded to a dull ache, and she hoped that meant it wasn’t too serious. Of course, he’d probably seen worse—he’d mentioned he’d had comrades die on the battlefield, and of course there was Judith.

  Would he give her a proper burial if she died? What would his cousin do when he found them?

  Mary’s fear turned to relief when she spied a hut, not much bigger than one room of her father’s house. “Thank goodness,” she said, walking toward it. He flung his arm out and held her back.

  “Not there,” he said in a low murmur.

  She gritted her teeth. “I suppose you have some sort of reason we shouldn’t hide in the one place in the forest that offers shelter?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I wish you could trust me.” His voice sounded worn out.

  But she knew she didn’t trust him, not completely, not in situations like this, even though she wanted to, desperately. He didn’t always make the best decisions. Does that include you? a little voice asked in her head.

  She clamped down on her thoughts. No time for introspection now. “What possible reason could you have for not going in there?” she asked, lifting her chin.

  He let go of her arm and gestured around them. “If you were chasing two people on foot through the forest, and you found this building, where would you assume the people were?”

  Her face fell. Just like the tree, and deliberately getting rid of the horse.

  “We’d be two fish in a barrel,” he continued.

  “So, where?” she asked, her tone much more subdued than before. He took her arm.

  “Here,” he said, walking her to the back of the hut. Wood was stacked next to a woodshed, both about six inches shorter than Mary.

  “You want us to go in there?” Mary asked in a faltering voice. The door was so small she would have to hunch over to fit, whereas he would likely have to bend himself halfway down. It appeared there would be room for the two of them to sit, provided they sat very, very close.

  “Yes,” he replied in a cool, determined voice.

  She nodded and drew a deep breath. The door frame felt almost sturdy as she held on to it for support. She knelt down to enter, her eyes watering at the musty smell.

  Apparently some chickens had kept company with the wood, too. She sat down and scrunched as far into the corner as she could. A few feathers flew into the air.

  He followed, his tall, lean body filling up the space. He sat down and drew his knees up to his chest, clasping his arms around them. Very little light filtered in. She couldn’t see his face.

  “How does your arm feel?” he said, his warm voice sliding over her like silk.

  “Not that bad, actually.” His fingers found her arm in the dark and slid gently to the wound. “Not well enough for you to manhandle—ouch!” She yelped as his fingers probed where the bullet had grazed.

  “It’s barely a scratch,” he said in a dismissive tone.

  Mary bristled at his offhanded tone. “I’d like to see you react to ‘barely a scratch,’ ” she retorted. He took her other hand and laid it against his chest, where his scar was. Oh. Well, didn’t she feel like an idiot. His was far worse than hers was.

  “Believe me, I know how much it hurts. But you will be fine. We will get out of this,” he said in a confident tone. “But we do need to take care of you first.”

  She heard tearing, and then his hands were on her arm again, wrapping the wound up with some sort of cloth.

&
nbsp; “Tell me if it is too tight,” he said gently.

  She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her. “It’s fine.”

  She froze as she heard movement outside. A cold tingle went down her spine. She didn’t need his finger on her mouth to tell her to be quiet.

  “Keep looking!” The speaker sounded frustrated, and Mary held her breath.

  “They’re not in here,” another voice said, sounding bemused.

  “This is the only shelter for miles,” a third voice said. “If they ain’t here, then they must’ve found a way out.”

  “That is not possible,” the first man replied.

  Mary heard a tromping of leaves, and the footsteps drew closer. She grabbed on to Alasdair in the dark, burying her face in his shoulder. She could feel his body poised to spring. She had no doubt that Alasdair would fight with all he had, but they had the advantage of a gun. Knowing Alasdair as she did now, that might just make him fight harder.

  “They’re not here,” one of them declared in disgust. It sounded as though he were just on the other side of the woodshed. Mary clutched Alasdair’s arm tighter. Don’t breathe, don’t sneeze, don’t move.

  “Mebbe they doubled back?” one of the other men ventured.

  “We should search more around here. They hafta be here. Where could they have gone?”

  There were a few minutes of heated debate about what to do, until the group finally moved away at—or so it seemed to Mary—a snail’s pace.

  “Breathe,” Alasdair whispered low, into her ear. She let out a hiccupping breath.

  Matthias’s death had been horrific and unexpected. And then to be shot—Mary’s whole body shivered with fear.

  “I know, love, I know,” he said in a soothing voice. “But think of it this way—being shot in the arm is better than being accused of thievery. If they don’t catch us,” he added in a pragmatic tone.

  Her shaking only intensified. “You don’t have to try to keep my spirits up,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh.

  His arms tightened. “I’m not good at varnishing the truth, am I, love? But we have to face facts and make our plans accordingly. Otherwise,” he said, easing onto his back, “we might as well surrender.”