by Cait London
Her eyebrows shot up. “My flock... you want to speak to your friends without me,” she snapped. “MacGregor, you are dismissing me like a child to be put to bed. In England and the Colonies, men think that women can’t understand politics.”
Scooping up the shawl bundle near her saddle, she walked toward the sheep. Watching Laddie meet her in a patch of moonlight, MacGregor admired the sway of her hips for a moment, then spoke quietly in Cheyenne to Little Bird.
Two hours later, after the Indians had slid into the night, Regina returned to camp. Sitting cross-legged beside the fire and sipping his coffee, MacGregor watched her sweep elegantly into camp, draped in the large shawl. The brilliant colors caught the firelight, rippling along her body as she stalked past him and turned.
Unbound, her hair shimmered and danced, fanning out as had the shawl. She gripped her shawl tighter with one fist and the apricot brandy bottle with the other. “You!” Regina swept a heavy swathe of gleaming hair back from her shoulder. “You and those men are really, really rude. No proper manners at all.”
Flowing around her opened flannel shirt and rough trousers, the shawl caught the firelight, shimmering with it. The shining fringes danced around her leather leggings as she stalked the length of the clearing. Suddenly too warm, she shook free of the shawl, stripped the jacket from her and tossed it to the lean-to. Flicking open the buttons of her shirt to the top of her camisole, she was unaware of the slight shimmering of pale flesh that entranced MacGregor.
Then swathing herself in the shawl, she sighted down on MacGregor, trying to see his expression beneath the black beard. He looked like a pirate, missing an earring, she thought hazily, fighting the memory of his mouth tugging exquisitely on her breast at dawn. “There I was, made to sit like some shepherd boy tending the flock, while you chatted with the men about scalping and bloods and such.”
Regina lifted the brandy bottle at him as he lifted a thick eyebrow, mocking her. She leaned down to press her finger to his broad chest. “Yes, I’ve had a tiny sip or two. Because I am very, very upset with you.”
A heavy fall of hair slid down her breast as Regina stood over him. “There you sit, happy as a lark on a limb, while I am made to skulk in the shadows. MacGregor, you have a thing or two to learn about being a gentleman. One does not make a lady wait in the shadows.”
He tucked the lacy camisole deeper into her shirt, then carefully buttoned the revealing edges. “We have a visitor.”
Regina tossed her hair away from her face. She blinked and swayed slightly, suddenly aware that a trapper shared the shadows with MacGregor. “Humph! Our woodland parlor entertains all sorts of visitors. Your woman, indeed.”
She leaned down near his face. “I see that smile lurking beneath that black beard. You leer, MacGregor. And letch. I have never met a gentleman so disposed to leer and letch. Yet you lust and drool... and then complain—so I am scrawny, am I?.... Who are you?” she asked the trapper seated at his side.
Dressed in leather and an ornate beaded breastplate, the big-bellied man began opening a Bible, running his finger down the lines.
“He’s an old friend. A preacher,” MacGregor began warily. “Buzzard Jones.”
“He just happened to drop into camp”—she snapped her fingers, suddenly dizzy and hot— “just like that?”
“Do you, MacGregor, take this woman in holy matrimony?” When MacGregor nodded, Regina glared at him.
“He knew I’d been wanting a proper marriage.” MacGregor omitted that after talking to Little Bird, the warrior immediately sent his fastest runner to Buzzard’s mountain camp.
“Do you, Lady Hawkes, take this man in marriage?” Buzzard continued, running his finger down the tattered pages.
Regina swung to the preacher. Seated next to MacGregor’s bulk, Buzzard was birdlike. Dark with grime, his face looked like tanned leather. She swung back to MacGregor, eyeing him carefully. “You have an odd assortment of friends. This man can’t read. He’s holding the Bible upside down.”
“Are you happy with the bargain at the cabin?” MacGregor asked her softly, easing a long strand of silky hair around his finger.
“Yes, of course.”
“Done and married. Sign this here paper, missus,” Buzzard thrust a scrap of paper at her. “Ah... I’ll just hold that bottle for you in the meantime.”
“I am very angry with MacGregor just now. If I sign this worthless paper, will you leave camp, Mr. Buzzard?” she asked, handing him the brandy bottle, which he raised to his lips.
“Amen. Hallelujah. Yes, siree, man and wife. This day in our Lord...”
Regina signed the paper and snatched back the brandy bottle. “Apricot brandy is not to be swilled, my good man.”
MacGregor stood and slid coins into the preacher’s hand. He grinned when Buzzard led his mule from camp. “Violet MacGregor.”
Buzzard called back, “She’s a mean one, MacGregor. Watch your step.”
“Huh,” Regina sniffed indignantly. “Mean one. Scrawny. The compliments one suffers when in the American wilds.”
She licked the last taste of apricot brandy from her lips while MacGregor finished sipping his coffee and tucked the paper into his pocket. She nudged his boot with her moccasin, prodding him. “Would you like a nip?”
When he raised the tin cup, Regina poured a good measure into it. She grinned up at him happily. “Quite the day, wasn’t it? Filled with adventure, eh?”
“You’re half gone,” he said, easing down by the campfire. In a quick movement he snared her wrist in his large hand and gently tugged her down to his lap. For an instant she stiffened, unused to the hard contours beneath her.
For such a lean man, MacGregor seemed comfortably padded. Adjusting herself to his angles and letting him hold her warmly had certain advantages. “Egad, MacGregor. You move so quickly. You must be very fast with a gun.”
Beneath her, his body was solid, tense as though he waited for her to escape. “Told you I was. But I’m finding that there’s things to be done nice and easy and slow.”
Regina blinked up at him, trying to remember what Buzzard had said about “the missus,” then dismissed the thought as MacGregor’s strong arms closed slowly, warmly around her as though he were cuddling Jack.
She closed her eyes, savoring the tender emotion. Actually, a little cuddling wouldn’t hurt her right now, she decided, nestling her head on his broad shoulder. “You can be sweet at times, you know. My knight in the wilds, rescuing my flock and wearing my colors. I’ve never been so content as this moment, despite knowing that you can be quite evil at times. A lusting, moody brute.”
When he cradled the back of her head in his palm and lifted her lips for a brief kiss, she snuggled against him. “Oh, MacGregor, it was wonderful. Running across the bush, counting coup and the purest revenge, then escaping unscathed. You should have seen Covington’s face.”
She began to giggle. “There he was, besotted and used, his jaw agape. His nightshirt up to his thighs....”
She leaned closer, whispering. “He has terribly skinny thighs. Like two white sticks. Yours are....”
She searched for the word and grinned as she found it. She wiggled her bottom comfortably on his lap. “... more manly.”
When MacGregor said nothing, she looped her arm around his neck and sighed contentedly. “My lovely flock is safe and so is my saddle. And you were marvelous. Running through the brush, scowling like a pirate boarding a ship... my colors on your arm.”
She ran her hand down his cheek, her eyes softening as she shifted closer. MacGregor had kept his side of the bargain, something few men in her experience had done. “All in all, you’ve tried to meet the bargain, despite your obsession with this wife thing.”
Stirring beneath her hips, he seemed quite uncomfortable. She smiled softly, remembering how accommodating he’d been throughout the adventure. “You know, there are some gentlemen who would run away when I asked them to kiss my breasts. But you were ever so kind. Truly... I feel qu
ite rosy and cheerful. Oh, certainly, I’m tired. But just a little celebration first. Right, MacGregor?”
“Lovely,” he answered, lifting the cup to his lips. MacGregor’s hand slipped beneath the shawl to find her breast, caressing it until it hardened. She shifted experimentally over his hard lap and settled on the hardened ridge she’d remembered.
She sipped the brandy, watching him over the rim of the cup. Darkly mysterious, glowing with some magical light, his black eyes met hers and his hand tightened on her breast for an instant. Then his palm was warm against her stomach, the hard fingertips sliding lower.
When he shared her drink, she touched his earlobe. It was warm and dark, and she began to think of the other warm and dark places on his body. The hard planes and angles, hot with masculine need and trembling with the effort of being gentle with her.
MacGregor’s skin was so hot now, his heart beating heavily in his chest as she placed her fingertips over it. She rummaged through the rough hair covering the heavy muscles. “You know, MacGregor, you would look dashing with my ruby eardrop in your lobe. Just for now. Later you could get a tiny gold hoop like Pierre’s.”
The firelight caught on the cord contracting in his jaw and throat. “You damn well like his ears, don’t you?” he asked tightly.
MacGregor reminded her of a tough fighting mastiff with bruised pride and needing soothing. Feeling very warm and safe wrapped in his arms, she smoothed the rough hair escaping his shirt. She wanted to make peace with him and pressed a kiss to the base of his throat. “You really shouldn’t look so fierce. It’s just because you’re tired. Let me pierce your ear as a peace offering. Think of my eardrop as a magic talisman to keep you safe. Please, MacGregor. We’re only together for such a short time. Pax?”
His lips tasted like her apricot brandy; the lovely feeling of soothing him with touches and kisses warmed her. Poor MacGregor, she thought drowsily. He needed petting and cuddling....
“You might as well get your branding ceremony over. I give you one ear to keep you quiet about Pierre,” MacGregor stated warily. “Reckon that will even the score. There’s not another woman who I’d let mark me.”
“Oh, how sweet! If it hurts, I promise to kiss it better. And I’ll clean it every day so that it will heal properly.”
MacGregor scowled. “This is serious, woman. A man can’t wear baubles out here without...”
She smiled slowly, her eyes luminous. “But my dear, absolutely no one would question your motives. You are so manly.”
He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Do it then. I’ll be proud to wear your mark.”
“How gallant, how marvelous—”
“Now! Before you talk my ear off instead of maiming it.”
Regina squeezed MacGregor’s earlobe, dimming the pain, then carefully inserted an embroidery needle disinfected by good brandy.
“Waste of good liquor....” MacGregor protested as she thoroughly cleaned the area, dabbing away the bit of blood with a cloth saturated in the alcohol.
When the ruby glistened in MacGregor’s ear, Regina kneeled beside him to study the pirate effect. She turned the jewel to the firelight, studying her handiwork. “It looks....”
He lifted a heavy brow. “Marvelous? Lovely?”
Tilting her head, she whispered huskily, “I’ve never seen such a beautiful man.”
With his hair gleaming in the firelight, the rough planes of his face in sharp contrast of dark and light, he was the fresh new country, the clean winds and sweeping meadow grasses. He was the mountains, craggy and capped with snow, and the spring sweeping over the rolling green hills.
She lifted a strand of his hair, tracing the texture with the tip of her finger. The smells that clung to him were clean, unlike the cloying scents of the court. She inhaled his scent, savoring it. “Divine.”
She wanted him then, stretched out beside her and tasting her with the hunger of the dawn. She could feel his desire running through her as hot and strong as the brandy. Her need to answer him throbbed deep within her.
Taking care, she placed her mouth on his, tasting the sweet apricots and the darker, headier desire heating his lips.
“You’re a lovely man, Mr. Two Hearts,” she whispered, slipping her hand inside his shirt to feel the hard pad of muscle moving there.
“Oh, my,” she whispered as her open palm found a hard male nipple. Rough and hairy beneath her touch, she found the nipple’s mate and explored it while he watched her, his features darkening in the dimming fire. Loosening the top buttons of his shirt, she soothed the tense muscles of his throat and shoulders experimentally, finding his heart beating hard against her hand.
She wanted her breasts fitted tightly against him, wanted his dark skin against hers. Kissing him again, she unbuttoned her shirt slowly and placed his hand on her camisole. When his broad palm moved against her, molding her softness with trembling gentle fingers, she inhaled the sweet night air.
Unbuttoning his shirt all the way, she studied his nipples intently. “Two Hearts. One on either side, I imagine.”
Then bending quickly, she suckled them gently, nipping, licking with her tongue, until he let out a strangled, “Violet!”
“Well, I just wanted to see if that felt as good to you as it did to me,” she returned indignantly, straightening away from him. She traced the twin scars covering the heavy muscles of his chest with her fingertips, then bent to kiss them gently. “How did you acquire these, my lord?”
MacGregor’s taut body stirred restlessly. He swallowed before explaining. “Sun Dance scars—”
Her lips murmured against his hot skin. “Mmm. An Indian ritual. A man dangles by his flesh for days until he finds his vision. Poor Two Hearts MacGregor....”
Taking her time, Regina stood and draped her hair over the shawl. His eyes followed the movements hungrily, and she thought of how he’d touched her breasts as though she were precious. Before their raid, his mouth had been hot, tugging and drawing the heat down her legs. “Just this once to finish the bargain,” she whispered huskily, watching the desire light in his dark eyes.
Turning slowly and walking toward the lean-to, she smiled as he followed.
~**~
Lord Mortimer-Hawkes stared out into the mists shrouding his castle. Before dawn the droplets shifted and shimmered beyond the window like a dragon’s iridescent scales.
The previous day he had been ordered to pay coin for farming goods, and a choice breeding bull had mysteriously choked and died. The preceding week a storage house had burned to the ground.
He swept the goblet and crystal flask from his desk with a riding whip. The walnut panels echoed his furious cry, threw it back at him.
“Without the Mariah and the woman, I will be nothing,” he finished bitterly. “Pagan, you shall pay for this disobedience and pay well,” he hissed between his teeth. “I shall pluck you from the Colonies back into my keep. The arrangements for my travel are already made.”
Crushing a length of satin in his hand, he brought it to his face. The exotic fragrance clung to him, taunting him, until he threw it out the open window.
The cloth caught the mists, floating through them, winding beyond his grasp as had his daughter. “Pagan....” he whispered rawly.
~**~
The morning after the raid on Covington’s camp, the mists clung to the valley where they had spent the night. A flake of snow caught on Regina’s lashes as she watched MacGregor talk quietly to Laddie. Then MacGregor turned to look over his shoulder at her.
Through the distance of mist and light snow, she caught the heat and possession of his long slow stare, the small pleased movement of his mouth. Lying back on the fur robe, she tugged the shawl higher over her bare shoulders. Lingering in the warmth, she remembered how MacGregor had covered her tenderly with the cotton blanket and the edges of the fur robe before leaving the hut.
He’d stroked away the wild disarray of her hair from her face, his finger tracing her swollen lips.
> Regina shivered, feigning sleep when he returned to crouch over her. The tantalizing light sweep of his finger traced her brows, then her lashes.
“You’re awake,” he whispered, and the deep tone of his voice brought back another memory too wild to think about in the daylight.
“I shall die,” she managed weakly when MacGregor placed the tin cup with tea in her hand. Taking care to cover her bare shoulders with the shawl, he eased her back against him and began braiding her hair.
His silence taunted her, and she shot him a daring look over her shoulder. The ruby in his ear caught and held the bare light like a drop of blood. “Whatever are you doing wearing my eardrop, MacGregor?” she asked, frowning.
“Your wedding gift to me, my dear,” he said, slipping a large hand inside the paisley flowers to find her breasts.
Regina gasped, his palm hard and rough against her before he gently caressed her. “Wedding?”
“I’ve a paper in my pocket that says we’re man and wife.” MacGregor’s palm slid to her other breast, warming it.
She tugged his wrist away, trembling. She ached everywhere, her breasts tender to his prowling fingertip. Yet something warm and soft caused her to want to snuggle back on the furs, drawing him down.... “Stop that! Here I am in my dishabille—”
He ran the tip of his finger across her breast. “Dishabille?”
She shivered, fighting her body’s instant, warm liquid heat. “Not properly dressed or groomed to receive visitors.”
His large hand ran across her shoulder, cupping it. “Then you’d better dress. Because your... dishabille”—the word rasped from him unevenly— “makes me want to—”
Struggling into her clothes, Regina slid the shawl around her head and shoulders, glaring at him. “I’m in no mood for your bloody lust, MacGregor. The sooner we’re off, the sooner we can part ways.”
His kiss was hard and rough, taking her back down to the fur bedding. “We’ve mated, and now you’re my wife. There’ll be no going separate ways.”
