She adored Sebastian. She had adored him from the first. Even as she blushed at the swollen heat of his arousal against her palm, she knew neither shyness nor pride would stop her from proving it tonight.
He caressed her temple with his lips. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, lass. Before both God and the law, I’m your husband.”
His gaze sought out the shadows at the top of the stairs, then he turned. She trembled with relief as he led her across the hall to the warmth of the hearth. Neither of them was quite prepared to face the ghosts of the tower. He spread out his own blankets, then laid across them the length of cranberry satin. Prudence sank to her knees in the shimmering pool.
As Sebastian drew off his breeches, the leaping flames bathed his skin in bronze. She had never seen him look quite so shy. Here in the ruins of his boyhood, he was stripped of all the masks he’d spent his life crafting. He was neither highwayman nor gentleman nor rogue. He was only a man, rendered both potent and vulnerable by his blatant need for her.
And for tonight—he was her man. As he lowered his body to her own, she reached for him, drank of him, hungered to draw him deep inside her. Her fingers trailed the throbbing length of him like cool ribbons of silk.
Sebastian was helpless to resist her whimpered pleas. All of his determination to go slow, to seek her pleasure before his own, melted as her slender thighs fell apart in dark and feminine invitation, tempting him to tumble her with no more grace than a green lad faced with the shattering miracle of his first woman. He pushed her night rail up with shaking hands.
“You’re so damned pretty.” His guttural words were both prayer and confession as he reached for her breasts beneath the night rail and entered her, plundering her sleek core with his savage heat.
Sebastian’s possession of her was a storm all its own—a magical thunder and lightning roaring out of control. Tonight Prudence would ride the storm, unfettered by shame or fear of the future. She would draw its wildness into her without trying to trap or tame. Her hips moved in rhythm to his, sheathing him deep in the most loving, most private corner of her life, as she was lost completely in the miracle of holding him inside her. She dared to run her hands down his back, savoring the way his muscles bunched, his body tautened, as his thrusts deepened and quickened. Her moans were lost in the rumble of his thunder.
Sebastian felt his pleasure building to intolerable levels too quickly. Some rational part of his mind hesitated, knowing what he was about to do wasn’t as safe as he had promised. But it was too late to stop. So little he had done in his life had been free of the stain of guilt. Why should loving Prudence be any different? A gleeful voice in his head urged him to stay deep inside her, to spill his seed in her and bind her forever with his child. But a child had not bound his mother. The sun had caressed the curve of her swollen belly as she stepped off that ledge and disappeared from his life forever.
With a hoarse cry of agony and pleasure, he shoved himself away from Prudence. She reached for him as he collapsed against her, her fragrant strands of hair catching like silken chains on his lips.
Sebastian propped himself on one elbow and watched Prudence sleep. She lay half on her stomach, the lithe curve of her back pressed to his belly, her hands folded like wings beneath her chin. Even in sleep she was irresistible.
He reached around and drew her hair away from her face. A light flush bathed her cheekbones. Dark lashes fanned against the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Lips still full from his kisses were parted against the blankets.
She slept the enchanted sleep of a woman sated and exhausted by lovemaking. His body gave a wicked stir at the thought. His greediness was an untamed beast when it came to her. He pressed himself to the warm, unsuspecting curves of her rump, savoring a moment of selfish pleasure. She stirred, moaning softly. Was she dreaming of him? He wished he could possess her thoughts, her dreams, all of her. But for now he would have to settle for what was within reach.
Like the natural born thief he was, he came at her from behind, touching and exploring until she began to make small noises deep in her throat. With a delicacy he had never used picking pockets or slipping rings from ladies’ fingers, he eased himself into her. Being a thief had never held such joy. This gem was more precious than any he had stolen—succulent and infinitely sweeter. He lay still for a long moment, bathed in the miracle of her quivering warmth. Her fingers kneaded the blanket. She arched against him with a muted whimper.
He pressed his lips to her ear. “Hush, lass,” he whispered. “ ’Tis only the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick ravishin’ ye.”
He held himself in check with a control he would have once thought impossible. Reaching around her, he tenderly stroked her until her body was racked with delicate shudders. A tremendous sigh escaped him as he withdrew. He hoped she would awaken wondering if this was real or yet another bewitching dream.
As the deepening chill of the hall sank into his fuzzy brain, he tucked a blanket around her shoulders. With Tricia, he had used any excuse to bolt after their practiced liaisons. The thought of leaving Prudence was like a hand clawing at his heart.
He half hoped MacKay would be denied his pardon. Then he would have an excuse for keeping her at Dunkirk. But without a pardon, what kind of life could he offer her? His face was plastered all over Edinburgh and Glasgow. There was nowhere they could run, nowhere to hide. Even burrowed in the wilderness of Strathnaver, it was only a matter of time before the law caught up with him. Or D’Artan. Jamie had reported that his grandfather’s men grew more restless with each passing day.
Prudence nuzzled against his hip in a search for warmth. He should never have taken her to his bed, he thought. He should have sent her back to England and left her to the homely wooing of Arlo Tugbert or some other smitten young man. A man who could offer her a proper home and an honorable name.
A man like Killian MacKay.
He raked his fingers through his hair. Sweet Christ. He was beginning to think like her uncle again.
Sighing, he reached under his blankets for a cheroot. It was the last remnant from his life at Lindentree and he had been saving it for a special occasion. Such as right before he was hanged. He drew the cigar beneath his nose. The aromatic blend of tobacco and fine paper seemed as out of place in this drafty old hall as Prudence.
Settling his shoulders against the hearth, he lit the slender cigar and watched the smoke curl wistfully into the darkness.
Thirty
Killian MacKay trudged up the steep hill, one ear tuned to the whispered promises of an early spring, the other to the jubilant warbling of a mistle thrush. The previous night’s storm had washed the sky clean. A fat melon of a sun dodged buoyant clouds against a mat of azure blue. A soft breeze sifted the tips of the swaying conifers in the glen below, carrying to his nostrils the taunting hint of a warming and ripening earth. A hint of green rippled in the brown grasses of the moor.
MacKay ignored the steady pangs of his joints. He had tethered his gelding at the foot of the hill, telling himself his weary bones would enjoy the walk. He knew, though, he was only delaying the moment when he might discover he had made yet another terrible mistake.
He hadn’t made the climb to Dunkirk since the sticky summer afternoon when he’d discovered Brendan Kerr had died. He grimaced at the memory of the rocks tumbled over a shallow grave, the hollow tap of his footsteps as he strode through the filthy hall, calling for the boy. His only answer had been the hoarse echo of his own voice and the mocking flutter of the swallows in the rafters.
His hand shook as he slipped it into his plaid and drew forth a sheaf of creamy vellum dripping crimson seals. Dread tightened an icy claw around his heart. If Kerr had hurt Prudence, she had only him to blame. How could he explain to her that he’d had to give the lad a chance? He owed him that much.
The paper rustled as he topped the hill and braced himself for the stark shadow of the castle to fall over him. His dread swelled to amazement as he took in a view of utter domestic ch
arm.
The small castle, once the haunt of only hobgoblins and swallows, looked as if it had been scrubbed clean. The warped door hanging on rusty hinges had been replaced by a new door painted a deep forest green. Two snowy goats nibbled on the grass around the stoop. Three dresses, faded but crisp and clean, flapped on a rope strung between two Caledonian pines.
The rhythmic slap of a trowel on mortar cut a counterpoint to the steady thump of an ax biting wood. MacKay shaded his eyes against the sun. A man worked far down the hill, building up the low stone wall that jutted over the moor. Sunlight gilded his hair. Beside him, a slender woman raked a hoe through the stubborn cords of dead ivy creeping up the gate, her own dark cloud of hair whipping in the wind. In the courtyard, a thin, freckled lad grunted as his ax dug into the roots of a massive stump.
The serpentine roots of the stump gave with a snap. The lad stumbled backward. Despite the cool breeze, he was forced to wipe sweat from his eyes; and then he saw MacKay.
He dropped the ax. “Praise be to the Lord! Swear to me ye’re the magistrate. Sweet God, I’ve been delivered!” He rested his palms on his knees, breathing hard. “Me da always told me I’d be punished for me wicked ways, but I never believed him. I’m turnin’ meself in.” He strode forward, offering MacKay his upturned wrists. “Ye’ll take me back to Edinburgh, won’t ye? Maybe they’ll ship me off to a workhouse where me weary bones can get some rest.”
MacKay grinned. “You must be Jamie, the minister’s son. The one he fished out of the Glasgow gutter.” MacKay looked around. “Where’s the other one? The strapping lad he used to run the moors with?”
“Tiny’s at his cottage.” Jamie’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the paper in MacKay’s hand. “If ye ain’t the magistrate and that ain’t a writ of arrest, how do ye know so much about us?”
MacKay smiled enigmatically. “Not a magistrate, my lad. Only an admirer.”
Jamie snorted. “Most of me admirers are of the female persuasion.” He eyed the hilt of MacKay’s claymore. “Ye haven’t a daughter, have ye?”
“No. No children.”
Jamie looked relieved at MacKay’s reply. A husky ripple of laughter drew their gazes to the two figures silhouetted against the azure sky. Sebastian sat on the wall with Prudence nestled in the cradle of his thighs. As they watched, he tilted her face to his and gently kissed her. The knot in MacKay’s throat tightened. He slipped the vellum back into his plaid. When his hand emerged, it cupped a gold pocket watch.
Jamie sighed. “I’m warning ye. You’d best go back where ye came from. If they see ye, ye’ll never escape. They’ll have ye milkin’ chickens and polishin’ goat eggs quicker than ye can remember yer own name.”
MacKay snapped open the engraved cover of his watch, sending a dart of sunlight across Jamie’s eyes. “Look at the time, will you? I’ve an important engagement in the village. I fear I shall have to call on your master another day.”
With a jaunty swing of his sporran, he started back down the hill, his claymore clanking against his boots.
“Wait,” Jamie yelled after him. “Who shall I tell him called?”
MacKay’s cheery whistle floated back to him on a burst of wind. Shaking his head, Jamie hefted the ax and made a halfhearted swing at the stump. Sunlight splintered against the blade as it had flashed against the inscription on the stranger’s watch. The ax slipped, sinking into the ground dangerously near Jamie’s toes.
His head jerked up. “Why, MacKay, ye canny old bastard!”
The old man was gone. Sun warmed the empty path.
Jamie glanced down the slope. Sebastian had plucked a vine out of Prudence’s hair and was tickling her under the chin with it.
Jamie eyed the shade of a pine longingly. “Me da always said I should learn to mind me own business,” he muttered.
Creeping beneath the tree, he pulled his cap over his eyes and settled down for a long afternoon nap.
Sebastian lowered the bucket of mortar and stood with hands on hips, surveying his handiwork. When he looked over at Prudence, his expression softened. Her hair hung in snaky tendrils, half up and half down. A fierce scowl furrowed her brow as she clawed at the ivy on the gate like a vengeful lioness.
He wanted to laugh at his own arrogance. He had repaired the stone wall to separate her from the vast emptiness below, knowing deep in his heart that even a mighty fortress would be powerless against it. Whether basking in the deep greens of summer or drenched in the purple of coming autumn, the moor’s heathered breath would be carried by wind and mist to breach any barriers he could build. The wind stung his eyes. It wasn’t the moor that had killed his mother. It was his father’s mercurial temper and unrelenting fear of betrayal.
Sebastian was surprised to find that the rending grief that always accompanied memories of his mother was gone, leaving an odd peace in its place. The early afternoon sun warmed his back. Shadows of clouds chased each other across the dappled grasses. It was too easy to pretend the moment, like the promise of spring, would last forever.
He walked over to Prudence and folded her cool fingers in the warm cup of his hand. “Come with me.”
He gave her no time to protest or question as he pulled her through the gate and away from Dunkirk. A narrow footpath materialized from the sheer drop of the cliff. He clambered down the rocks with the confidence of a mountain goat.
Prudence clung to his hand, bracing her weight against him when she would have stumbled. The wind battered them, snatching her breath away. She fixed her gaze on the whipping halo of Sebastian’s hair, for without the wall to shelter them, the height was dizzying. Down, down, they climbed into the waiting glen. By the time they reached the bottom, she was gasping for breath.
Sebastian caught her around the waist. “What ails ye, wee English lass? Ha’e ye nae spirit in yer puir pitiful frame?”
She shoved against his chest, hiding her smile behind a black scowl. “Spirit eno’ to keep up with a barbarous Highlander, methinks.”
With a dazzling grin, he pulled her into a pelting run, away from the shadow of the cliff and into the sunny arms of the moors. They ran hand in hand like children, parting the rustling grasses, freeing the scent of the coming spring from the spongy turf. Prudence laughed, throwing back her head to drink in great gulps of air. Sebastian spun her around, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
As he drew her into the sparkling gloom of a pine forest, she collapsed in a heap on the ground. The ripple of water against rock drew her attention. She crawled forward on her elbows, parting a curtain of needles to peer below.
She was surprised to discover they lay atop a mossy brae overlooking the village. The river twined beside the sleepy cottages, shimmering silver in the sunlight. Smoke drifted from the stone chimneys.
“Sebastian!” she exclaimed as his deft hands worked their way beneath her skirt.
“Aye, dear?” His tongue flicked against the sensitive skin behind her knee.
“You musn’t do that. The village is right below.”
“We have complete privacy here. Just try not to scream as loud as you did last night when I …” His words were mercifully muffled against her thigh.
Heat pricked the back of her neck. “Why, I believe you have a predilection for making love in public places!”
“Nonsense. Of course, there was the time in the sunken bandstand at Vauxhall Gardens …”
Her foot came up, catching him neatly in the ribs.
He slipped behind her and nuzzled her nape. “Ha’e ye nae mercy on a puir ravishin’ bandit?”
His words evoked a hazy memory in her, like a dream sweetened around the edges by erotic tension. Her head fell back, swayed by the persuasive heat of his lips, the artful press of his fingertips against silken drawers dampened by longing.
Rhythmic hoofbeats thudded on the road below. Prudence thought it the mad beat of her pulse until Sebastian straightened and lifted a branch.
She felt an agonizing tug at her heart as they saw Laird Killian Ma
cKay ride into the village below, dressed in the full resplendence of plaid and kilt. His broad shoulders were painfully straight. She wondered what the effort must cost his gnarled joints. Stealing a wary look at Sebastian, she saw his mouth was twisted, his eyes dimmed with an unreadable emotion.
They watched the village spring to life. Cottage doors flew open. Sacking flapped in open windows. Piping laughter rang in the air as from every cottage, every yard, every corner of the village, poured children in a ceaseless stream. They danced around MacKay’s dappled gelding, faces turned upward, little hands brushing his horse’s satiny flank. Not a single hand came away empty. The children ducked their heads, shy eyes glowing, grubby fingers clutching handfuls of sugared walnuts. These children did not look like the children of Jamie’s village. Their cheeks were chubby, their feet encased in sturdy brogues. Prudence wondered how much of that had to do with their laird’s benevolence.
MacKay leaned forward with a mighty groan and swept a blond boy into his saddle. The boy clutched the pommel, beaming a toothless grin at his envious friends.
Sebastian let the branch fall, enclosing them again in the muted world of green. He rolled to his back, staring up at the creaking canopy. “Twenty years ago he would have lifted the boy to his shoulders. The bastard’s getting old.” He tucked a pine needle between his lips with painful nonchalance, but the tautness of his jaw betrayed him. “I used to come here and watch him when I was a boy. I thought he might be the king of all Scotland. I think I started to hate him even then.”
“For what, Sebastian? Being kind to children?”
He rose without answering, brushing dry needles from his shirt. His eyes were as cold as flints. “We’d best get back. I have a visit to make.”
She caught his hand. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She rubbed her lips lightly over his knuckles, tasting the warm spice of his skin. “Sebastian?”
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