A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals)

by Kimberly Bell

  She started slow. Stepping into the water, she walked out until her fingertips trailed across the top of the water. She let him admire her from every angle as she turned. Tilting her head back and lifting her hand, a trail of droplets ran from collarbone, to breast, to stomach, to the collection of dark curls between her thighs. She let her lips part, let a sound escape as the skin pebbled along its path.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined him in the water with her. She imagined it was his hand sending shocks of sensation in teasing little rivers up and down her body. Her back arched and her other hand lifted. Another set of droplets raced her reactions and disappeared into the juncture of her thighs.

  On the blanket, only Ewan’s throat moved as he tried to swallow and found it difficult.

  Deidre trailed her fingers in the water again, leaving them until they were chilled by the stream. She brought them up, watching them stroke her breasts and imagining them as his hands. She traced her nipples, gasping when they tightened. She pinched them, wishing it were his lips drawing pleasure on the verge of pain from the rosy tips. Lifting her breasts, she felt the weight of them, reveled in the fullness of them, the way she knew he would. For a moment she forgot he was watching as she lost herself in the fantasy. His groan sounding too far away brought her back to their reality: him on the beach, her in the stream.

  Fingertips found the stream again, returning quickly to her lips. She sucked the droplets from her fingers, licked them from her skin. His eyes found hers when she’d finished and she saw the strain in them. His hands were white-knuckled on the plaid. Deidre admired his control, but she was bound by no such restrictions.

  As her hands trailed down her body, she put him out of her mind entirely. This was for her and her alone. He could watch if he liked, but he had no part in it. She teased herself at first, threading her fingers through the curls, tracing her nails across the skin of her thighs. She’d been too long wanting, though, and too long without a lover entirely, to tease for long. She traveled her fingers down, finding the wetness the river hadn’t created.

  The first touch sent a rush of pleasure through her. This was what she needed. She stroked, sending another. Again. She found a rhythm that tortured and built at the same time. She let her neck roll to the side. Her enjoyment poured from her throat in sighs and moans. Quickening her motions, she drove herself in a building wave. She felt it rising and her voice rose with it. She rocked on her own palm, unaware of anything except the perfect moment waiting for her just out of reach. When it came, it came fast. It left with a shuddering that claimed her whole body in its wake.

  Standing in the river, hand between her legs, she stood on unashamed display as awareness returned to her. A deep breath ended in a final moan of satisfaction.

  She shoved her hair out of her eyes and splashed back to the shore. She didn’t bother putting her clothes on. She just lay down on the plaid, her head returned to his bicep, and sighed. “Much better.”

  The last thing she saw before she settled into a deep and restful sleep was Ewan, rigid from head to toe like a man being burned alive.

  ***

  Angus didn’t have to come get Ewan when it was his turn to take the watch—Ewan was wide awake. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her standing naked in the water, lost in the pleasure of her own hands. He’d known some bold women in his time, but they all paled in comparison to Deidre.

  “What’s she done now?”

  Ewan looked at Tristan’s bedroll. The boy was still awake and watching him.

  “That’s a Deidre look on your face.” Tristan hoisted himself up to sit against the tree trunk. “She’s got a way of provoking people so it sticks.”

  “That she does.” Ewan pulled out his dirk and started sharpening it. He had no intention of airing how she’d provoked him, certainly not with her younger brother.

  “What was it?” the boy asked, unfazed.

  “It’s nae for ye and I to discuss.”

  Dejection immediately settled over Tristan’s face.

  Ewan cursed himself. Could he do nothing right today? “We had a philosophical disagreement.”

  “Philosophical?” The boy’s face scrunched in a thoughtful frown. “Did she lecture you? What did you do?”

  Ewan went back to sharpening the knife. “I dinnae ken.”

  “You tried to reason with her, didn’t you?” Tristan’s laughter hooted through the forest. “That never works. She’s got too much pride.”

  That revelation would have been extremely beneficial to Ewan a few hours ago.

  “Did she blow her stack? Do something drastic?” Tristan’s assumptions about his sister’s behavior were remarkably accurate.

  “Aye.”

  “You don’t need to worry about it then,” the boy said with a dismissive wave. “Pretty soon she’ll start feeling guilty and you’ll be in the clear.”

  “I dinnae want—” Ewan couldn’t believe he was discussing this with a lad who barely needed to shave. “I dinnae want her to feel guilty. I just want her to nae be cross with me.”

  “Well that’s simple then. Do something nice.”

  It certainly sounded simple. Ewan had a hard time believing it would be that easy. “Your sister doesnae seem to have much use for niceties.”

  Tristan shook his head. “She just wants you to think that so you don’t use it against her. She’s actually quite sentimental if you know what gets to her.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing flashy. Dee doesn’t trust flash.”

  No flash. Ewan didn’t imagine he’d find much that would qualify as flashy out here on the road anyhow. “What else?”

  “You gotta ignore her after you give it to her.”

  “That doesnae—”

  “Trust me. If she does like it, she won’t want you to see she likes it. Doesn’t like people knowing she’s susceptible.” Tristan’s posture and voice changed with the last word to mimic his sister.

  Ewan suspected she’d advised Tristan on the subject of susceptibility a number of times. “Something simple and nice, that she can appreciate in private.”

  “Yup. That ought to sort it out for you.” Tristan settled back into his bedroll. “Wake me up for breakfast?”

  “Aye.”

  Ewan wasn’t certain about the quality of the lad’s advice, but he was certain of one thing—throughout their talk he hadn’t once imagined Deidre naked in the river. Knowing the next few hours would be nigh unbearable without some sort of distraction, he set himself to thinking of something nice.

  Chapter 7

  The sun was high overhead when Deidre reopened her eyes. She did not immediately remember why she was in the middle of a forest instead of sleeping on her saggy straw mattress. As the events of the past few days came back to her, calm came with them. They were out of danger and away from Alastair. She owed that largely to Ewan. Ewan. More recent memories came back. She turned her head, searching for him. He was gone.

  He’d said his help had come without a price. She supposed this would be an excellent test of the truth of that statement. He had been kinder to her than anyone she’d ever known, and she had tempted and tortured him in a fit of wounded pride. Even now when he should by all rights be furious with her, his plaid was tucked neatly around her and there was a primrose resting a few inches from where his chest had been.

  She’d left him miserable and wanting and he’d left her a flower.

  Mixed in under all the guilt at the way she’d treated him, a tiny part of Deidre was—what was she? Had she ever felt this way? Had anyone ever given her a token without also trying to get under her skirts? She picked it up, gently touching the petals. It had no purpose, except to be pleasing. Was it a message? Was he suggesting she should be more pleasing? No, not with the plaid wrapped around her with such care. Its purpose was to please her. It did.

  Pullin
g on her clothes, she went in search of the man who’d left it for her. He couldn’t be far—wherever he was, he was only wearing his shirt. She hiked up to where they’d made camp and found him packing up the horses to leave. When he saw her, he smiled.

  She handed him his plaid. “You might need this.”

  “Oh, aye. I’ve scandalized yer brother and my fair share of critters already.” He knelt, setting the pleats that would turn it back into a garment.

  She wasn’t sure how to say what she was feeling—wasn’t certain she wanted to—but she couldn’t just leave it at that, either.

  “The flower is lovely,” she said, twirling the stem slowly between her fingers.

  “May I?” He held out his hand for it.

  She couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he held out his hand, the stem was interlocked with itself into a ring.

  “So ye can wear it, if ye want.”

  “If you want,” said so innocuously. What she wanted was becoming murkier by the second. It sat in the center of his palm, waiting for her to decide.

  “Wear it, Dee.” Tristan’s voice next to her ear startled her. “Purple suits you.”

  She took the ring from Ewan, trying not to think about the way her heartbeat fluttered, or the way her pulse jumped at the touch of their hands. She hurried to slide it onto her finger. “We should probably be off.”

  Once they were mounted and Ewan was out of earshot, it didn’t take long for Tristan to start in on her.

  “That’s moving along quickly. He’s giving you rings already?”

  Deidre ignored him. If she didn’t encourage him, maybe he’d let it go.

  “Jewels would have been better, but admittedly, he’s making do with what he’s got out here.”

  She glared daggers into the back of his head.

  “Kind of sweet, isn’t it? That’s probably worth a tumble all on its own.” He went on, oblivious. “If he just happens to fancy it enough to make you his mistress, well then—”

  She cuffed his ear.

  “Ow. Christ, Dee. What the hell is wrong with you lately?”

  “What the hell is wrong with me?” She changed to their mother’s language as she jabbed him between the shoulder blades. “What the hell is wrong with you? What business is it of yours whether—”

  “You’ve made it my business, haven’t you? You dragged me out here for God knows what reason. I was perfectly happy where I was.”

  “Perfectly happy?” Her voice rose a notch. “They were going to kill you, Tris.”

  “That’s not true.” He pulled their horse up short, twisting in the saddle.

  “It is true.”

  “Alastair would never—”

  “You think he’s your friend? You think he cares about you? He’s using you to keep me in line, and you’re stupid enough to let him,” she shouted.

  She shouldn’t have said it. She knew she shouldn’t the second it left her mouth. All his hurt, all his anger, was right there on his face for her to read.

  “Get off.”

  “Tris—”

  “Everything all right?” Ewan asked as his horse approached theirs.

  Tristan said nothing, staring forward with a stone face that couldn’t hide anything.

  Perhaps it would be best to give him space. Unlike the city, the road had nowhere for him to go when they couldn’t stand each other anymore.

  “Ewan, could I ride with you awhile?”

  He looked between the two of them. “Aye.”

  As soon as she was clear of the stirrup, Tristan kicked the horse into motion.

  “Tris—”

  “Let him be. Angus will keep him out of trouble.” He pulled her up, settling her in front of him.

  The temptation to lean back against his chest was strong and she gave in to it. His arms came around her, closing out everything else. Her world became the solid wall of his chest, the loose fists resting atop her thighs with reins in hand, and the stubble of his beard against the side of her face. Deidre knew it was a temporary respite. Her troubles would still find her, no matter how strong his arms were, but for a moment she was content to pretend.

  “Will he forgive me?” She shouldn’t have asked but she was indulging in the fantasy of his arms.

  “Aye, he will,” Ewan said. He sounded certain. “Will ye forgive him?”

  For a moment, she thought he’d heard the beginning of their argument but he couldn’t have. “For what?”

  “For making ye weak.”

  “He doesn’t—”

  “Aye, he does. It’s nae a criticism. Family does that. They make ye stay when ye should go, make ye go when ye would stay. Most dinnae even notice, they just accept the burden.”

  But she noticed and resented it. That was the implication. Tristan was four when they’d lost their father, younger still when their mother died. Would she have done things differently if she hadn’t needed to look after him? Would she have led a different life?

  “I love my brother.”

  “I dinnae say otherwise.”

  Hadn’t he?

  “If ye dinnae love him, they couldnae use him against ye. Ye’d wash yer hands of his sulking and his debts and leave him to fend for himself.”

  Would that she could. Would that she could deem Tristan a man, free to make his own choices and suffer his own consequences, and wash her hands of all of it. “If he were your brother, what would you do?”

  “Whatever I had to.”

  ***

  When they stopped that night, Ewan took the watch alone. By the light of the campfire he took the letter from his sporran. He ran his thumb against the worn creases. He didn’t need to look at it to know what it said—he’d read it a hundred times since Morag first forced him.

  Please help us. I know you do not care for this place or its people, but we desperately need you.

  Broch Murdo had fallen into disrepair. The surrounding lands had become lawless. The cave-riddled stretches of beach below the cliffs had been taken over by smugglers. Farmers and tradesmen had all but abandoned the region. The letter begged him, as lord, to claim his title and make Broch Murdo fit for decent people to live in again.

  It had never been fit for decent people.

  Ewan blamed his father for the events of twenty-five years ago, but he had plenty of blame left to spare for the bystanders. They had looked the other way while Hugh MacMurdo destroyed everything Ewan loved, and now they were begging him for help. There had been no help for his mother. No help for a terrified six-year-old boy.

  The crack of a branch pulled him back to the present.

  Ewan cursed as he turned, a rough-looking man appearing on the edge of the firelight. He was sizing the stranger up and liking his chances even with his wound still recovering, when two more came from the shadows to his left. One had a gun pointed at Angus, forcing the old Highlander and Tristan to walk in front of him.

  The other held a knife to Deidre’s throat. She looked terrified. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and she was trembling.

  “Take yer hands off of her.”

  The man smirked at Ewan. He let his free hand roam, groping her while she squirmed under the knife. “She an’ I are gonna be real good friends, and ain’t nothin’ ye can do about it, guv.”

  Ewan vowed to kill that man very slowly.

  “Please, sir,” Tristan begged. “My sister is a kind soul. Gentle and sheltered. Please don’t hurt her.”

  Gentle and . . . Ewan realized what Tristan was up to. These men weren’t Alastair’s—they must have come across them by chance. They would assume Deidre was just another terrified female. Ewan wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t. If her fear was a ruse, it was extremely well crafted.

  “Curtis. Round up their horses and anything that looks valuable.” The man with the knife gest
ured to Ewan. “Ye, over there with the other two.”

  “Why do I gotta do all the heavy work?” the first gunman asked.

  “’Cuz I said so. Just bleedin’ do it, Curtis.”

  Curtis disappeared in the direction of the horses, leaving them three men—well, two and Tristan, whose usefulness was still untested—against one gunman and one man armed with a knife. If that knife weren’t resting against Deidre’s throat, he and Angus could have resolved the situation in short order.

  “No trouble from you three.” The leader followed Ewan’s thoughts, dragging the flat of the blade down Deidre’s cheek. “Or this one won’t be quite so pretty anymore.”

  Ewan watched the knife’s path, noticing the cheek it traveled down was now dry. He raised his eyes to Deidre’s. She rolled hers impatiently, and promptly let her body go slack.

  “What in the—”

  The highwayman moved to catch her, changing his hold on the knife to a less menacing one. Deidre twisted in his grip and slammed her forehead into his nose. The stream of cursing from both parties caused the remaining gunman to turn his attention to them. Being the closest, Angus made quick work of disarming him.

  “Ye fucking bi—”

  A well-placed knee from Deidre silenced the ringleader, sending him to the ground in a heap.

  “Novices,” she said with a shake of her head. She picked up the knife. “Tristan?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the lad said as he headed off into the dark after the third man.

  The blood from the highwayman’s broken nose was smeared across Deidre’s brow like some savage tribesman. Ewan moved to wipe it away. “Deidre—”

  She held up a hand, silencing him. Her head tilted to the side as she listened for something. A surprised shout, followed by a crash, came from the direction Curtis and Tristan had disappeared to. Deidre called into the trees in a language Ewan didn’t recognize.

  More words he didn’t understand called back with Tristan’s petulant inflections.

  Her posture relaxed. “Yes?”

  He once again found himself at a loss for words.

  Angus had no such trouble. He dragged his captive over, shoving him down next to his compatriot. “Nae bad, lass.”