She wondered what color his eyes were. She wondered if his voice would match his broad proportions and the handsome masculinity of his face. She wondered what it would feel like to dance in his arms.
And because she did, she would never approach him.
Instead, she focused on her latest dance partner. Or rather, she focused on the chain of his pocket watch. Her fingers had just curled around it when a man’s voice asked, “May I cut in?”
He spoke in a deep, southern drawl, and Fiona’s fingers spasmed and dropped the chain. Her eyes shot up to his face. Him.
Her dance partner stepped aside, and he took her into his arms. Everything about this moment felt so right, from the way his hand rested on her waist to the way he smelled like leather and man and linen, dried in the summer sun.
“I’m Cameron Mackay.”
A good Scottish name. Sakes alive, but she was in trouble. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cameron Mackay,” she said, carefully keeping her own accent out of her voice. Her Scottish brogue was just different enough to be noticeable even in a town crawling with Welsh and Cornish miners.
The corners of his lips ticked up, and his hand tightened on her waist, though he didn’t pull her in closer to his body like she wanted him to. “And you are?”
Fiona allowed her fingers to trail down his arm before placing her palm on shoulder. “I’m Elizabeth.”
He studied her for a moment, and she wondered if he saw right through her. After a moment, he said, “Elizabeth what?”
She gave him what she hoped was a dainty shrug. “Just Elizabeth.”
His smile lit spaces in her soul she hadn’t even realized had gone dark, and a part of her long since ignored twisted.
“Maybe I don’t like mysteries.” He arched a pale eyebrow suggestively, drew her body flush against him and whirled her around. The moment he loosened his hold on her as the dance warranted, her body ached with the loss.
“I guess that’s too bad for you, because I’m a mysterious girl.”
His laughter rumbled up from the hollows of his chest. “I bet. In that case, I might have to make an exception.”
“I could be trouble.” It pained her how true those words were. She’d never warned a mark away before, and that’s precisely what she’d done, no matter how she’d tried to mask it with flirtation.
Her eyes met his and his smile never faltered. Instead, it spread across his face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners, revealing a charming dent—not quite a dimple—in his left cheek.
“Trouble,” he echoed, his dark eyes scanning her face. He released a breath of wry laughter. “Somehow, I don’t doubt it.”
He was so close she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. Grinning, she said, “You’re a wise man.”
His eyes glittered with amusement. “I’ve been called a great many things, but I’ve never been called wise.”
“You're a trouble-maker, too?”
“I’m living in Virginia City. What do you think?”
He whirled her around the dance floor, and the way he held her made it hard to think, hard to breathe. Hard to fight against the desire to run her hands along his muscular shoulders and down his arms, to rest her head against his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.
She took a deep breath to regain her wits. If she’d learned one thing, it was how to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Casting him a bright smile, she said, “I think the only people who would dare to live in a town like this are fortune hunters, trouble-makers, and the desperate.”
“And which one, pray tell, are you?”
“Maybe I’m a little bit of all of those. You?” She was relieved to hear the breathiness in her voice sounded more suggestive and seductive than disconcerted and nervous.
“Not so desperate anymore, but I have been called a troublemaker, and not just by my dearly departed ma. And as for that first one, well . . .” He trailed off and made a subtle movement with his shoulders that wasn’t quite a shrug.
Intrigued by his answer, or lack of one, she asked, “Did you find your fortune, then?”
His hand snaked around her waist to the small of her back, and he leaned in. Against her cheek, his warm breath carried a hint of mint instead of the bite of alcohol. “You won’t tell me your name and you wear a mask, but you want to know about my fortunes? A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” His words were spoken lowly, but when she leaned back to meet his gaze, his eyes were merry.
Play the game, she reminded herself. “I’d think you’d be flattered. After all, I’m assuming you’re no pauper, so you must have found something.”
“Maybe I run the paper.”
Mimicking the laughter of a gentlewoman, she tittered. “You don’t have the hands of a writer.” After all, she’d felt the calluses as he took her hands in his. He had the hands of a laborer, of a man accustomed to rough work.
He had the hands of a Scotsman.
“You wound me,” he said in mock horror, twining his fingers in hers and bringing her hand to his chest. Her fingers itched to peel the away the fabric separating them and stroke the skin beneath. “I have the soul of a poet.”
“I can’t speak to the qualities of a man’s soul. That’s for the preacher to do,” she countered. “So I make my judgments based upon what I can see.”
His arms tightened around her, drawing her in until they were separated by little more than her hand on his chest. Her fingers curled, digging into the fabric of his dark vest. She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and when she inhaled deeply, her breasts brushed against him, a sensation so delicious she shivered.
His eyes were hot and hungry, and he reached up to gently stroke her chin. Her body went soft, her heart dancing a wild jig in her chest. The music, the dancing, the other revelers all seemed to melt away, and she even lost sight of her band mates among the crowd. In the space of those moments, she and Cameron became the only two people in the room. His voice drove into her like bullets as he whispered, “And what do you see?”
She took the time to adjust her mask, simply to shake the passion in his eyes out of her head. No one had ever looked at her like that. She wasn’t sure anyone ever would again.
After all, she was nothing but gypsy trash.
Hoping her girlish giggle didn’t belie her raging heart, she took a step back and turned his palm over in her hand. Tracing the calluses ridging his palm, she said, “You work with your hands. No ink stains, so you’re not a writer, however much you might claim otherwise. I’d say you’re a farmer, but since there’s no water to speak of out here, that seems unlikely. You’re a miner.” She regarded him for several seconds before adding honestly, “It doesn’t suit you.”
He laughed and pulled her in against him again, and this time, she didn’t even have her hand separating them. God, he was so warm, and the heat pouring off his body made her want to curl up next to him and purr like a contented cat. “Everyone out here is a miner, and being trapped underground doesn’t suit anyone. Your betting is too safe for a woman of mystery. Tell me something else.”
A challenge. This time, the delighted smile rising to her lips wasn’t false. “What would you wager for, then?”
He grinned. “How about a kiss? We could start there.”
“And what if I win?”
He took her hand and led her over to a quieter spot near the entrance. As he placed his hand on the wall above her head, heat crackled in the space between them, their proximity to one another strangely intimate despite the several inches between their bodies. Behind him, the door opened, and the cool wind carried dust and the crashing sound of ore processors.
His eyes darkened and he stiffened. Glancing over his shoulder, he moved his big body so she was no longer shielded from the door and the crowd. Instead, he stood
so he faced the door and most of the room, only a portion of the bar at his back. His gaze narrowed as he scanned the room. In that moment, his were the eyes of a man always on guard, a man who had seen too many battles and perhaps too much death.
“A kiss isn’t good enough for you?” The darkness left his expression, replaced by amusement.
She inhaled deeply, and she didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered when his eyes never drifted from her face. “Come now, we’re in Nevada. I don’t play for kisses. I play for money.”
“How about I play for kisses and you play for money?”
“Hardly seems fair, Mr. Mackay. I’ll clean you out.”
He breathed a laugh. Was her impression of him was mistaken? The lines of his shoulders were relaxed, his smile easy and ready. “I welcome the challenge, then.”
“Very well, I agree to your terms.” She extended her hand to seal their agreement. He took her palm and held it a moment too long before, feeling off balance, she withdrew. Studying the dance hall, she took in the tobacco smoke, the raucous music, and the shouts of men as they gambled, danced, or propositioned women. She gestured to the crowd. “This makes you uncomfortable.”
He laughed again. “Of course it does. Everyone in this hall is armed. Miners, guns, and cheap whiskey are never a good mix. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“And you owe me a penny.”
“Absolutely not. Surprise me. Telling me I’m uncomfortable in a room full of armed, drunk men is hardly worthy of payment. Any man with sense would be uncomfortable.”
She granted him that with a nod. “Fine. You’re not from around here.”
“The southern drawl gave me away?”
She winked at him, but shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course you’re not from around here originally. No one is. I meant you don’t live in Virginia City. You’re a country boy, so you wouldn’t live in town. You need the quiet, the space.”
“That’s a good one. I’ll pay for that.” He reached into his pocket and placed a shiny, new nickel in her hand, the pad of his thumb stroking gently against her palm.
Drawing in a startled breath at the power of his touch, she asked, “So, where are you from?”
The corners of his mouth ticked up into a smile. “Are we getting personal?”
“No, sir.” She gave him a slow blink. “I’m asking to satisfy my curiosity.”
That charming dent reappeared in his cheek. “Shenandoah Valley.”
“Where’s that?”
“Virginia. You?”
“Oh, here and there.” She shrugged.
His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “Not much of an answer, sweet.”
“Maybe there’s not much of an answer to give,” she replied, her heart strangely dismayed at the disappointment she saw in his eyes. “I’ve traveled a lot.”
After the space of a few heartbeats, he accepted her answer with a nod. “Very well. Tell me something else.”
Her eyes scanned his face, and she noticed a tiny scar running through his left eyebrow, and another along his jaw. “You haven’t been here long. A couple of years, maybe. You didn’t come here to escape the war.”
He gave her a lopsided smile, but before he looked away, the expression in his eyes shifted to something haunted and serious. “You don’t think so?”
“No.” She ran her thumb along the scar, her fingers gliding along his freshly shaved jaw. “You fought.”
His eyes met hers.
Embarrassed, she dropped both her gaze and her hand.
He caught it and cradled her palm gently in his big hands, and the tenderness in that gesture caused her heart to pound furiously in her chest.
Her breath came short and fast, and she backed away from him, twining her fingers together so tightly her knuckles turned white.
His gaze dropped to her hands, and she got the sense that Cameron Mackay noticed everything. A poor mark, this one, and she focused on that rather than the sweetness of his touch and the havoc it wreaked on her nerves.
“And what makes you think that?” he asked.
“You’ve got scars.”
“Everyone’s got scars.”
She brought her eyes up. “Maybe I’m not talking about the ones you can see.”
His pale brows shot up in surprise. “Touché.” He gave her a wry salute. “What else you got?”
“Other than that you’re a miner who lives on the outside of town, a country boy at heart, and that you’re a Rebel? I think I’ve done quite a bit.” She put out her hand. “Pay up.”
His laugh echoed in his chest and made her smile. “I don’t think so,” he said, leaning in and brushing a kiss against her lips.
Startled, breathless, she didn’t return it. “What do you think you’re doing?”
His mouth mere inches from hers, he said, “Never fought for the Confederacy. First West Virginia Volunteer Cavalry Regiment Regiment. Union. Pay up.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You said you’re from Virginia. It’s not fair if you cheat.”
“Didn’t cheat.” His breath was warm against her lips, and she was tempted to pay whatever price he demanded. “I am from Virginia. My brother fought for the Confederacy. I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
His smile was the only response he gave her before he took his payment. He leaned in slowly, giving her enough time to escape, though from the look in his eyes, she was fair certain he’d chase her if she did. And though Fiona was both a pickpocket and a liar, she paid her debts.
His lips were warm and gentle as they touched hers, but once she responded to him, his mouth became firmer, more insistent. His hand came up to cup the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him, losing herself in the glide of his tongue against hers, as she was suddenly filled with an emotion she’d never known before this moment.
Passion.
In her single year of marriage, she’d never felt anything like this. Her stomach tightened, her heart hammered against her ribcage, her skin heated. She’d known lust, but this . . . this thing burning beneath her breast was foreign, and not entirely welcome.
For the first time in her life, her wild heart, which yearned for nothing more than freedom, wanted, longed for something she could never have.
Breaking away, she tried to step away from his embrace, but found her back against the cold, unforgiving brick wall. Her hand against the pocket of his vest, she struggled to catch her breath. “I can’t.”
He cupped her face in his hands and gently stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, but he made no move to remove her mask. “Why not?”
Angry shouts reached her ears, but she ignored them. Shaking her head, she whispered, “I just can’t.”
He gave her a lopsided smile and brushed his lips against her ear. “At least let me escort you home.”
She was about to refuse him, but she never got the chance. Angry shouts turned into bellows and suddenly, Cameron stumbled forward.
“What are you doing with my girl?” an enraged voice roared.
She peeked around Cameron and saw one of the men she’d been flirting with earlier, the one who’d insisted she’d be going home with him and who had started a bar brawl on her behalf. His face was florid with anger, and his body odor mingled with the alcohol leeching from his pores.
Behind him stood her brother-in-law, the leader of their band, his features dark with rage. No matter what else happened tonight, she'd pay a heavy price for that kiss.
Cameron turned and placed his body between her and the other man. His voice low, he said, “Listen, I don’t want any trouble.”
“That’s my girl you’re pawing.”
Cameron glanced over his shoulder at her. “That true?”
She didn’t acknowledge Cameron’s question. Instead, she stepped out from behind the safety of his body. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Marie,” the other man slurred, using the name she’d given him earlier. Suddenly lurching forward, he stumbled into her, grabbing at her with greedy hands. As he fell forward, his hands grasped her bodice at the low-cut neckline.
Cloth tore as Cameron shoved the man away from her. Stumbling into Cameron, her hands came up to shield herself. He spun her into him, putting her back to the wall, and turning abruptly, he grabbed the other man and poured him from his coat. Placing it on her shoulders, his gaze never drifted from her face as he asked, “You okay?”
She folded the coat around her body, pressed her hands against Cameron's chest, and nodded.
Cameron’s body slammed into hers, only to be yanked off seconds later.
Glass broke. Fists flew.
Fiona fled.
She tore off the wig and the mask, abandoning them in the street. She didn’t turn back even once as she ran all the way back to the hotel. It wasn’t until she sat down on her bed that she realized she had something clutched in her hand.
A man’s ring.
Chapter 3
Fiona struggled to catch her breath as she studied the ring. Beautiful, and obviously worth a fortune if the stone in the middle was a real diamond. Her brother-in-law, Seamus, would be thrilled to get his hands on something like this.
If she sold it, she could get out from beneath his yoke. She could keep any money she earned for herself, rather than giving it over to the leader she despised.
She turned the ring over and saw faint words engraved into the band. Some were so worn she couldn’t even make out letters, as if countless fingers had worried them away.
Highland Sons: The Mackay Saga Page 9
