by Paula Quinn
“D’ye ever want to kill Amelia?” Darach asked innocently through his clenched teeth. “I mean just…” His words trailed off while he wrung his hands together in front of him, like he was strangling someone.
“Ye’re way ahead of us in that area,” Edmund assured him. “How soon d’ye think before ye’re back?”
Darach chuckled but his eyes remained cool. “Why? If I waited ten years she still wouldna’ have found a husband with that viperous tongue. If she does, he’ll likely kill her after a month.”
“Darach, that’s an awful thing to say.” Amelia came up behind them. “Janet’s verra kind, and quite lovely to look upon. And once her brother takes over Ravenglade in Malcolm’s stead, men will find even more interest in her.”
Darach glared at her and then blinked. “Ye’re no’ much better than she is, are ye?” He spread his green gaze over Edmund and offered him his most pitying look. “And I thought I was in trouble. Ye dinna’ have a chance, m’ friend.” He patted Edmund on the shoulder and strode toward his horse.
“He thought he was in trouble.” Amelia smiled, catching the meaning in his words.
“I know.” Edmund laughed, agreeing with her.
She took his hand and led him back to their horse. “He is correct,” she said softly, looking up at him and setting his heart to ruin.
“Who?”
“My father, when he pointed out the change in my fortune. He was correct. It changed with yer arrival.”
He took her in his arms and gazed into her eyes. “I told ye that I’d battle misfortune fer ye.” They laughed together and he kissed her, loving her mouth, her taste, the tight little moan he pulled from her.
“How long will it take to get to Skye?” she asked, pulling back while she could still stand on her feet.
“Several days,” he answered, his own breath heavy in his chest. “We’ll ride east to Rannoch and then to Glencoe. We have friends with boats and we’ll sail to Skye rather than ride north.”
“But Rannoch and Glencoe are east,” she reminded him while they continued on their waiting horse. “Ye told Captain Pierce to ride east when they didn’t find us at Ravenglade.”
“All the more reason he won’t go east. Why would I tell him which way to follow us? He’ll likely go north.”
She smiled and kissed him on the mouth. “Ye’re clever, Edmund.” She remained quiet for a few moments while they rode, then said, “How long do ye think it will be before my uncle or Walter comes for me?”
“It doesn’t matter. He won’t find Camlochlin, and if any of them does, there will be cannons waiting fer him and any fool behind him. Don’t fret over them, or about misfortune any longer, Amelia.” He kissed her once and then again. “Neither will find us.”
She heated his blood and melted his heart. He wanted to lay with her, hold her until the sun descended and then rose again, touch her, kiss her, thank her. There would be time for such things later. The thought of it lightened his mood and propelled him to get moving.
“Come,” he told her, “let’s be off. We can make it to Rannoch by nightfall and then I can tell ye what ye mean to me in the comfort of a soft bed.”
Henrietta, who opted to remain in Perth rather than travel to the Highlands, would have scowled at the supper set down in front of Amelia and the others inside Jack Robertson’s inn.
Amelia was happy for the warm food and even warmer lodgings. She ate to her fill, not realizing how hungry she was until she found herself cleaning her bowl with her bread. Edmund smiled, watching her.
“Am I being distasteful?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “I was just thinking how my kin are going to love ye.”
“Because of how I eat?”
“Because ye’re not ashamed or afraid to be who ye are.”
“Ye both live the way ye want,” Lucan agreed, smiling at Sarah. “Ye’re goin’ to be happy at Camlochlin.”
Amelia couldn’t wait to get there, despite the still, small voice telling her he wasn’t safe.
Thankfully sharing supper with Sarah, four rowdy Highlanders, and a moody dog helped her forget her past. They laughed late into the night and when it came time for bed, Edmund followed Amelia to their room.
She was exhausted. Every muscle in her body ached from the journey, but when Edmund closed the door and took her into his arms she felt reborn.
“Do ye plan on wedding me, Mr. MacGregor, or are ye going to stick with yer barbaric principles of claiming yer wench in bed?”
His eyes glittered smoky blue with dark intentions. “Both.” He dipped his head and brushed his mouth over hers. “My bairns won’t be bastards.”
“Do ye plan on having many then?” She giggled against his lips, then his teeth when he took her bottom lip between them.
“Aye, plenty.” He cupped her rump in both hands and hauled her up so that she straddled him where they stood.
She gasped at the steel lance pushing against his breeches to have her.
“I want us to take our time and savor every moment of making them.”
His voice was husky and raw with desire. The sound of it caressed and heated her belly, then below. She had no idea how simply looking at him, hearing the melodic lilt of his voice, could invoke images of his naked body and of her tongue licking every inch of him—but it did. She tunneled her fingers through his golden waves and flicked her tongue inside his mouth.
He groaned and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, then stood over her and began to undress. She watched him peel away his shirt to expose an upper body carved from granite. Her eyes traced the corded sinew of his arms and chest, then down, slowly, over his tight, washboard belly. She wanted to rake her teeth over the sensitive curve of his hips, down…
A knock came at the door.
With a muffled oath, Edmund strode to it and pulled it open. A serving wench stood on the other side carrying a tray. Atop it were two flagons of wine and some fruit and cheese.
“Courtesy of the proprietor, sir.”
Edmund smiled and accepted the offering. “Give him our thanks.”
Amelia leaned up on one elbow when he returned and reached for a cup. She held it up. “Let us drink to making a son or daughter tonight.”
He took his cup, sat next to her on the bed, and agreed. “And to not stopping until we get one.”
They drank with gusto to their mission and kissed the wine from their lips. Amelia couldn’t wait much longer to have her way with him. She’d spent many nights talking to Sarah about different things to do to a man and she was anxious to try some of them out on Edmund.
She sat up and pushed him down on the mattress and straddled him. They laughed when their drinks spilled and then grew serious when she licked the droplets from his chest. She plucked a berry from the tray and placed it carefully on his nipple. She took another and set it on his belly button. Another she placed on his hip and the last, she slipped down his breeches.
“Ye’re hungry tonight.” His thick voice shuddered as her mouth traversed his torso, snatching up berries as she went.
“Sweet,” she whispered with a teasing smile, looking up at him from beneath her dark, lush lashes.
She took another sip of her drink, needing it to boost her courage to do things to him that “ladies” probably never did.
The wine helped, releasing her from trepidation at the idea of taking him in her mouth. Sarah said men loved it. Amelia wanted to do it for Edmund. But first, she wanted to play with him a little.
My, but he was so big and so hard beneath the stretched fabric of his breeches. She ran her palm over him and watched his eyes darken. Blood stirred; she bit her bottom lip and pulled at the laces confining him. She smiled when she found her berry nestled in the crease of his upper thigh and dipped her head to snatch it up. He moaned and then said something she couldn’t quite make out. She looked up only to discover that there were two of him. She blinked. Suddenly she didn’t feel well at all. A fog was closing in fast.
Her limbs felt heavy. Her tongue, thick.
“Edmund, I…” She didn’t finish but collapsed on top of him.
Edmund used every ounce of strength he possessed to sit up. His head felt like an anvil. The wine. The wine was drugged or poisoned. But why? The duke couldn’t possibly have found them already. Who else would do this? He looked down at Amelia, her head resting on his groin. Whoever did it would die. He pushed Amelia away and swung his legs off the bed. He had to get to the others but his legs wouldn’t straighten. He looked longingly toward the door and pushed himself up one more time.
He went down hard and quick, fading into blackness. From somewhere far beyond he heard a dog scratching its nails against wood and whining to be let in.
Gaza.
Hell, it was fortunate that he’d kept her.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Captain Pierce’s boots clicked against the wooden floor of Jack Robertson’s inn while he paced the downstairs tavern.
“We should go up and check, Captain. We’re wasting time.”
Without pausing in his gait, Pierce flicked his irritated glance at the chancellor. “MacGregor killed one of my soldiers with his forehead,” he growled. “If you want to rush above stairs and take him and his friends on, be my guest.” Hell, he wished he would. He hadn’t wanted the Earl of Seafield to travel with him to Rannoch but he’d had no choice. The duke had insisted he bring the chancellor to get his woman back.
Pierce wasn’t entirely certain the lady belonged with Seafield, but it wasn’t his decision to make. He knew his place and he kept it. He didn’t like the chancellor but he had his orders—bring the duke’s niece back to Queensberry.
At least he knew where to find them, thanks to Alistair Buchanan. Seems MacGregor took Buchanan’s hand…and his dog. The man hated the Highlander despite a peace treaty between their clans. He wanted recompense. Buchanan had heard one of them mention Robertson’s inn in Rannoch, and was quick to turn them in.
East. Clever.
The captain set out for Rannoch immediately with twelve of his best men and after establishing that they were in the right place, threatened the proprietor to taint the Highlander’s wine or turn the inn over to the throne.
Terrorizing an innkeeper didn’t trouble the captain. Wishing he had more men in his army like MacGregor did. Outlaw or not, Edmund MacGregor was dangerous and fearless when it came to what he wanted. Pity that everything he stood for went against Parliament. He would have made an excellent soldier.
The one who struck him though—Pierce recalled the fiery sting of his head wound from the Highlander who had come up behind him—that one would pay for Pierce’s constant headache.
“I think enough time has passed, Captain,” Seafield whined and tapped his foot at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m eager to be away from this establishment and those who frequent here.”
He looked about to quiver in his hose, tempting Pierce to imagine what it would feel like to backhand the sniveling little worm to the other end of the inn.
He walked up to him and swept his arm across his waist instead. “After you, my lord.”
They climbed the stairs, making little or no sound, save for the creak of the third and fourth step. The serving wench who had delivered the drinks to the four rooms paid for by the Highlanders waited at the top.
“Where is the lady?”
The wench pointed to the third door on the left.
Before Pierce could stop him, Seafield rushed forward and pushed open the door. He disappeared into it, then stormed out of it an instant later, before the captain could even look inside. He marched toward the tavern wench with tight, narrowed eyes. When he reached her, he took her by the face, clutching her jaw.
“The woman in that room is not a lady. She’s a servant, like you!” he shouted at her. “Where is the dark-haired lady? Even a waif like you can tell the difference.”
This time she pointed between sobs to a door directly to their right.
When he moved to go to it, Pierce held out his hand, stopping him. The fool would get himself killed and the duke would blame Pierce. “Wait here. I’ll bring her out.”
The captain swung open the door with more caution in case someone hadn’t taken the drink. He stood at the entry, sword drawn, and looked inside.
Seafield wasn’t going to be pleased.
They’d found Lady Amelia, but she wasn’t alone. Her shirtless lover lay crumpled on the floor a few inches from the door. He’d tried to go for help. The lady lay strewn across the bed. She’d fallen under first.
“Is she—?”
Seafield’s query came to an abrupt halt when he defied the captain and plunged inside. The silence fell like an eerie warning to ready himself for something.
“Kill her.”
“That will not happen.” Pierce turned to look down at him. “If you attempt it, I’ll cut off your head and toss it at the duke’s feet.”
Seafield held steady for a moment and then cracked. “Collect her then. Kill him,” he ordered sharply, then whirled on his heel and left the room.
Pierce almost wished MacGregor would awaken. He felt cheated out of what he was certain would be a good fight. He didn’t agree with killing men when they were helpless to defend themselves, especially when those men were warriors. MacGregor deserved something better.
With the duke’s niece over his shoulder, he raised his sword over his head in his other hand and was about to bring down the final blow when he heard an unholy sound.
A dog stood blocking the doorway, ears pinned, eyes wide, fangs exposed and dripping saliva onto the floor.
Pierce lowered his sword and held up his palm. “Easy, beast.”
The creature wasn’t soothed in the least and sprang, in fact, for the captain’s throat. Pierce blocked the huge fangs about to close around him with his hand. Bone crunched against the hilt he was clutching. He cried out.
The beast turned to encounter a pale-faced chancellor, summoned back by the bluster.
Without provocation, the animal clamped its fangs down on Seafield’s ankle, bringing the chancellor to his knees before it ran off down the stairs and out of sight.
“What in blazes was it?” the chancellor wailed. “A demon?”
“Perhaps,” Pierce said. He tore a strip of fabric from the lady’s gown and wrapped it around his bloody hand. “Can you walk?” he asked, coming to the door. When Seafield shook his head, Pierce called below stairs for one of his men to come up and carry him.
“Wait!” Seafield called out when the captain turned to go with the lady still dangling over his shoulder. “What about him? I told you to kill him.”
Pierce shook his head. He didn’t want to kill MacGregor in the first place. Now he had an excuse not to. “If he has demons doing his bidding, I want no part of putting harm to him. That thing attacked me only when I lifted my sword to its owner. You want MacGregor dead? You kill him.”
He didn’t wait around to see what Seafield did. He knew that leaving MacGregor alive was probably a mistake he would come to regret later, when the Highlander woke up and found his lady gone. MacGregor would come after them. Pierce was certain of it. He’d heard what the couple had spoken to each other on the field. There was love between them. He wanted MacGregor to come. Let him steal his woman back if he could. With two hands or one, Pierce was eager to discover if his opponent was as skilled with a sword as Pierce hoped he was. If MacGregor needed to die, then let it be in a good fight.
He left the inn with the bold arrogance of a man with an army at his back. No one stopped him, man, demon, or dog, nor was he questioned about where he was taking the unconscious woman in his possession.
He would have preferred more time in silence, time to ponder his next move, but Lady Amelia stirred when he deposited her in his saddle.
“Do yourself good and keep your mouth shut,” he warned an instant before gaining his seat behind her.
“The slut is awake.” Upheld by two of Pierce’s men, one on
either side, Seafield snarled as he passed her. “I should beat you senseless for what I saw in that room.”
Pierce tightened his wounded limb around her waist. She remained silent.
“I did what you failed to do, Captain,” the little peacock called out shrilly over his shoulder while he was placed into his saddle. “I killed him. I killed MacGregor.”
Nothing Pierce could do after that could stop the lady from betraying her heart. Seafield would make her pay later. Every soldier knew of the chancellor’s preferences in bed. Seafield enjoyed striking his women. He wanted to strike Miss Bell now. Pierce could see in his eyes while his ears took in her hatred toward him and her adoration for her lover.
He would ask his men later if the chancellor spoke true and he had, in fact, killed MacGregor. He uncoiled the bloody rag around his hand and let it drop to the ground, in case he was lying.
Amelia stared into the flames in front of her and ignored the men eating and speaking around her. Why did she wake up that night in her uncle’s garden? Why couldn’t one of the guests have stabbed her in the heart? Why had she agreed to go to Skye with him? She didn’t stop her tears from falling into her lap, but she made no sound in her sorrow.
Edmund was dead.
“You better eat something,” Walter ordered, suspended from a stocky soldier appearing over her. When she didn’t answer him, he poked her in the side with his good booted foot.
“Rot in hell,” she obliged.
She didn’t cry out when he grasped a handful of her hair and pulled her head back to make her look at him. “I’ll rot there, love, with you right beside me.”
She hated him. She hated the sight of him, the smell of him, the sound of his voice. “I would rather die than marry you.”
He drew back his hand to slap her but Captain Pierce’s voice stopped him.
“You are not her husband yet. Until you are, you will keep your hands off her while she’s in my care. If you don’t, I will cut out your heart and tell the duke you were killed in the fight to keep his niece safe.”
