The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

  Zoe expected hers to expire at any moment. Perhaps her weak heart had managed to continue beating through her abduction and the long coach ride, but it would never survive this outlandish treatment.

  Every bone in her body jammed and jarred as the horse, its bony back bunched between her legs, pounded past the screaming men.

  A shot exploded through the air. Zoe screamed. The Scot cursed. Fragments of prayers filled Zoe’s mind, but she was too frightened or numb to say them aloud. Or perhaps she’d lost the ability to speak.

  His hands fisted in the horse’s mane, Keegan swerved the heaving animal off the road, into a copse of dripping trees. At least he hoped they were trees. Blanketed beneath the billowy down of clouds and mist, even the sliver of moon was gone. The night was nothing but black and wet.

  Keegan ran his palm down his mount’s smooth neck and listened. Behind him Zoe made little mewling noises, which he tried to ignore. She was wet and cold and uncomfortable. Well so was he. If not for her grand play at heroics they’d be warm and comfortable curled up together in bed.

  Damnation. Where had that thought come from? They might have been safe and dry, but they sure as hell wouldn’t have been curled up together. Why he’d as soon bed a... Keegan couldn’t come up with an appropriate comparison and let the thought slip from his mind.

  It was listening that he was after anyway. He held his breath waiting for the telltale plod of horses’ hooves on the road behind him. He waited, clicking off the minutes in his head, relief swimming through him as the time passed and no sound echoed through the night.

  There had been an attempt to follow at first. At least Keegan thought he’d heard horses, seen flickers of light from torches when he looked back. But apparently the good people of Wickshire put comfort before valor, at least where he was concerned.

  He waited a bit longer, then urged the horse back onto the road. They moved slower now, slogging through the mud. No more headlong dashes through the puddles. Still, Keegan ached, imagined the horse did as well. But he kept them heading south. He must have dozed, for the cheerful chatter of birds seemed to rouse him. He hadn’t noticed the rain stopping, but it had, though the air still hung heavy.

  The pewter sky gave him the first inkling of the countryside he rode through. The land was flat, stretching on seemingly forever. When he spotted a building Keegan thought he was dreaming or at least hallucinating. It sat a good twenty rods off the road, behind a grove of alders. Made of stone, with its roof of thatch it appeared deserted.

  Cautiously Keegan turned the tired horse off the muddy road. Zoe still had a death grip around his waist. He could feel her body pressed against his back. It was the one part of him that was dry and warm.

  At close range the barn appeared dilapidated and unused. Keegan pried Zoe’s fingers loose, and slid from the horse’s back. As limp as a rag doll, his captive followed.

  “Christ, Zoe.” Keegan grabbed her about the waist before she slipped to the ground. “Stand on yer feet.”

  “I can’t. I’m dying.”

  “Ye’re not dyin’.” Keegan scooped her into his arms. “Ye’re just tired, as am I,” Depositing her, sodden and slack beneath an oak, Keegan said, “Be still now,” just before she slumped over on her side. With a shake of his head, Keegan drew his broadsword and set to investigating the barn.

  Within minutes he was back, pulling on Zoe’s arms, forcing her to sit upright.

  “Stop,” she mumbled. “Just let me die in peace.”

  “Yer not dying, I tell ye. Though if ye don’t get out of those sodden clothes ye may be soon. Now come on with ye.”

  Zoe opened one eye, then the other. Then she moaned. “Why don’t I just die?”

  “Well now Lady Zoe, I can’t rightly say.” Keegan pulled her to her feet. “Perhaps yer stickin’ around t’ make my life a living hell.”

  “Your life?” Zoe revived herself enough to slap at the hands clamped to her wrists. “Just who is it that dragged me onto that horse and rode me about all night?”

  “Ye could have had yer dry bed, Zoe, if ye hadn’t decided to open yer mouth back at the inn. Did ye really think that band of yeomen could save ye?”

  “I thought it worth a try,” Zoe said with a sigh. She was on her feet now, being dragged toward the barn. Inside it was warmer and dry and musty. Zoe was too tired to do more than stand where he left her when the Scot’s rough hands released her.

  “Here.” He paused when she did nothing. “Well, take it.” The “it” was a moth-eaten horse blanket, so dirty Zoe could see dust motes dancing about it in the pewtery light. But she obeyed his command... at least the first part of it.

  “Now take off yer clothes and dry off. I’ll be seeing to the horse.”

  Keegan wiped the mare down with straw, then backed her into a stall. The only grain he could find was moldy, so he gave the horse some water and the promise of some grazing time later in the day.

  Peeling off his jacket Keegan returned to the stall where he left Zoe. “Are ye decently covered, lass?”

  No answer.

  Hell and damnation. Was the woman so daft that she tried to escape him again? “Zoe?” Anger fueled his tired body as Keegan swung around the wooden divider only to stop short at what he saw. She lay crumpled in the straw, still fully clothed in her sodden gown. So still was she, and so pale in the grainy light filtering into the barn that he feared she might have finally fulfilled her own prophecy. Had her weak heart, as she called it, simply given out? His own gave a little jerk at the thought. Then reason returned and he dropped to his knees beside her.

  “Zoe lass, yer goin’ t’ have t’ get out of these wet clothes.” He touched her cheek, letting his fingers drift down to the hollow of her neck where her pulse fluttered. She made no response beyond a muffled moan. “Come on now with ye, or I’ll be forced to bare ye meself.”

  Still nothing.

  “Damn ye, Zoe Morgan. I’m nigh as spent as ye, and as cold and clammy.” He pushed to his feet and tossed his jacket over the stall divider. “I’ve half a mind t’ leave ye as ye are. Then ye’d be knowin’ what it is t’ really be ailin’.” But even as he spoke, Keegan was kneeling by her side, fumbling with the silver buttons of her riding habit. The fabric was wet, his fingers cold, which made the task difficult. “Ye’d think I never disrobed a lass before,” he muttered, then grinned. He’d certainly never done anything quite resembling this.

  With the jacket unbuttoned, Keegan pulled Zoe up till she was sitting, her head lolling to one side, her neck looking incredibly fragile. “Here ye go now,” Keegan said as he pulled first one, then the other arm from the saffron-colored sleeves. She did no more than moan a protest as he unfastened her wet lawn shirt at the jabot and sleeves, then pulled it over her head.

  “Ye best revive yerself,” Keegan warned as he pulled off her skirt and hoops.

  It was testimony to the time they’d spent riding through the rain that her underclothing was as wet as the riding habit itself. With a sigh, Keegan snatched at her corset laces. She was lying now on the horse blanket, her damp hair tumbling across the straw. Her slight frame was spare but not without womanly curves. Keegan found his fingers slowing and his eyes wondering as he removed her shift.

  He swallowed, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur. With a groan he grabbed for the other blanket he’d found, tossing it over her body. There, she was covered. But that didn’t erase from his mind’s eye the vision of her lying there, naked to his view.

  He’d scarcely thought of her as a woman before. Odd, for now that he thought on it she was pretty enough with her grey eyes, calm and misty as a Highland dawn. But she was a vexation to him, had been from the moment he’d kidnapped her. And her annoying habits, the complaining of imaginary illnesses, the defense of her bastard brother, her attempts to escape him, were all he’d allowed himself to notice.

  Till now.

  Well, any such thoughts about her would have to cease. Keegan jerked his waistcoat off and added it to the l
ine-up of clothing, Zoe’s and his own, draped across the wooden divider. His shirt followed, then his breeches. He may have kidnapped the chit, but his purpose was honorable. And he intended to keep it that way.

  And damn his traitorous body for responding as if it would be otherwise.

  Despite their dampness, Keegan opted to keep his drawers on. With his broadsword and pistol by his side he lay down in the straw, close to, but careful not to touch his captive. But the morning’s chill soon had him squirming closer, inching beneath the edge of the blanket, shaping his body to the curves of hers.

  “Hell and damnation,” he cursed when she turned, then slid her arm across his chest. “Now ye move.”

  ~ ~ ~

  In the groggy netherland of half-sleep Zoe dreamed that someone, who she supposed to be Keegan MacLeod, was sticking needles into her skin. Begging him to stop did no good. He simply laughed, his eyes burning into her with a strange demonic light and told her he’d do as he pleased.

  Oh, she despised him. Which wasn’t altogether easy to do. For in the back of her sleepy mind there were fragments of dreams of another sort. Sensual dreams unlike any she’d ever experienced. The touch of warm skin. The smell of a man’s body.

  And it wasn’t just any man.

  Even in slumber Zoe knew it was the barbarian Scot who triggered these feelings in her. “No. No.” The sound of her own voice, lifted in protest, stirred Zoe awake. She lay still a moment, listening, before opening her eyes.

  She was alone, though she could hear sounds. Her hand closed over something prickly and she lifted the straw only to let it drift from her fingers. She remembered now, vaguely, riding through the rainy night. Finding shelter toward morning. Keegan MacLeod.

  With a shiver, Zoe pushed herself to sitting, discovering in the process that she wore no bodice... or clothes of any kind. Gasping, she clutched the blanket, pulling it to her chin, baring her feet and lower legs by her action. What she saw made her forget her nudity. “Oh, no,” she whispered on a resigned sigh. “Not that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Keegan crunched a bite of apple, making a face as the tart juice hit his tongue. Not quite ripe. But then he hadn’t exactly had much to choose from. And he was damn hungry. He was lucky to find an estate nearby... and to meet a dairy maid willing to trade a loaf of bread for a smile and a few flowery phrases. But he always had been a charmer. At least that’s what his da and brothers had told him.

  He took another bite of apple, then tossed it aside. The sharp taste did nothing to wash away the memory of his brother’s lifeless eyes. Or the sting of watching his father die at the hand of the English butchers.

  Splashing across a gentle brook, Keegan followed the footpath he took earlier when he first awoke. The sun was high, setting the water asparkle like a serpentine jewel. Pretty country, but it lacked the drama of the Highlands, of home.

  Soon. He would be home soon.

  Keegan shifted the pouch he’d fashioned from his jacket. It was full of oats and bread, plus a jug of cider. Enough nourishment to get the horse and himself to the coast. Oh, and Zoe, too.

  Keegan shook his head as he approached the fieldstone barn. Zoe. God in heaven, what had he been thinking when he kidnapped her? He may as well have fastened a ball and chain about his neck. She had no idea how a captive should behave. Of course he wasn’t real certain himself. But he sure as hell didn’t think it was continually asking questions. Or complaining about this illness or that. Or looking so damn delectable and virginal lying on a moth-eaten horse blanket.

  Looking at her, his mind and other parts of his body had been so filled with lust he’d had a difficult time not acting on it. Lord knows he’d barely slept at all, lying there beside her. He should have taken advantage of the milkmaid’s kind offer to meet her behind the stable. True, she wasn’t delectable, and hardly virginal, but she would have relieved a lot of the tension he’d been feeling of late.

  Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind to just spend a bit of this energy on Zoe herself. It occurred to him a lot as he stared at the barn rafters while she slept peacefully beside him. Hell, rape was part and parcel of kidnapping. Wasn’t it?

  “No! Don’t come in here.”

  “Hell and damnation, Zoe. What’s gotten into ye now?” Despite his words Keegan paused in the doorway of the barn. Afternoon sunlight rayed in through the window holes, showing a scene much like the one he left earlier. The horse, old and a bit swaybacked, still stood in the stall. Zoe still inhabited the one to the right. She was covered with a grey blanket that she had clutched to her chin, obviously unaware of the exposed swell of her left breast.

  Keegan let out a breath and stepped inside.

  “No, please, I mean it. You mustn’t come near me.” She accompanied her words with a scooting motion that put her perhaps another inch further from him.

  “Zoe.” Squinting, Keegan studied her again... her face this time. Her expression showed real fear, and for just a moment Keegan recalled what he’d been thinking right before he entered the barn. So he wouldn’t mind making love to her, and she was his captive. That didn’t mean he was going to use her to relieve his baser needs. Despite how he felt about her brother. “I’m not going to hurt ye lass.”

  “I’m telling you for your benefit to stay away. No, don’t come any closer.”

  “It’s because of yer clothes I’m guessin’. True, I undressed ye, but it was for yer own good. You’d a caught yer death in those wet clothes. And I didn’t so much as peek.” Keegan grinned at his lie. “Had me eyes closed the whole time.”

  “That’s not the problem...” Zoe began, then stopped, her eyes growing large. “You took off my clothes?”

  “Aye.” Keegan settled the jacket pouch on the straw-littered floor. “Did ye think yer lady’s maid happened by?”

  “No, of course not. I can’t remember. I thought I’d done it myself. Besides it was always Miss Phelps who helped ready me for bed. She said the maids were too rough with my delicate person.”

  “Ah, well she may have been a wee bit wrong about that.” Keegan figured he wasn’t entirely gentle with his undressing... especially when he was hurrying to get her covered.

  Zoe sighed loudly. “It doesn’t matter. Not really. For I’ll be dead within a few days.”

  “What the hell!” Keegan stepped closer, despite her protest. “For the love of God, I’ve said I wouldn’t kill ye, and I won’t. Despite that little show back at the tavern for which I should have beat ye to within an inch of yer life.”

  Keegan noticed two fat tears spill over her lashes and roll down her pale cheeks and he felt like the worst kind of demon. Palms up, he took another step closer. “Now there be no reason to go cryin’. I was only speakin’ hypothetically, ye understand. There’ll be no beatin’.”

  “I thank you for that, but perhaps it would be better if you’d just kill me and be done with it.”

  “What, are ye daft?”

  “Then I wouldn’t have to suffer the black vomit and deliriums.” Zoe bit her bottom lip. “Or is that the plague?”

  “Ye’re talking in circles here lass, and I’m losin’ my patience. Now get dressed with ye. I’ve brought some bread. We’ll eat and be on our—”

  “You don’t understand,” Zoe cried indignantly. “I have the pox.”

  “The pox! For God’s sake Zoe, you couldn’t possibly have the pox.” Could she? Hell no, this was no doxy. And if she’d been so much as touched before he’d be surprised.

  “Smallpox,” she amended. More tears followed the path of the others before she sniffed and took a deep breath. “But I shall be brave. I just hope you don’t...” Zoe paused. Why should she hope the Scot didn’t have the dread disease? It would certainly keep him from killing Fox. And it would serve him right for kidnapping her. After all, she could have gotten it from him. He had been in prison.

  Despite all that, Zoe wasn’t sure she wished smallpox on the Scot. He was so healthy and virile, Zoe hated to think of him as ga
unt and infirm.

  She could see herself that way. Propped on a pile of fluffy feather pillows, beneath a counterpane of white. Sipping broth from a silver spoon, Miss Phelps coaxing her along. Except there was no soft bed or silver spoon. Certainly no Miss Phelps to care for her. She was likely to die on this heap of dirty, prickly straw.

  Zoe glanced up as the Scot knelt beside her. He really was tempting the Fates.

  “What makes you think ye have smallpox?”

  His voice was gentle, though Zoe noted a touch of amusement in that deep burr. And he seemed unable to control a twitching of his lip. So he thought her dire straits laughable. She would show him.

  “There,” she said, as she yanked up the blanket, baring her feet and lower legs. “See for yourself.”

  Keegan’s gaze left hers to travel down the length of her body. When he reached her exposed limbs he rocked back on his heels. “And just what am I supposed to be seein’?” Except slender ankles and well-shaped calves.

  Zoe bent forward, losing a bit more hold on the blanket. Keegan’s eyes flicked up, catching a curve of rounded shoulder before moving down to follow the jabbing motion of her finger as she pointed to the smattering of raised pink bumps marring her ivory flesh.

  “Aye,” Keegan said with a lift of his brows. “Ye have some flea bites to be sure.”

  “Flea bites.” Zoe nearly bent double in an attempt to study the swelling more closely. “Flea bites?”

  “I’ve me fair share of them too. The blanket is more than likely infested with the vermin.” Her first reaction was to toss aside the offending wool. Keegan could see it in her eyes. But to his chagrin she remembered what she wore beneath, and caught herself in time.

  With a resigned shrug Keegan pushed to his feet and grabbed up the grain. “There’s some bread and ale over there ye can have once ye’ve dressed yerself.” Keegan scooped the grain into a bucket and offered it to the mare.