The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

Had he been foolish to jump in the water after her? Undoubtedly. Keegan reached for a splintery rung. But then no more so than he’d been with everything else he’d done since first laying eyes on her.

  Pulling himself onto the ladder with one hand, Keegan managed to yank Zoe free of the barrel. As he did she coughed, a sound that lifted his spirits a bit. “Come on with ye now, lass,” he muttered between his teeth as he strained to lift her toward him. Despite her slender size she was heavy, her clothes waterlogged and her limbs little more than dead weight.

  He finally managed to rest her, leaning against the ladder, then heave her over his shoulder. She coughed again, a gurgling sound, that grew more intense as he shifted her body. Then as quickly as he could, Keegan scrambled up the ladder. With each step the wobbly structure groaned. When he was but two steps from the waterlashed deck, the sloop jerked violently.

  Pain rattled through his body as he slapped against the ladder, clinging with fingers and toes to the splintery wood. Zoe’s body shifted, and Keegan lifted his shoulder, trying to keep her perched, swearing he would not go after her again if she slipped down into the water.

  His muscles straining, Keegan pulled her up through the hatch. The deck was slick, awash in saltwater, and tilted at near a forty-five-degree angle. Getting off the sloop had to be his first priority. He slid Zoe down, wedging them both in the lee formed by the side of the quarterdeck.

  “Zoe!” Keegan yelled her name above the fury of the storm. “Wake up, damn ye.” Squatting down he cradled her head, turning it to the side when she started coughing again. Her body shook with spasms as she retched out seawater.

  “Can ye hear me, lass?” Keegan gave her a moment—all he could spare—to rest before pulling her to sitting. “Zoe? Are ye well enough to move?”

  Well enough to move? She was well enough to do nothing but die. Zoe didn’t think she’d ever been so ill in her short sickly life. Her throat burned. Her chest felt as if a knife had plunged inside to cut out her weak heart. And her head felt as if it might explode.

  This was it then. She was going to die. Somehow she’d never pictured her demise in quite this fashion, with water pelting her face and the wind roaring in her ears. But here it was. Zoe opened her mouth to tell the Scot of her impending death but nothing came out of her tortured throat but an inaudible croak.

  Which apparently the Scot took as her agreement that she could move, for with one jerk he had her standing. Or actually leaning, for the Sea Maiden was tilted at such an angle that Zoe couldn’t understand why it didn’t sink. That is, until Keegan dragged her toward the side and she saw the rocks. They seemed to be all that kept the battered vessel afloat.

  “Croak. Squeak.” Zoe lifted her arm, pointing toward the spot where the jagged rocks tore into the hull.

  “I don’t see any lifeboats. We’ll have t’ swim for the shore.”

  Swim? Was he mad? First of all Zoe couldn’t see a shore. Nothing but rocks and wild surf that were grinding the boat to firewood. Secondly, as she’d already proven, she couldn’t swim. “Croak. Croak. Squeak!” Zoe shook her head wildly, and tried again to speak, but the Scot wasn’t looking at her.

  Wiping hair and water from her eyes, Zoe followed his stare and saw the ghostly figure of Captain Holt standing not two rods away. One arm hugged the mast, still standing, though perched at an angle as if aiming toward the horizon. In his other hand he held a sword.

  “Get back below. You’re my prisoners,” he yelled.

  “Are ye daft? We need to get off this sloop before there be nothing left of her.”

  Zoe tried to swallow but couldn’t, as the Scot started inching her along toward the raised sword.

  “The Sea Maiden’s a fine vessel. She’ll weather this storm. See if she doesn’t.”

  Zoe’s scream was a strangled squeak as Captain Holt let go of the mast and lurched toward them. He fell just as a giant wave crashed over the hull, washing him toward the edge.

  The schooner groaned. A loud cracking sound erupted. The deck vibrated and split open. Zoe looked at Keegan. He looked at her. Before she could utter a sound to stop him, he ran, pulling her toward the spot where Captain Holt was swept away. Hand clasped with hers, he jumped over the side into the dark oblivion of the churning sea.

  ~ ~ ~

  He disliked nearly everything about Colonel Upton—had since the first time their paths crossed, nearly two years before. The colonel postured now, leaning back in the carved chair and stared at Fox over the rim of his glass of claret.

  “I’m surprised to see you return. I’d have sworn your departure had all the earmarks of finality stamped to it.”

  Fox shifted his weight, refusing to ask permission to sit, from this puffed-up prig. He had his reasons for returning; as he’d had them for leaving. “I assume you’ve read my orders.” Fox nodded toward the parchment recently removed from its leather case.

  “Oh, I’ve read them. But frankly, Major Morgan, I’m baffled.”

  Fox resisted the urge to say he wasn’t surprised. “I’d be glad to clear up any mystery.”

  “Would you now?” The colonel’s lips toyed with the goblet rim before sipping. “Perhaps we should begin with why you find it necessary to rejoin your regiment. You were quite adamant, if I recall, about leaving His Majesty’s service.”

  Not His Majesty’s service. Simply Colonel Upton’s. Unfortunately at Fort William in the Scottish Highland they were one and the same. Fox stiffened his spine. He’d known this would be unpleasant. It was a price he was willing to pay. And in the end he knew Upton had no choice but to accept him. “I’ve been assigned to command a small company to track down the Jacobite rebel, Keegan MacLeod.” The order was signed by the Duke of Cumberland, the king’s son.

  “Ah, yes, I heard he’d escaped the noose. Crafty fellow, that. But what makes you think he’d come anywhere near here? If he had an ounce of sense he’d be long gone across the channel to join his prince in exile.”

  “The Highlands are his home.” And Miss Phelps had told him, once he’d calmed the woman down enough to make any sense of her. But Fox didn’t feel it necessary to tell Upton of Zoe and her abduction. “Castle MacLeod is his family seat.”

  “No longer. All property belonging to the rebels was confiscated. He has nothing here. Nothing but a date with the hangman.”

  “I don’t think MacLeod will see it that way.”

  Upton emptied his glass, wiping his mouth with a lace edged handkerchief. “You speak as if you know the man.”

  “We’ve met.”

  The colonel’s forehead wrinkled in inquiry.

  “Immediately following the battle at Culloden. MacLeod surrendered himself and his father to me.”

  “Ah yes, I do recall something of that. I believe you mentioned the episode during your... rather lengthy recital of reasons for resigning your commission.”

  “I never resigned.”

  “No, of course not. You simply rushed home to the family estate to lick your wounds. Did you ever reconcile yourself to the fact that battles involve killing, Major?”

  Fox’s jaw ached from the strain of keeping it clenched. He longed to give the colonel a similar pain, one caused by slamming his fist into the man’s ruddy face. But he’d already burned bridges that he was now forced to repair. “Yes sir,” he said through his teeth. “I’ve reconciled myself to what happened at Culloden.” To the unnecessary killing after the battle. To the rape and slaughter he’d been unable to stop. That Colonel Upton had watched with an amused eye.

  Candlelight from the chandelier overhead gleamed on the colonel’s gorget as he leaned forward. “Are you certain you’re up to finding this renegade if he is in Scotland?”

  “I’m sure.” Fox had been a soldier for twelve years and his honor and bravery had never been questioned before. It galled him now.

  “You seemed to show signs of sympathy for the rebel, if I recall.”

  “I’d pity any man forced to watch the slaughter of his father... sir.�
��

  “His father was a rebel leader.”

  “And as such deserved to be tried, not disemboweled for the entertainment of the troops.”

  “You forget yourself, Major.”

  Fox tried to calm the anger surging through him. Antagonizing Upton was not to his benefit. “I apologize sir. If there’s nothing else, I’ve had a long journey.”

  “Of course.” Upton flitted his fingers. “You will keep me informed as you hunt down the renegade?”

  “Yes sir.” Fox turned on his heel and left the room. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the gates of Fort William. He faced north toward the base of Ben Nevis, toward the Highlands. Where Keegan MacLeod was, or would be soon. He’d lay his life on it.

  Closing his eyes, Fox rubbed a hand down over his face. Goddamn the man. Colonel Upton had been right about one thing. There was a time when Fox sympathized with Keegan MacLeod... empathized, at least. But no longer.

  The Scot made himself one tenacious enemy when he broke into Fox’s house at St. James’s Square. When he kidnapped Zoe. Fox discovered what had happened when he stopped in London, on his way to Scotland, after a brief visit to Ashford Hall. He’d gone there to recuperate from a wound in his leg. But it was minor, hardly more than a scratch.

  Colonel Upton was more correct than he knew when he chided Fox about the battle. He simply hadn’t been able to come to terms with the slaughter that followed. So he’d hastened to Ashford Hall, preferring the calm of the Devon countryside to London.

  Damn, if he’d only stayed with Zoe... Or if he’d tried harder to convince her to accompany him to Devon... Fox took a deep breath. He couldn’t think of that, not now. Now all his strength, all his energy must go toward capturing the renegade. Making him pay for what he did to Zoe.

  Poor, fragile Zoe. She could barely walk into the garden without swooning. There was no way she could survive what the rebel put her through. But he would pay for hurting Zoe. Fox would see to that if it were the last thing he did on this earth.

  Ten

  She came awake by degrees. First hearing a roaring in her ears, then slowly noticing the chilled dampness beneath her cheek. It wasn’t until the whisper of salt-laden breeze stirred the curls on her forehead that Zoe pried open her eyes.

  At first she couldn’t remember where she was or how she’d gotten here. She did know that every inch of her body hurt. Moaning, Zoe pushed up on her elbows and glanced around.

  She was on a rocky beach, her clothes and skin encrusted with sand, her shoes lapped by the frothy surf.

  What had happened?

  Zoe sat a little straighter as memories faded in and out of her mind. There was the sloop, Sea Maiden. And the storm. Zoe recalled the flooding below deck and their attempt to climb the ladder, hers and the Scot’s. He’d carried her up and together they leaped over the side into the sea.

  “Oh my.” She remembered it all now with a clarity that made her shiver. They’d jumped and gone under, the water churning and bubbling as if they’d suddenly fallen into a boiling caldron.

  But Keegan had held onto her and pushed her to the surface. They’d struggled, fighting their way toward the shore.

  And then...

  Zoe couldn’t remember anything else.

  “Keegan,” she said softly. Then pushing to her feet, she called his name again. Her gown was stiff with salt and uncomfortably damp, but Zoe ignored that as well as the ache in her head and her sore muscles as she scrambled down the beach.

  “Keegan, where are you?” Zoe jerked up her skirts after tripping over a torn petticoat. “Scot!” The beach, a small, semicircular cove surrounded by rocks was empty except for herself and a pair of noisy black rooks. Where could he be?

  Zoe’s eyes strayed toward the rocks offshore. They seemed so much closer in the light of day and with the storm blown off to some other place. But the sloop was still there, or what was left of it, looking like a broken toy, abandoned and forgotten by a spoiled child. The water between rock and shore was quieter now, a clear green that reminded Zoe of the Scot’s eyes.

  He couldn’t be there, sunk to the bottom, drowned. Tears burned her sore eyes. What if he was? What if he’d given her one last mighty push toward land only to flounder and sink beneath the sea.

  “No.” Zoe wiped at the tears that ran rivulets down her salt-stained cheeks. She couldn’t bear the thought of him, so strong and masculine, dead. “Damn you, Scot,” Zoe mumbled as she slogged through the surf, ignoring her soaked shoes and hem. She might hate the fact that he was dead but she also realized she shouldn’t. He was her kidnapper. Her darling brother’s sworn enemy. Why should she care that she’d survived the storm and he hadn’t?

  Wasn’t this the answer to her prayers? She’d find out where she was and get word to Fox... Zoe glanced about at her desolate, windblown surroundings. Somehow. And then she’d go back to London and forget any of this ever happened.

  Except that she was crying in earnest now and thinking of such foolish things as the way the Scot’s lips turned up and his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And that the sun could make his dark hair shine with burnished highlights as bright as any copper penny. And that when he held her she felt warm and safe despite the fact that he was a renegade outlaw.

  “Oh Keegan, please don’t be dead,” she sobbed, then jerked to attention as she heard a strange noise. It was somewhat like the keening of the wind, but deeper. And it came from behind a large rock jutting out into the surf. Cautiously she stepped into the waves and peered around the glistening limestone.

  Then she was trudging through the cold water as quickly as she could. “Keegan. Keegan, are you all right?” He lay face up, his eyes closed, a nasty purplish-red welt peeking from beneath the tangled hair on his forehead.

  Zoe dropped to her knees beside him, touching his shoulder. He made no sound now, nor did he move, even when she called his name. Rocking back on her heels Zoe let her eyes travel down his body. She couldn’t see anything wrong with him other than the bruise, and his chest moved up and down. He was breathing.

  What was she to do? With all the times Miss Phelps had nursed her, Zoe felt she should have some idea what was to be done. But she didn’t. Gingerly her fingers traced the outline of his wound, careful not to put pressure on it. Then her fingers strayed down his cheek, brushing across the rough whiskers to find the sensual line of his lips. They moved ever so slightly when Zoe’s thumb skimmed across them.

  She’d admired his lips even from the first when he frightened her the most. They were strong and firm and resolute. Zoe smiled despite the circumstances. Odd to describe someone’s mouth as resolute. But the Scot’s was. And it intrigued her.

  As feathery as mist, Zoe slid her fingertips along the seam of his lips, slipping along the moisture. His breath warmed her flesh, a deep even rhythm that soothed her worried mind. One couldn’t breathe so well and not be all right. Could one?

  Zoe’s gaze slipped back to the nasty wound on his head. Zoe sighed. She really should do something. Perhaps if she could find some help. But as her fingers reluctantly trailed off his mouth, he moaned. It wasn’t a loud sound, but it was there, as plaintive as the wind.

  It was almost as if he didn’t want her to leave him. Foolish as it was, she felt the same. Without thinking of the consequences Zoe leaned forward. Now her lips caressed his. Lightly. Carefully so as not to hurt him she learned the texture. Tasted the salt. And him.

  Something inside her ignited with the same odd joyous ache that was no stranger to her now. His lips were smooth, a delicious contrast to the whiskers that tickled the delicate skin of her chin. She longed to rub her hands over him, to feel the wide shoulders and brawny arms visible beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. She longed to be drawn into him in a way she could only imagine.

  But she did none of that. She held herself stiffly, her eyes closed, letting only the subtle movement of her mouth breathe life into him.

  So absorbed was she in the way her body reacted to the slight
contact, Zoe didn’t realize at first when his own lips came to life. The pressure, so deliciously light, wove slow, heated spirals of desire through her. Then his lips opened and his tongue, so wet and aggressive startled her. Zoe’s eyes flew open.

  And she stared directly into the bottomless green depths of his.

  “Oh.” Embarrassed into motion, Zoe tried to jerk away, only to discover that he’d managed to cup the back of her head with his palm. He held her motionless a mere whisper’s breath from him, staring at her intensely.

  “ ’Tis alive ye are?” he said, his voice rising in question.

  Zoe swallowed, then nodded. “It would seem so.”

  “Would it now?” The fine lines beside his eyes deepened as he smiled. “I’d’ve sworn ’twas a heavenly angel greetin’ me with a kiss.”

  Heat flooded Zoe’s cheeks. She tried to pull away again only to have his arm tighten. For a man newly waking from an unconscious state, he was amazingly strong. “I... I wasn’t sure you were alive. You’ve a nasty bruise on your head.”

  “Aye.” Keegan wrinkled his brow but did not loosen his hold on Zoe. “It feels as if a giant claymore crashed down over me.”

  “I think it more likely a brush with the rocks off shore.”

  “Is that what ye think?” His tone was low... seductive.

  “Yes.” Zoe wetted her suddenly dry lips.

  “Why?” The single word question seemed to weave invisible threads about Zoe.

  “Why what?” Zoe shut her eyes so he couldn’t see what a coward she was, for she knew exactly what he meant. He must have known as well for he said nothing else, simply pulled her closer, filling her senses with him. Unable to continue in the dark, Zoe opened her eyes. “It was just a kiss,” she said.

  “Was it now?” His eyes narrowed. “It seemed like more t’ me.”

  “I feared you were dead, and then I found you and you were hurt... obviously.” Zoe blinked. “I didn’t know what to do so—”

  “So ye kissed me.”

  Embarrassment flustered her senses... at least those that weren’t overwhelmed by him. Zoe tried to pull away again. “You needn’t concern yourself,” Zoe said in a haughty tone that she hardly recognized as her own. “It shan’t happen again.”