by L. L. Muir
Did a few years in age make that much difference in how strongly a woman could feel? Or did it depend upon the man she loved? Clearly, there was something more compelling about Connor than just his physique. But what was it that made him so much more—enthralling than the others?
Was it just his heroism? Coming after her, to keep her safe? Rescuing her from McMurtry? Or was it the way he kissed? The way he looked into her eyes over the fire. All those times he surprised her in the trees, leaned her back against a sturdy trunk and ravished her mouth.
He couldn’t use Rory and Bridget as an excuse then, when no one could see them.
Perhaps he’d intended to create a habit, a need within her that only he could fulfill. Was he simply drugging her with his kisses so she would follow along and behave?
Well, her good behavior couldn’t be purchased so cheaply. She’d made certain he learned that when they fled from the wedding.
And yet, here he was. Just as she’d hoped, he’d come hunting again. Only this time, he’d stayed, with no reason to stay. Why?
This was madness. She should never have taken him hostage. If she’d have given herself a moment to calm, after glimpsing him through the window, she could have convinced herself to ignore him and been grateful they’d slipped past him.
It was a lie, to say she worried he would interfere. She’d been worried he wouldn’t!
Perhaps she hadn’t changed after all. Was she more sober after burying Black Brian? Certainly. Just not quite sober enough. For now, when faced with a new dilemma, she was sorely tempted to ask Connor for help.
But could he understand the pain of unrequited love? Was he at her side simply to make her smile again, or to soothe his pride?
William and Padruig were not like him. She’d looked into their eyes. She’d seen how truly smitten they were, how determined to keep the girls with them, to make them happy, and to take them to wife. They would be disappointed. Horribly so. As Rory would have been had Bridget refused to marry him in the end.
So she would need another plan—for mending a couple of bruised hearts. But one thing was certain—none of them would be heading north. Which only left south. Where kidnappers were watching the border with butterfly nets, fathers were watching that line with loaded guns and sharp blades. Where tempers ran so high, her little army might find themselves tarred, feathered, and hanged.
One boy had gone home after Black Brian died. That left nine of them still in her care. And if it was the last thing she did with her life, she would make sure they didn’t get caught and punished for all the Brians in the world.
In that, Connor McGee could be useful after all.
At least, that was the reason she would use for keeping him around.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mallory climbed out of the coach to see what the trouble was. “What do you mean, Connor is gone?”
Cleary stood beside his horse, struggling to catch his breath and explain at the same time. “Storm,” he finally said. “He said the storm would be severe and he and I went searching for shelter. We found a cottar with a large barn. Sir Connor sent me back to fetch the rest of ye while he dickers with the bonnet farmer.”
Mallory tried to hide her relief by narrowing her eyes at the sky. “I hope it is nearby. It seems as though Sir Connor is a prophet.”
The rain beating violently upon the roof of the carriage caused such a noise it drowned out the sound of the wheels on the road. Thankfully, they hadn’t traveled far when the conveyance slowed and turned off the path to the left, then rolled to a stop a few minutes later.
Mary lunged out into the storm without thought. Janine poked her head out, paused, then disappeared as well. Cleary came to the opening, holding his small, wet hat to his head with one hand and offering Mallory his other. She tried not to wish it was Connor who handed her down and pointed at the barn door, but she did.
Cleary helped Sim with the horses. Padruig and William were busy fussing over the girls. Kenneth and the rest plucked baggage from the carriage roof and the boot, then brought it to the barn. Some of the bags looked as soaked as the boys by the time they were all out of the rain.
She refused to ask where Connor might be. The cottage, on the other side of the wide yard, showed a woman’s hand. Small boxes, filled with yellow and red flowers, clung to the front of the house. Even without the torrent of rain obscuring Mallory’s view, the cottage appeared well kept. And if there was a woman inside those walls, she would be loath to let a handsome man like Connor take his leave.
It would be a long night indeed, if Connor never came out to join the rest of them in the barn…
Just as the hiss of rain began to lessen, the door of the cottage opened and Connor emerged, carrying a heavy pot.
“Let it be food,” Sim said. His loud voice startled her, for he’d been peeking over her shoulder and spoke close to her ear. She shared the sentiment.
Sim opened the door wider to allow Connor inside.
“The house is too wee for all of us, so we’ll eat out here,” Connor said. “Jorgeson will give up his house for the ladies. The rest of us will sleep in the loft. He’ll expect a bit of heavy lifting from us before we leave on the morrow.” He glanced around. “Kenneth, make yerself useful and go collect the dishes. Padruig, turn loose of that lass or mold will grow between ye.” He glanced at Mallory and winked.
“You’re in fine spirits,” she said. “Or perhaps some fine spirits made their way into you?”
He laughed. “Aye. I had a wee dram. If ye’d like the same, I will—”
“No. I think we should all keep our wits about us.”
He lowered his voice slightly. “And our hands to ourselves?”
Mallory gave him a little push. “I beg you do not add more devilish thoughts to their heads than they already have.”
William and Padruig took immediate offense.
“I was not referring to you.” She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the girls, who didn’t look offended at all. They put their heads together and giggled.
“God help us,” Connor murmured, though he probably hadn’t meant to pray aloud. But no one was laughing, since both the girls had turned their attention to him, looking him over like a chunk of beef they’d found in their stew.
“Cease your teasing, ladies.” Mallory struggled to keep her tone even. Now was not the time for the inevitable confrontation. They’d all learn soon enough that plans had to change, and hopefully, Connor wouldn’t be nearby when she had to explain why.
The girls dished up supper, which was a small batch of soup made weaker by a great deal of added water. But it had salt, and it was hot, and no one complained. Jorgeson, Connor said, ate his supper inside, so a couple of the boys wrestled over which of them would finish up the bit still left in the pot. Since they happened to be the two wearing kilts, she made sure the girls turned away, with her, and didn’t watch the competition.
Mallory was glad for a little privacy when she stepped outside to find the necessary. It was a small, tall box off to the south of the cottage. When she emerged, she washed her hands in a puddle of water gathered in an indentation on a long wooden table, the top of which was created out of a thick slice of a very large tree.
“You are out of time, Mallory.” Connor stepped away from a tree where he’d been standing in the evening shadows. A light puff of wind stirred the leaves above his head and he was gifted with his own little rainstorm as he came closer.
Despite his dire declaration, she laughed.
He paused slightly, then resumed his course, but she’d noticed. “The weather can blow me from Hell to Wednesday, and I will not give up, lass. I will not leave yer side until I ken that smile will keep.”
“You think the weather is trying to send you away?”
“If ye have any say in the matter, aye. Ye do not wish me to hear yer plan. And if I am right in my guess. I understand why.”
“Go on then, Sir Connor. What have you guessed?”
He b
egan to pace, circling around her, studying her person as if all her secrets were written on her clothing for anyone to read. So she studied him while she had the leisure to do so.
He still wore the familiar knots in his long hair, just above his temples, that kept the mass from falling into his face. She had nearly forgotten how smooth was the texture of his forehead, how the peaks in the center of his eyebrows made him appear quite menacing if it were not for the sly smile half-hidden in his dark whiskers.
Other than their coloring and size, Connor and Black Brian hadn’t had so much in common after all. She could see that now when she spied the flesh exposed at the top of Connor’s shirt, where the black fabric parted. Black Brian’s chest had been covered with hair. Connor’s was smooth and tanned from the sun. But one day, he would lose some fight, and his body would turn to cold clay, just like the other man’s.
He saw something on her face he didn’t like and ceased pacing. “What is it?”
Mal shook her head. “Nothing at all. I was merely waiting to hear your guess. What is it you think I mean to do?”
A puff of air from his nostrils told her he didn’t believe her dismissal, but he didn’t argue. “Ye mean to put those lads in dresses and the lassies in breeches, then dare all those fathers, gathered in Glasgow, to recognize their own daughters.”
She dared not breathe. “What… What did you say?”
His displeasure added furrows to that smooth brow. “Have I guessed it then? If so, I admit I am disappointed.”
Mal shook her head. “What did you say about fathers gathered in Glasgow? I thought they were gathered in Carlisle.”
He nodded. “Dozens of them. I assumed ye knew. And I assume there are just as many haunting Edinburgh.”
“Fathers?”
“Auch, aye. English fathers.” He folded his arms and considered the table for a moment, then sighed. “To allay yer fears, I did not see any Naylors on the lists.”
“Lists?”
“Aye. On the walls of the Constable’s office. For all and sundry to read. But how else are those fathers to find their wayward daughters? Beat the bushes with sticks while they call out their names?” He mumbled something unintelligible.
“What was that last part?”
He lowered his chin and stepped forward, grabbed her upper arms and pulled her close. “I said, if I were they, I would go home and tell their wives their daughters are dead. Let the bratlings fend for themselves, which is what they wanted in the first place, is it not?”
She searched Connor’s eyes while he searched hers. Did he know what he was saying? Did he mean to hurt her? Or had he forgotten that she was one of those daughters?
Oh, he remembered all right. And he still hadn’t forgiven her for leading him on a merry chase—or not so merry, it seemed.
She pushed her hurt feelings aside and smiled seductively, just to confuse him. “You are wrong.”
“Am I? You think these men should be tortured for weeks or months, wondering what their daughters are hunting for? Wondering what kind of man might be holding her for ransom? Knowing they can never repair the damage to her—”
“Reputation?”
“That, too. Tell me again how wrong I am.”
“Your guess was all wrong. You might have known me once, Connor McGee, but you do not know me now.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. And with a growl of frustration, he pulled her up against him and lowered his mouth to hers. Learning that he still wanted to kiss her, after everything, sent celebration through her veins, but she was determined not to fall in love with him again. His lips punished her, then begged her to remember other kisses…
But she would let no secrets pass her lips--primarily because she had no more secrets to keep. Her plan was no good. And until she thought of another, there was no real information to get from her. And when Connor seemed to sense that, perhaps realizing she was not turning to jelly in his arms, he ended the kiss and stepped back in one smooth movement. She almost reached out to pull him back.
Almost.
He opened his hands and released her arms, then seemed disappointed when she kept her balance.
The old Mallory could not resist taunting him. “Do not dismay, sir. You have not lost your touch…so much as you never had it in the first place.” She winked then, so he would wonder if she meant what she’d said—a trick she’d learned from watching Mary.
“I do not ken yer game, Mallory, but I will learn it. And I will beat ye at it. Mark my words.”
She chuckled and walked away. “Then you are doomed, Sir Knight. For words have nothing at all to do with it.”
Connor was afraid he knew exactly what Mallory was talking about. It was more of this swooping business. She didn’t want him to woo her, to profess his love for her. She wanted a pirate, a man of action. She wanted some grand demonstration to prove she was adored, wanted, needed.
Poor thing. She might wait all her life and never find a man foolish enough to bend to her wishes.
Mallory hurried back to the barn for a chance to speak with the others before Connor joined them again. Thankfully, he didn’t follow, and she had ample time to call them together. Speaking low, she warned them not to mention anything about their plans when Connor was within hearing. “He might thwart us yet. We cannot trust him.”
Sim and Kenneth exchanged a look that clearly said they were disappointed, but they both nodded in any case. “I like him,” Sim confessed.
“So do I,” the girls said in unison, which earned them a good frown from the young men holding their hands.
“We all do,” Mallory admitted. “But there is only one game the man knows how to play—to disapprove of anything we have planned, and to force his own will upon us. Be on guard. He will try to turn your heads, to flatter you, so you might speak freely.”
Heaven help her, even as she said it, she realized Connor’s interference might be just what they needed, but she would be damned before she’d admit it. If the girls weren’t in love with William and Padruig, they wouldn’t be sailing north with them. So, if Connor convinced them to go home to their fathers, all the better. And wasn’t that the important thing, for everyone to be safe?
William and Padruig’s hearts would be broken for certain, just as her own had been. But those hearts would mend, eventually, as hers had. At least she thought hers had. But there was still some of the rebellion left inside her, insisting that she absolutely could not let that Highlander win. She had to divine a plan to see them all safe and away from the Scottish border and thwart that infuriatingly handsome man while she was at it.
She glanced around at eleven young faces patiently waiting for further instruction, and she wondered…how many dresses they had on hand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As it happened, there was a Mrs. Jorgeson, but she was away visiting family. Her husband was a terribly shy man who didn’t want to speak to Mallory any more than necessary. In fact, he avoided looking in her direction while he explained where they would find the bed and more blankets.
“You are more than generous, sir,” Mallory said. “But we will make do here, on the floor, before the fire. We would not waste your firewood to warm the entire house.”
Begrudgingly, the girls pasted smiles on their faces and nodded in agreement. The man shrugged and scurried away, toward the barn. Connor lingered, looking around the cottage as if he might find one or two young men hiding in the corners.
Mallory gestured toward the open doorway. “Thank you, Sir Connor, but we will manage on our own, now.”
He grunted something unintelligible, then tested the window. “See that ye bar the door behind me, aye? And check the other windows.”
Mallory laughed. “It is a fact, sir, we have been females all our lives. We know to bar the door.”
He grunted again. “If we discuss all the times you have proven incapable of protecting yourself, my lady, none of us will find our rest.” He suddenly stepped up to her, bent over he
r. When she looked up to see what he was about, he kissed her, as if she’d asked him to. It was brief, but casual, as if he kissed her out of habit alone.
He nodded in the general direction of Janine and Mary, then ducked out the doorway.
The girls stared at the doorway for a moment, then turned to look at Mallory, their mouths still hanging open.
Mal rolled her eyes. “It is part of his game, that is all. He hopes I will let down my guard and confess our plans.” She slipped into the small bed chamber and emerged with three soft, clean blankets. “And since the two of you have no intention of marrying William and Padruig, let us hope another plan presents itself by morning.”
Thanks to God for large barns.
After an hour of maneuvering and outright struggles for territory, the lads finally ceased rolling about and lay still. Connor was prepared to send them all outside to sleep in the mud had they not settled when they did.
Jorgeson had taken his rest below. His snoring had likely kept him from hearing the ruckus in the loft, or they might all have been sent packing.
Connor might not have excused the man for his rude treatment of Mallory had he not understood. Not many men had cause to speak directly to such a beauty, and the shy farmer had no ken how to weather a simple conversation. Of course, Jorgeson might have been rude simply because she was an Englishwoman depriving him of his bed, but he’d had no trouble looking the other lasses in the eye.
No. Mallory Naylor affected nearly every man she met, as proven by nine acolytes scattered through the loft that night. Just as she’d won over the lads at Graham’s keep. Just as she’d won over…him.
He was grateful for the distraction of a conversation nearby, and strained to hear.
