Seductive Surrender

by Collette Cameron

  Then nothing—until now.

  He licked parched lips and closed his eyes for a long blink, willing the tormenting, brain piercing, thundering in his head to ease a jot.

  God, what he wouldn’t give for a drink of water. Or better yet, a tot or two of Ewan’s superb whisky.

  A sudden vision of coppery red hair framing a creamy, perfectly oval face from which glinted two turbulent bottle-green, umber lashed eyes, clambered to the forefront of his mind.

  Ach, the ravishing ginger-haired angel.

  He skewed his lips into a tiny arc—as much as he dared given his pummeled face.

  No, angels abided in heaven, and haloes of shimmering red hair didn’t frame their faces.

  Did they?

  But she’d been far too bonny to be a deamhan.

  He’d dreamed he’d gone to hell, and that exquisite face had floated over him.

  He could still smell her sweet, fresh essence. Oranges and vanilla and flowers. Could see the smattering of coppery freckles on her perfect little upturned, rather saucy nose, and her peach-tinted rosebud mouth bent compassionately. The flecks of gold simmering in her arresting eyes lit a receptive, spine-jolting spark deep in his chest.

  Despite his sorry state, his cock pulsed.

  A familiar snort sounded near his ear.

  Och. Thank God. Bran.

  He’d feared for his equestrian friend.

  Dugall’s relieved grin promptly transformed into a grimace as agony speared his face once more. He sucked in a raggedy breath. Christ. He might have to add a broken jaw and nose to his list of injuries.

  “Ah, you’re awake. Good. You’ve had us all quite worried.”

  Riding Bran, the red-haired vision patted the stallion’s withers. Head slightly cocked—the black feather in her quaint impractical hat perched at a jaunty angle atop her glorious mass of red curls—she regarded him, her vivid green-eyed gaze curious but wary.

  She possessed an unusual accent; like nothing he’d ever heard before. Soothing and lyrical, soft around the edges, and the slightest bit annoying in the manner it lengthened all of her words.

  Like cold heather honey dripping from a spoon, sweet and syrupy, yet maddeningly unhurried.

  “Your horse is magnificent. Truly one of the grandest I’ve ever seen, and my grandpapa raised Thoroughbreds.”

  Astonishment fueling him, Dugall summoned the strength to sit up straighter. Teeth clamped against the razing torture the movement caused, he raked his gaze over her shapely form.

  Her beauty clobbered him like a sudden blow from a cudgel, and his nether region reacted with renewed enthusiasm.

  Attempting to ignore the appendage’s eager pulsing, he focused his bleary vision on the exquisite creature straddling Bran.

  Wait a hell-fired moment.

  She rode Bran?

  She actually rode Bran?

  The temperamental, high-spirited stallion never allowed anyone to ride him except Dugall. Anyone stupid enough to try received a fierce bite or a well-placed kick.

  Up until now.

  How the devil had this supple nymph managed it?

  Dugall’s pained focus narrowed further.

  And what the devil was she wearing?

  Her slate-colored jacket looked similar to riding habits his sisters wore, though the dark blue braiding embellishing the front emphasized her full breasts straining against the fastenings.

  Something he sure as Odin hadn’t noticed about his sisters.

  But unlike any skirt he’d seen before, her odd garment permitted her to ride astride.

  Ending just above her ankles, the hem revealed the top of neat black half-boots and the merest, deliciously tantalizing peek of shapely azure stocking-covered calves.

  His regard leisurely gravitated up the length of her impossibly, Amazonian long legs. Though her feet didn’t quite reach the stirrups, she was still tall. Very tall.

  Tall enough for me.

  Chapter 4

  Amusement jerked one side of Dugall’s mouth.

  Now there was an incongruous thought.

  Probably dredged from the inane, nonsensical mental ramblings of an addled sot who’d been knocked soundly upon his nog and had yet to regain his full wits.

  The woman’s pretty bow-shaped mouth tilted upward, slightly higher on the left side, making the gesture all the more endearing. “We’ll arrive at Suttford House soon.”

  Something akin to strain accented her high cheekbones, or a cacophony of lowing cattle, brass horns, and discharging cannons weren’t ringing between his ears.

  Once at Suttford House, then what?

  Was he to remain constrained?

  Not damned likely. Curiosity about her was the only thing that kept him from demanding his bonds be cut immediately.

  “Just another mile or two, I’ve been told,” she said with an upward tilt of her mouth and a quick downward flick of her expressive eyes, her auburn lashes casting shadows on her ivory cheeks.

  The luster of her smile had him blinking like an inebriated cull. Mayhap he’d injured his head far worse than he’d first suspected. Else why would he react so powerfully and unpredictably?

  Blessed with a physique and countenance women found most appealing, he’d had his pick of lasses since his teens. None had him acting the jester within minutes of meeting, however.

  She stroked Bran’s neck affectionately and envy burned through Dugall.

  “Truthfully, though I am eager to end our journey, I’d rather enjoy a longer jaunt on this impressive boy,” she said. “I’ve missed riding more than I realized.”

  What was that accent? Where the devil was she from?

  Wait.

  He blinked to clear the lingering fog from his head.

  Had she said Suttford Hall a minute ago?

  Damn his eyes.

  Nae good. Nae good at all.

  Not only did longstanding enmity lay between the residents of Craiglocky Keep and Suttford House, but hell’s very own spawn, Lloyd Hollingsworth, lived there.

  Dugall hadn’t laid eyes on him since they attended Edinburgh Law School together. However, the last time he’d seen Hollingsworth, Dugall had threatened to break his nose for trying to cheat an obviously new-to-her-profession light-skirt out of her coin.

  Dugall had paid the girl a tidy sum to leave Edinburgh and start her life over somewhere.

  He truly hoped she had.

  And by God, a creature as exquisite as the one riding beside this wagon wouldn’t be safe from Hollingsworth’s advances. But how to tell her that when they’d only met, couldn’t even be considered acquaintances?

  Acquaintances . . .?

  He smothered a derisive laugh.

  Prisoner was more apt, the ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles reminded him. As if she’d listen to advice from him in any event. He was a stranger. She’d no reason to take him at his word.

  Bran nickered again, angling his big head toward Dugall.

  “Traitor. Reic mi a-mach airson paidhir de sleamhainn thights straddling thu, a rinn sibh?” Dugall murmured softly in Gaelic. The stallion enjoyed her slim thighs straddling him, lucky beast.

  Face animated, joy darkened her eyes to the smoky, mystical shade of Wyre Woods just before dawn. “That was Gaelic you spoke just then, wasn’t it? My grandfather warbled a few phrases every now and again.”

  Och. Part Scots then. Her coloring hinted as such. Add intriguing and mysterious to her other tantalizing qualities.

  Dugall loved solving puzzles and riddles. Particularly ones involving a lass with malachite shards glittering in her eyes and the sun’s own fire ribboning her glorious cloud of hair.

  “I only know a few words.” She closed her eyes before testin
g the unfamiliar sounds on her tongue.

  “Granaidh, pòg, tapadh leat, mo muirnín and tha goal agam ort.”

  Her eyes popped open, and acute consternation flooded her features after she said the last phrases, “my darling” and “I love you.”

  Dugall scratched Bran’s neck, seeking to distract her from her disquiet. “Aye. I was but reassurin’ him. He’s a braw laddie, but the attack last night frightened him. One cowardly knave cudgeled him, and he charged off. Which was why I was afoot when I tried to flag down yer coach.”

  Sodding lie, that.

  Not the Bran running off bit, but the reassuring Bran codswallop. Dugall wasn’t about to reveal he’d chastised the horse for succumbing to the temptation to have that goddess straddle him.

  Plain and simple, Dugall envied the fortunate animal.

  “I’m surprised to hear he fled, poor creature. He was probably terrified. He didn’t leave your side the entire time you remained unconscious.” The lass’s lush mouth slid into an admiring smile, revealing a dimple in her right cheek Dugall hadn’t noticed before. “I gave him his head, because he seemed so anxious to be near you.”

  “His name’s Bran, and he’s never let anyone else mount him before. You must have bewitched him.”

  Or her lovely thighs had. Dugall attempted a wink, but when his puffy eye refused to cooperate he settled for a wry twist of his mouth.

  “Really?” A pleased flush mounted her cheeks as wonder filled her melodic, drawling voice. “Gracious me, then I’m truly honored, handsome boy.”

  She bent low, crooning in the stallion’s ear.

  The movement thrust her full breast near Dugall’s head, and he could’ve no more torn his gaze from their plump splendidness, than scooped out his own eyes with a salt spoon.

  Bran, the turncoat, pricked his ears and swiveled them toward her low murmuring.

  Fickle beast.

  Something very much like jealousy pelted against Dugall’s chest.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  He was not envious of his blasted horse.

  “Bran? What does it mean?” She chatted as if they’d just met and shared tea and shortbread biscuits together in Craiglocky’s parlor instead of him essentially being held hostage.

  “Raven. Because he’s pitch black.”

  “Ah. It suits him.” She veered her attention to the treetops. “Speaking of ravens. Do you see that black and white bird?”

  She pointed to a hooded crow, and Dugall permitted a tiny, satisfied smile as he gingerly turned his head.

  “That’s a hooded crow.”

  “We don’t have them in the part of America I’m from. Just all black ones.”

  Well, at least he had a partial answer to where she was from. “What part of America? My sister-in-law owns a shippin’ company in Boston.”

  “South Carolina. Born and raised.” His mysterious rescuer squinted at the treetops. “I believe the bird might be following us. At first, I thought it my imagination, but now I’m convinced the strange thing is actually matching our progress.”

  Dugall chuckled, and winced when his head strenuously objected to the minute movement by launching cracking pain from ear to ear. “She is. That’s Coronis, and she’s my pet. I rescued her as a nestlin’ two years ago. She remembers, and now winna leave me. I suspect she thinks I’m her mither.”

  He whistled, and Coronis squawked an answer before swooping down to land beside him in the wagon. Issuing a grating coo, she cocked her head at the woman. “When she gets used to ye, I’ll let ye feed her. She’s a glutton for shortbread.”

  Twisting in the saddle to look at them more fully, the lass’s mouth sagged slightly. “She’s your pet? How utterly fascinating. I’ve never owned anything more exciting than a cat, though I’ve always wanted a pet squirrel.” A chagrined smile curved her closed mouth. “Silly, I know.”

  Coronis set about grooming her feathers as if bouncing along in a wagon were an everyday occurrence for her.

  The lass’s self-conscious smile revealed her vulnerability. It caused a weird tightening behind Dugall’s bruised ribs. He didn’t want to ponder why. Instead, he raised his hands.

  “Why am I bound?”

  Her gaze skipped away for an instant, but she drew it back and met his perusal square on.

  He liked that.

  She wasn’t afraid to be direct. She was brave, too.

  Honesty in her gaze, she notched one well-shaped shoulder upward.

  “A necessary precaution. I’m traveling with my young niece and nephew and had to assure their safety foremost. Although I did try to see to your comfort despite our inadequate supplies. I washed your face as best I could, too. You’ve a couple of cuts that require stitching.” She tapped two fingers high on her forehead. “The one at your hairline’s the worst, but you’ll need to see the lot of them are thoroughly cleansed.”

  She’d wisely protected her wards and still considered a stranger’s comfort. No shallow, insipid miss here. In fact, though by no means past her prime, a woman’s gentle maturity and experience had replaced youth’s first dewy bloom and naiveté.

  A widow perhaps?

  No telltale bulge graced her ring finger.

  Auburn brows high on her smooth, creamy forehead, her attention strayed to the mound supporting his spine. “Might I ask who you are?”

  The driver perked up and angled toward the wagon bed, his attention swerving between Dugall and the lass. The driver slowly lowered his left hand, pointedly revealing the weapons tucked at his middle, his meaning clear as Loch Arkaig in January.

  Dugall inclined his head as much as he dared. “I’m Dugall Ferguson, brother to Laird Ewan McTavish of Craiglocky Keep.”

  “Oh.” Her gorgeous, bright green eyes rounded, and she nervously wet her lower lip with her adorable pink tongue.

  The only part of his anatomy not bruised or sore lurched to attention.

  Down, ye mangy mongrel. Now nae be the time.

  “Hey, Murray?” The driver hollered to the coach trundling in front. “This cove says he’s related to some fella named McTavish.”

  “McTavish, ye say?”

  Dugall craned his neck to see who spoke. His ungrateful head rewarded him by kicking his brains from side to side again, much like a porcelain marble in a china teacup.

  From the driver’s seat, an elfin Scot wearing a shabby tam, scratched his bristly jaw and peered around the side of the coach before them.

  “The McTavishes of Craiglocky Keep?”

  Chapter 5

  “The very same.” Dugall met the lass’s wary glance.

  So Murray knew of Craiglocky, but had he knowledge of the Fergusons who lived there?

  Murray cupped his ear. “What was that? Be he a McTavish clansman?”

  The lass nodded, her delicate jaw taut and her slender backbone ramrod rigid. “Yes, that’s what he said, Mr. Murray.”

  “Ye do have the build and coloring of the younger brother.” Murray spat upon the ground and after wiping the back of his hand across his face, demanded, “What be the laird’s name?”

  God, must they have this conversation while the wagon yet juddered Dugall’s spine? He feared he was about to heave his haggis. If he had anything in his hollow-as-a-beggar’s-stomach to hurl.

  Mouth gone grim, the lovely lass regarded him keenly. Almost apprehensively.

  Nae. Nae almost about it. She was anxious.

  “Ewan McTavish, also known by the English title Viscount Sethwick.” Dugall quirked his mouth, and the lass’s speaking, verdant eyes rounded even more before her dismayed gaze dropped to his bound hands.

  Her expressive eyes gave away her every thought. She drew her winged brows together into a troubled frown.

  Bran must’ve s
ensed her tension, because he lifted his head and pranced sideways.

  “Shh, it’s all right,” she assured him, expertly bringing him back under her control.

  Did she fear retaliation for plowing Dugall over, and then trussing him like a Hogmanay goose?

  Had he been traveling with children and come upon a stranger in his questionable condition, he’d have done the same.

  “Viscount, huh? Didna ken that,” Murray replied. He shifted so that he sat sideways on the drivers’ seat, his knobby-kneed legs bobbing like a marionette’s as the coach bumped along.

  “What be the McTavish cousins’ names?”

  What was this? A damned interrogation?

  Dugall gritted his teeth and inhaled a long-suffering breath.

  “Their names are Gregor and Alasdair. Their father, Ewan’s uncle and second in command, is Duncan McTavish. Duncan’s wife is named Kitta. My father, Hugh Ferguson, married Ewan’s mother, Giselle, and I have three older sisters, Adaira, Isobel, and Seonaid. They’re married to the Earl of Clarendon, the Earl of Ramsbury, and Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset, respectively.”

  The woman’s mouth slackened.

  He stopped to inhale again before forging onward despite the relentless nausea plaguing him.

  “Ewan and his wife, Yvette, have a son, Broderick, and twin daughters, Adreanna and Adelaide. They’ve two adopted children as well, Pedar and Iona.

  “The butler’s name is Fairchild.

  “The cook is Sorcha.

  “The bloody blacksmith is Niall.

  “And the Keep’s three boarhounds are named Tira, Arig, and Rona.”

  With an exhausted sigh, Dugall collapsed against the lumpy pile cushioning him.

  “Satisfied?” he all but growled.

  Her mouth forming a tempting ‘O’, the siren atop Bran nodded and blinked several times. Rather like a leery, befuddled bird.

  “Mercy me,” she murmured before presenting her profile.

  He regarded her silhouette’s elegantly curving contours, her lips now formed into a prim line.