All over her dresses.
Callum Lamont stared ahead of him, fingering his rapier. He was not in the best of moods. He’d been cheated of a grand treasure. True, he’d found some satisfaction in sending both Charles Murdoch and his bitch-wife to their deaths, but that satisfaction had long since disappeared, leaving only impotent anger.
He’d been hasty. He saw that now. But he’d been so very angry. Not only had Charles Murdoch kept secret the message from their “friend” that outlined the route of a richly laden French yawl, but he’d used four of Callum’s own men to wreck the damn thing and hide the booty in one of the—Callum looked up at the ceiling and pensively scratched his chin—five? ten thousand? caves or inlets or underwater grottoes that lined the coast. Cheeky bastard.
Charles, Callum thought darkly, had not been a very good associate—not like his “real” partner. Though that devil gave Callum the shivers, what with the way he was always poking holes in his own skin.
Murdoch would have gotten away with his treachery, too, if Callum’s partner hadn’t warned him. When Callum had found out what Murdoch had done, he’d killed him along with his wife, maintaining just enough presence of mind to set the bodies in Murdoch’s yacht and wreck it against the reefs. Then he’d gone in search of his men and the treasure that was rightfully his. So far, so good.
But then, the unthinkable had happened. He’d discovered that Charles Murdoch had killed the men who’d aided him— Callum’s men—to keep them from either disclosing his treachery or going off with the treasure themselves. At any rate, the men were dead. Blast Murdoch’s sly eyes. That had been some months ago, and he’d yet to find the treasure.
Callum drained the last of his whisky. The door banged open, and Callum lifted his head, expecting some of his lads to join him. Instead, the tall “driver” for the dark woman entered. He had the stink of a soldier about him, starting with that jacket and ending with the claymore strapped between his shoulders. And he looked familiar.
Callum cocked his head, considering whether the militia had sent him. Nah. The man was probably just a deserter who’d kept his coat out of sentiment or ire. The militia hadn’t stopped one boat from landing, and that, or so he’d been told, rankled Captain Watters, the replacement for the officer who’d been killed.
Callum’s dark mood lightened.
The tall man swept the plaid from his shoulders, looking around the room with the natural caution of a man used to danger. His gaze checked on Callum, then moved up the stairs before he crossed the room and commandeered a chair, calling for Brodie to bring him a whisky.
Brodie complied at once, answering the stranger’s imperious manner as much as his tone. Both irritated Callum Lamont. He didn’t like lads getting above themselves, lest that lad was himself. Callum Lamont was the King of Commoners. Nodding to Brodie to bring him another whisky, he rose and made his way over to the Highlander.
“What regiment did you run off from?”
The stranger slowly raised his gaze. His eyes were pale and dark at the same time, like ice coating basalt, all sparkling clear on the surface and ebon depths beneath. God. Where had he seen this bastard before?
“I don’t recall being introduced to you.”
Callum’s brows flew up. “Introduced, is it? My, aren’t we grand?” He dragged a nearby chair to the opposite side of the table, swung his leg over it, and sat down. “No,” he answered his own question, leaning forward, his hands flat against the table’s surface, “we’re not grand. We’re Highland rubbish, is what we are.”
“Are we?” The newcomer met Callum’s gaze uninterestedly.
“I did not hear your name.”
The light, deep eyes flickered up. “I didn’t give it.”
“Well, you might consider giving it now.”
With the speed of a striking serpent, twin daggers suddenly appeared in each of the Highlander’s fists and slammed deep into the table, scoring Callum’s wrists as they pinned his sleeves to the wood surface. Calmly, the stranger released the hilts and lifted his cup to his mouth. He took a drink. “Or I might not.”
Callum’s lips twitched. “You don’t want me for an enemy, lad.”
“I don’t want you at all… lad.”
“My men’ll be comin’ soon. They’re not a nice crew.”
“ ’Struth?” the Highlander asked with more amusement than trepidation.
“They’re the sort of lads who like a brawl.” Callum’s voice dipped suggestively. “Or a good lay.” His gaze moved suggestively toward the stairway.
The Highlander followed his gaze and then looked back at Callum’s sneering visage.
“Unfortunate you can’t do both at the same time now, isn’t it? But a man can only be in one place at a time,” he said, confident the stranger would heed his none-too-subtle threat.
The Highlander’s hand shot out, seizing Callum by the throat. For a second, Callum was too amazed to react, then he was fighting for his life. Without the least change of expression, the stranger’s grip tightened.
Exploding lights skittered across Callum’s vision. He heard a rattling sound and through a fog of pain recognized it as himself, trying to breathe.
“Do not ever,” he heard the Highlander say quietly, “ever threaten Mrs. Blackburn again.”
But prudence had never been Callum’s strong suit. He couldn’t back down from this man. Not in front of Brodie.
“She’ll be thanking me when I’m done with her!” he gasped, finally wrenching his arms free. But weakened, he could only claw uselessly at the hand tightening inexorably around his throat.
Above him, eyes as remorseless and cold as the arctic seas gazed down at him. A memory bubbled through the panic gripping him. Green eyes. Guinea gold hair. A filthy, undernourished lad with green eyes and a cold savagery in him that made Callum think he might be useful someday. Might be worth troubling over. Might be worth—
“You gonna kill the man what saved yer hide, Christian MacNeill?” The grip around his throat eased a fraction. The cool eyes flickered with sudden recognition.
“Aye!” Callum croaked in triumph. “Ye owe me. Ye can’t take me life, ye bastard!”
He could feel his windpipe crushing under the brute force of a grip used to wielding a claymore. His ears thrummed with pressure. Darkness covered him and he heard Christian MacNeill say, “It wasn’t much of a life anyway.”
And he knew nothing more.
LeMons Castle dungeon, France May 1799
“Watch out!” The Englishman launched himself into Kit’s side, knocking him down. Kit rolled and exploded upright, spinning around just in time to see a blade bury itself in the snarling Frenchman’s throat as a dagger dropped from the dead man’s hand.
Kit’s heart raced thickly. He knew the dead man, a savage beast who preyed on the young men in the prison and who’d become enamored of Kit’s green eyes. Until Kit had disenamored him with his fists.
“Thank you,” Kit said, turning to his champion.
The Englishman nodded, panting, toward the dead man. “He was goin’ to kill you.”
“Thank God you saw what he was about,” Douglas said as he and Dand appeared.
“Lucky for you I saw what the bastard was up to.” The Englishman nodded vigorously “I reckon you owe me proper, in’t that right?”
“Indeed.” Ramsey arrived, taking in the situation at once. “Ask and you shall receive. What’s the price of a man’s life these days? More to the point, what do you want?”
“I know you.” He pointed at Ram. “I seen you with a stick, playing at swords, with some of these Frenchie bastards. Look real good doing it. Elegant-like.”
Ram inclined his head. “You are too kind.”
“That’s what I want. I want you to teach me how to do all that fancy swordwork.”
“I am in your debt. Not him,” Kit said coolly.
“So you are, but I ain’t seen nothing you have that I want. Yet.”
“Leave off, Kit.” Ram shrug
ged. “Cut off your arm and pitch it at the poor bugger, you bloody prideful Scottish cur, if you think your honor demands it, but then let me have my bit of fun, will you? It should at least help relieve the tedium between beatings.”
“All right.” Kit allowed grudgingly. “But someday I’ll repay him.”
SIXTEEN
TEMPTATIONS, ENTICEMENTS, AND LURES AWAITING THE UNWARY LADY
KIT TIGHTENED HIS HOLD, and Lamont’s heels drummed against the floorboards. The innkeeper, witness to God knows how many acts of violence, discreetly disappeared. At the last moment, Kit released his grip and dropped the gasping man like a pox-plagued rat.
With a sound of disgust, Kit stepped over his onetime savior. Kit MacNeill always paid his debts: it was the only reason the bastard still drew breath. But if he ever threatened Kate again—by implication, word, or act—he was dead.
He gazed dispassionately down at the unconscious man, studying his features. He hadn’t recognized him. None of them had been shaven; all of them had been encrusted with fleas and sores and filth. But the rapier should have struck a chord. Whoever used a rapier but Ram and his pupil? Kit scowled. Could Ram have sent him up here?
A female’s cry of distress abruptly canceled Kit’s half-formed thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, pulling the clay more from its scabbard on his back in a smooth, lethal motion. Kate’s door stood open, and inside she lay huddled on the floor, her face buried in her hands. Her indigo cape had fallen off one naked shoulder. His heart thundered thickly in his chest. If anyone had touched her—
He shut the door and glided past her, his gaze sweeping the room. There was no place to hide; they were alone. He turned back to her.
“Look at me, lass,” he demanded tautly. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.” She shook her head and her inky tresses streamed out, catching and releasing glints of candlelight. “Why did someone have to do this?”
Do this… ? He looked around and so for the first time noted the condition of the room. Around them lay pieces of porcelain and glass, splintered wood and torn papers. Someone had destroyed most of the contents of her trunk.
But she hadn’t been harmed.
“Are you sure you are not hurt?”
“I didn’t even see anyone.” She lifted her face. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks.
He relaxed, allowing the readiness to ease back a notch, and slipped the claymore back into its scabbard. Now that he knew she was unhurt, relief flooded him, and with it a dawning awareness of her state. He fervently wished it hadn’t. It had been possible to ignore her body when she’d been bundled in her indigo cape and the monk’s sturdy wool gown. But her movement had caused the cape to slip off her shoulders, and the thin chemise she wore beneath did nothing to conceal her body. Lace flirted with the top of her bosom, and a white satin ribbon trailed provocatively down the shadowed valley between her breasts. Beneath the thin white material, her areolas gleamed like late buds beneath first snowfall. His mouth went dry with longing.
“Why are you crying then?” He sounded rough and accusatory when, in fact, his accusation was solely for himself. What sort of animal was he to go from fear to lust so quickly?
Her hand fell on the dress piled beside her, her fingers plucking weakly at it. “They’re ruined. All ruined.”
The gown? he thought incredulously. All her tears were over a bloody gown?
“It’s just a dress.”
“No.” She shook her head in violent denial. “No, it’s not. It was my way out.”
Her way out. She had no idea of the depth of the cut she dealt him with those few words.
“Is it so intolerable, not having wealth?” He could not hide his sneer. “Not having pretty dresses?”
She looked up at him, her eyes brilliant with tears.
“Yes!” she cried. “It is. Intolerable. Do you find that superficial?” she demanded. “Well, I am sick unto death of apologizing for not wanting to be poor—as if that desire is somehow cowardly and iniquitous and the endurance of poverty is noble and virtuous.
“There’s nothing noble in poverty, MacNeill. Poverty is cold and desperate and anxious—always anxious. It stands by and watches men get sliced open and doesn’t dare interfere. Then it chokes you with guilt for surviving.”
He frowned, uncertain where her rage came from but knowing without doubt that it was not because of a ruined dress. He reached down to help her up, but she snatched herself back, glaring up at him.
“I want back what I once had. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to watch a man get killed and do nothing to stop it—” She broke off. “And I would. Because I know how afraid she was!”
She? Who had Kate been talking to? “Kate, I am sorry you—”
“No! Do not dare comfort me!”
She’d pressed her hands flat against the floor on either side of her. “I won’t graciously accept living the rest of my life like this, as if I had somehow conspired at my state and was paying a penance for some sin.”
She pushed herself to her feet, standing toe to toe with him, her dark eyes filled with angry challenge. Her cape billowed and fell, drifting to the floor. “He died, not me!”
Her father? He stood above her, finally understanding.
“I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t supposed to be a widow and an orphan.” Her voice cracked, anguish abruptly replacing her rage. “And I know there are others who have endured far grimmer fates than I, and that I should be grateful things aren’t worse. But I can’t. I’m not. I’m not noble enough to welcome crumbs.” Her voice broke. “I’m so tired of being afraid, of fearing what challenge the next day will bring. Of fearing that I might not be able to meet it. “
“I understand.”
“Do you?” she whispered.
She gazed somberly up at him, and he would surely drown in her eyes, get so lost he would never find his way back. He cupped her face between his palms. He had no right to kiss her. He’d promised her and himself he wouldn’t.
He’d lied.
It had been nearly four years since Kate had quickened to a man’s touch or she’d arched with instinctive welcome beneath a man’s body. Nearly four years since she had wanted and been wanted in return.
It all came rushing back so swiftly that she grew light-headed, sensation igniting long-dormant instincts like lightning to a deadfall. Her knees buckled, and Kit caught her, lowering them both to their knees and loop ing his arm tightly about her waist, binding her to the hard masculine wall of his chest.
His lips never left hers.
With his free hand he clasped her chin, tipping her face up and holding it as if afraid she would turn away. He needn’t have. She kissed him back, her mouth opening to taste him with tongue as well as lips: tangy male, salty and rich.
He pulled back, spreading his hand across the base of her spine just above the flare of her buttocks and slowly pressing her against him, molding her against the hard male ridge. His eyes were no longer light and chill, but dark and reckless.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he said. But he did not let her go. “I shouldn’t have kissed you again. I swore I wouldn’t.”
“I want you to kiss me,” she answered, desire destroying modesty.
“No.” He shook his head, stumbling to his feet. Without his support, she sank down atop her ruined gowns.
“Not two days ago I swore that I would not touch you again.”
She reached up and placed her palm flat against his belly. A tremor rippled through him. He stared down at her hand, struck still at her touch. When he lifted his head, his eyes were terrible with conflict, damning her, pleading with her. Wanting her.
“I do not remember my husband’s embrace.” She had to make him understand things she barely understood herself. “I was married for six months, and we enjoyed tenderness and affection, and we made love, but I do not remember it. Except in dreams. And of
late, I dream of you.”
A strangled sound rose from Kit’s throat. “Jesus, Kate.”
“You kissed me, and I have been burning ever since. Your kiss burned away everything.” She held his gaze. “Everything but you.”
He looked stricken, trapped. “I’m sorry. I took that kiss. I shouldn’t have.”
“I do not accept your apology.”
“What else can I do?”
She lowered her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze. “Make love to me,” she whispered breathlessly, stunned by her own boldness. “Make me forget. Make something for me to remember.”
He raked his hair back from his face with trembling fingers, pacing as he spoke. “You don’t mean this. You’re scared, and you’re feeling vulnerable. You want comfort. Not a lover.”
She did not say a word, only tracked him with dark, enigmatic eyes.
“You should have a gentleman lover to kiss your fingertips and write love letters and whisper poetry.”
Still, she did not speak.
“I’m not that man, Kate. I’m not a gentleman, Kate, I’m a soldier. All I have, all I am, is ferocity.” The words grated out, vehement and apologetic. “It is all I know.”
He moved past her, heading for the door, but she snagged his wrist, stopping him, forcing him to look at her. She pulled at him until he sank again to his knees, conflict playing over his stark features: darkness and light, honor and disgrace, hope and despair.
“I don’t believe that.” Her fingers curled around the neck of his shirt, the weight of her hand dragging it open over his chest. The dark hairs covering his chest sprang crisply under her knuckles. His body was hard and supple, muscular and sleekly toned.
“God. Please.” He closed his eyes, pulling her hand away from him, struggling for words. ’Tisn’t my place. That will someday belong to another.”
My Seduction Page 16
