Brigand

by Sabrina York

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and she meant it from the bottom of her heart.

  It was too bad the words weren’t loud enough for either of them to hear.

  Chapter Six

  Ewan flicked a page of his account book but wasn’t really paying attention. He forgot what he’d just read and flipped it back. Damn it. Where was his legendary sharp mind today? He just couldn’t focus.

  He refused to acknowledge why.

  He’d done the right thing, demanding that Morna move Violet to the cellar. He should have put her there the first day. She was a prisoner. A servant. She should be locked up at night in an uncomfortable cell, not hogging the covers in his bed and keeping him awake with an aching cock.

  It had been pure hell having her next to him at night, warm and fragrant—and not being able to touch her.

  That was the real reason he’d banished her, wasn’t it?

  It was one thing to lie there wanting her when she loathed him wholeheartedly. But the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was—who he’d been—changed everything. Her hate had softened, turned to something else entirely. Something that frightened him to death.

  He had always assumed she’d been the one to betray him to her vicious father. It was her fault he’d been punished so brutally that day. Her fault he and his mother had been cast out of service in disgrace.

  He’d always assumed she hadn’t given a fig what had become of him.

  But now—given her reaction when she realized his identity—he questioned all that.

  No one would tell me where you’d gone, she’d said, and in a ravaged tone as though she’d wept for hours, for days when he’d left.

  Maybe she had said something about that kiss to her father. But maybe it hadn’t been a deliberate attempt to get rid of him. Maybe she hadn’t realized what the consequences might be for a servant boy who’d taken liberties with the master’s daughter.

  So the question remained, if her betrayal hadn’t been intentional, did it matter any less? The results didn’t change. Would never change.

  But still, her expression haunted him.

  Ewan raked his fingers through his hair and growled under his breath. He had hated Violet Wyeth for most of his life. He had spent many long, hungry nights in a cold garret room, plotting revenge. Whenever he’d had to commit some foul act, something that stole a chunk of his soul, he’d thought of her. Assigned to her the burden of his guilt.

  That she might have been innocent of this perfidy was too much to contemplate. Such a truth would rock the foundations of his entire world. He did not want to contemplate it.

  So he did what any sane man would do.

  He avoided her. Holed himself up in his office with orders he should not be disturbed.

  The last thing he wanted was to finish the conversation she’d started in his chamber. No, the last thing he wanted was to answer the burning question she’d asked. Where did you go?

  He couldn’t bear the retelling.

  And frankly, he didn’t want her to know the true depth of his fall from grace. It was better that she not know. That she never know.

  A scratch came at the door. “Come,” he barked.

  Pippin entered with a tray. “Your dinner.”

  Ewan’s gaze snapped up. He’d never heard Pip speak to him in such a sharp tone. He’d found the boy in the dark, rat-infested alleys of Perth, cutting purses from inebriated lords outside the local gaming hells. He’d attempted to cut Ewan’s purse. But he’d done it so skillfully and Ewan had been so impressed with his subsequent tearful tale of a dying mother and sick baby sister—all of which had been a lie—he couldn’t help but take the boy in. He’d never regretted it. Not for a second. Pip had become his most devoted minion.

  Until now.

  Now he fixed Ewan with a dark glare, eyes narrowed.

  Ewan sat back in his chair and surveyed the boy. “What is it?’ he asked.

  Pip grunted and dropped the tray on the table. Broth sloshed onto the thick wood. “Soup.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  The boy stopped. He was a frail thing with a delicately boned face framed by a shaggy mop of hair. He’d been with Ewan for nearly a year. Nearly a year with food every day and it seemed as though he hadn’t grown an inch. He certainly hadn’t filled out the way a lad approaching manhood should. Ewan knew what it was to starve. He knew some kinds of deprivation could never be made up for. Many street urchins were tiny their whole lives.

  But of all his men—all fellows he’d salvaged from impending doom of some kind—this one held a special place in his heart. Pip reminded him of himself in so many ways.

  The boy crossed his arms over his thin chest and glared. “What?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Why are you so surly?”

  Pip was never surly. At least, not to him. But the boy didn’t answer. Naught but a disgusted snort. He turned on his heel and left, slamming the heavy door behind him.

  Ewan wasn’t sure why he followed.

  He really should stay here in his tiny office. Where he could avoid the sight of…her. But this little mutiny from Pip pricked his interest. He made his way into the hall where the men were having dinner. Pip and Jessie were serving. Of Violet, there was no sign.

  Ewan frowned. Where was she? Annoyance flickered in his gut. First because she wasn’t here and then because he hadn’t realized how much he wanted to see her. Just see her.

  Had she…?

  The door to the kitchens swung open and she appeared, carrying a tray piled with food.

  Pleasure and maybe some strange kind of relief warmed his veins at the sight of her dark hair, her slight form.

  That annoyed him as well.

  He should be impervious to her presence.

  He was not.

  Neither was Wolfe. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, then padded to her side and followed her.

  The men fell silent as she approached. An odd tension hummed in the air. Alasdair and Mungo, sitting across the table from Craig, frowned darkly. Violet rounded the table, serving each man a slab of meat with a fork. As she dropped the meat on their plates, the men mumbled their thanks with eyes averted.

  Until she reached Craig.

  When she came to him, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. She cried out. The platter went flying. Wolfe leapt forward—but not to gobble down the spilled pork—to growl at Craig. He wasn’t the only one growling.

  Mungo’s chair scraped back loudly. He stood and glowered at Craig, his fingers clenching into hammy fists. Then Drummond and Rory and Tavish stood. Lachlan and Bean.

  “Let her go.” Mungo’s deep voice bounced off the stony walls.

  Craig laughed. “Fuck you.” He glanced down at Violet, who wriggled on his lap. “Keep squirming, darlin’,” he said. “Something’s rising.”

  Oh. Something was rising.

  Fury.

  Hot, red, blinding fury.

  He had his hands on his Violet.

  It whipped through Ewan’s veins, pebbled his skin, prickled at his nape. It immobilized him. Which was good. If he so much as moved a muscle, he would rip Craig limb from fucking limb.

  He had his hands on his Violet.

  He should help her. He knew he should step in and help her.

  But he couldn’t.

  If he did, it would change things between them. It would give her leverage.

  Besides, she was safe from harm here. There were far too many witnesses for serious mischief.

  He forced himself to stay where he was. To rein in the seething desire to yank her from another man’s arms. To play the hero for her once again.

  As much as he wanted to.

  Craig laughed again as Violet thrashed on his lap. As she moved, something on her cheek caught Ewan’s attention. At first he thought it was a shadow but then she arched back and the light from the fire hit her fully.

  His heart
clenched. Then thudded wildly.

  A huge, nasty bruise discolored nearly half her face. Her jaw was swollen. There were dark marks on her neck as well.

  The reason for Mungo’s glare became painfully clear.

  Fuck.

  Ewan opened his mouth to bellow for this to cease, but before he could utter a word, Craig let out a high-pitched squeal and froze. He glanced down at his crotch with wide eyes.

  Violet said something to him but it was a low hiss, so Ewan couldn’t make it out. Craig raised his arms, holding them high in the air. She edged off his lap, still holding something there, holding it there until the rest of her was far enough away. She retreated quickly, spinning and hurrying around the table.

  It was then Ewan saw what she held, what she had used to hold Craig at bay—the sharply pronged serving fork. His lips curled. Good for her.

  Their gazes met.

  Her steps slowed. Faltered. She studied his face.

  She veiled her thoughts but not until he caught a glimpse of her disgust.

  He hadn’t helped her, that flash of expression said. He’d stood there and watched as she was mauled by one of his men and he hadn’t helped.

  And the scene had amused him.

  Shame rose in a tide on the back of his neck, burning his ears.

  But she didn’t notice. She had already spun on her heel and fled the hall.

  * * * * *

  He couldn’t get the vision of her bruised face out of his mind. Ewan lay in his bed and stewed. Sleep eluded him though it was deep into the night. He’d brought her here so he could punish her for her sins, not so one of his men could brutalize her.

  When he’d questioned Pip and Jessie—badgered them to tell him what had happened—and the story came out, a hard ball had settled in his gut. Then swelled. It still churned there.

  He couldn’t help thinking this was at least in part his fault. He hadn’t protected her. She’d been struck. Very nearly raped. And he hadn’t protected her.

  Oh, he’d had words with Craig. Told him in no uncertain terms he’d have his balls on a string if he so much as touched her again. But Craig was new to his crew. And an insolent son of a bitch. Ewan had taken him on as a favor to a friend. As much as Craig appreciated the chance to earn a little extra coin, Ewan didn’t trust the man to keep his paws to himself.

  He resolved that first thing tomorrow he’d have a talk with Mungo and ask him to shadow his little captive.

  That should have calmed him. Should have eased the disquiet in his soul.

  It did not.

  The look in Violet’s eyes, there in the great room, burned him.

  He knew he shouldn’t go to her, try to explain, but he couldn’t help himself. He would never sleep if he left things like this. He flung back the warm covers, shuddering at the chill. This damn keep was drafty as hell and the fire had burned down. He quickly yanked on his braes and a shirt, grabbed a lamp and padded down the staircase to the hall. Then down again, into the bowels of the castle.

  He shivered as he descended into what had once been the Cloud’s dungeon. It was dank and musty. Frigid air licked at his toes. It smelled. Had he really banished her here?

  Her chamber had been a storage room with an old wrought-iron lock, but Ewan’s skeleton key opened it with a creaky clank. The door swung open and he lifted the lamp. His heart lurched.

  Violet lay on a narrow cot covered only by a thin blanket. Her body was curled into a tight ball. Even from across the room, he could see her trembling. And damn. It was freezing in here. Deep beneath the ground. Not a lick of warmth. He raked his fingers through his hair and swore beneath his breath. He was a beast, as she proclaimed. He was worse than a beast.

  He quietly closed the door—though that would hardly keep out the chill—and made his way toward the bed, his gaze locked on her face. It could have been the wan light from the lamp but was her face really that pale? Did her lips have a slightly blue tinge? The swelling had gone down a little on her cheek but it was still a nasty mottled color.

  She seemed so frail, so fragile it made his chest hurt.

  Why Sophia leapt into his mind at that moment, he didn’t know. His sister was safe and warm, tucked away in Hampshire at the best boarding school money could buy. But if—God forbid—any man ever treated her in this fashion, Ewan would kill him. String him up by his toes and gut him.

  Yet he had done this. To a girl. A girl he’d once loved.

  Mortification washed through him.

  She detested him. But he deserved every bit of her hate.

  Her lids fluttered. Her body stilled. He knew without a doubt she was awake. Her hand moved slowly, searching for something. She found it. Grasped it and then sprang up suddenly into a crouching position, wielding a sharp kitchen knife.

  “Stay back,” she snarled. Apprehension laced her expression. It was threaded with desperation. And determination.

  He realized she couldn’t see his face, didn’t know who he was. He raised the lamp. “It’s Ewan. Rest easy. I won’t hurt you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She lifted the knife higher. It shook. “What do you want?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She put out a lip in mock sympathy. “Poor baby.”

  “I wanted to talk to you. Make sure you were all right.”

  She gaped at him. “All right?” Her tone made her meaning more than clear. She was not all right. Not by far.

  He blew out a sigh and raked his hair again. No doubt it stood on end. “Violet…I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what happened with Craig. It won’t happen again.”

  Her exquisite features twisted. “Won’t it? We both know all I accomplished tonight was making him angry.”

  “Is that why…” He nodded to the knife.

  She glanced at it. Realized she was still holding it aloft and let it drop. “Yes.” She glared at him. “I’ll use it if I have to.”

  “He won’t bother you again.”

  Her throat worked. “I’m glad you have so much faith in him.”

  “Violet…” He took a step closer and she flinched. “I just want to look at your cheek.”

  Carefully, he sat on the cot by her side. And winced. It was hard as a rock. He gently took her chin in his hold and turned her head to examine the bruise. His attention snagged on the curve of her long swanlike neck. Flawless white skin marked only with bruises shaped suspiciously like fingers.

  A nasty worm curled in his belly. He fixed his attention on her cheek. It was bad. It must have been a vicious swipe. “Why did he hit you?”

  His question infuriated her. He saw it in the tight lines of her face, felt it in the sudden humming tension engulfing her. “Because I wouldn’t let him rape me, I suppose.” This, she spat.

  He cringed. Of course. “I’m so sorry, Violet. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Say good night. And leave me in peace.” She tried to jerk away but he tightened his hold. He shouldn’t have. She gasped in pain. But he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Instead he lightened his touch and stroked her with his thumb.

  God. Her skin was like silk. Soft and smooth. Irresistible. He hated that it had been marred. He bent his head and touched his lips to the bruises on her neck. Lightly. A whisper. Bussing one after another.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after each kiss. “I’m sorry.” Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips, thrummed. But she held herself still. Didn’t move. He kissed the curve of her jaw where it met her ear and followed the line, over that hideous purple mass, to her lips.

  He’d vowed he’d never kiss her again. Sworn he didn’t even want to. But when their lips met, when he tasted her, he knew it was a lie. He’d wanted this. He’d always wanted this.

  She made a muffled sound as his mouth sealed hers, but she didn’t pull away. And more importantly, she didn’t poke him with her knife. She set her tiny hand to his chest as though she intended to push him back, but then she fisted it in his shirt.

  He tried to be as gentle as he
could. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he already had. But when she responded, when she leaned in to him and opened to him, when her tongue met his in a tentative foray, he lost the thread of his control. He eased her down onto the bed and covered her with his body. He set a palm on her uninjured cheek and held her in place as he consumed her.

  It was heaven. Like coming home. A tremendous rush of peace and rightness washed over him. Violet, his Violet, was back in his arms.

  How had he ever hated her?

  He changed his angle, deepened the kiss, infused it with all his hunger, all his desire, all his want. She stroked the nape of his neck. When he cupped her breast, nudged a puckered nipple, she gasped and her nails scored him.

  “Aw, Violet,” he breathed.

  She stilled and his heart gave a thud. Hell, had he reminded her where they were? Who he was? Determined to distract her, he returned his attention to her neck, reveling in the quivers his nibbles evoked.

  “Ewan.” A whisper.

  Yes. Better. He sucked the velvety skin at her nape.

  “Ewan.” She threaded her fingers into his hair…and tugged.

  He, perforce, lifted his head. “What?”

  “Someone’s there. At the door.”

  He froze and a slight scratching from the hall floated toward him. He focused on the sound, willing his ears to hear more than rushing blood.

  And he heard them. Whispers.

  Like a cat, he leapt from the bed and tiptoed across the room, shivering as the stone floor kissed his bare feet. He hovered by the door and listened.

  “You got it yet?”

  “Not yet. Quiet. You’ll wake her.”

  “Oh, I plans to wake her.”

  Fuck. Rory and Tavish. Two of his youngest recruits. And they were trying to break in.

  The idiots didn’t even realize the door wasn’t locked.

  “I thought you said you snitched the right key from Morna.”

  “I did.”

  “You sure you didn’t wake her?”

  “She was snoring like a hound. Now shut up and let me work.”

  Ewan could take no more. He flung open the door.

  The men, hunkered down on the floor, gaped up at him. Their Adam’s apples bobbed in tandem.