Brigand

by Sabrina York

  She didn’t answer, other than a soft grunt. He seemed to accept that as an assent and tightened his hold. His warmth seeped into her. His breath was a tender comfort on her cheek. She could lie like this forever.

  She would not, of course.

  As soon as he fell asleep, she would slip away.

  And this time, he wouldn’t catch her.

  * * * * *

  Something woke him deep in the night. He’d been in the arms of a delicious dream so it took him a moment to come fully awake and recall where he was. Violet had rolled away so he reached for her…and found nothing but warm blankets.

  Ewan shot up and glared at the empty spot on the bed. He raked the cabin with a furious gaze. There was little light, only a slight glow from the embers of the fire, but he could tell she wasn’t here. She’d gone.

  With a plaintive roar, he sprang from the bed and pulled on his braes. He saw at once that the lamp was gone as well. Fuck.

  He’d told her in no uncertain terms. She was not to run from him.

  He hoped to God she hadn’t been gone long, that the sound of the door was what had awoken him.

  He ran outside and scanned the tree line, his heart thudding painfully in his throat. He’d only just found her. He couldn’t bear to lose her again. He couldn’t.

  And that terror raging in his breast? A panic far beyond that of a captor defied. He didn’t dare scrutinize that.

  He saw the light in the distance, flickering like a bobbing star. He set off toward it at a dead run. How dare she. How dare she? Fury and exhilaration and the bitter aftertaste of dread twined together in his gut.

  It did not take him long to catch up with her. His night vision was good. He skirted the fallen logs and leapt over gullies and ruts with ease. Wayward branches were no match for his resolve.

  She was in sight within seconds.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw him coming. She let out a little cry and started to scamper away, in another direction. There was no hope for her. No way she could outrun him. Not with her short legs, the hampering of her skirts.

  He captured her easily, looping an arm around her waist. He hefted her off her feet, turned around and, pausing only to pick up the lamp, which she’d dropped in that headlong fruitless flight, towed her back to the cabin.

  She kicked and squirmed and pummeled him with tiny fists. “Beast!” she bellowed more than once. As though it was the only word she could think of.

  When they came to the door, she hooked it with her grip and tried to stop him from taking her farther. He pulled her free with ease and dumped her onto the bed and glowered at her.

  She was a sight. A glorious sight with her hair all a’muss, her bosom heaving, her lips parted, her eyes ablaze. She perched on the mattress, clearly poised to run again, glaring at him.

  “I told you.” A gruff, feral snarl. “I told you not to run from me.”

  “Go to hell, McCloud!”

  He wasn’t sure what infuriated him more, her defiant expression or her words. Or his blood was simply running high. But the provocation she presented was more than he could resist.

  He took hold of her arm and yanked her to her feet, then sat on the bed himself and flung her over his lap. His palm landed on her upturned bottom. The smack resonated.

  “Noooo!” She writhed and thrashed on his lap.

  She shouldn’t have. She really shouldn’t have.

  This resistance enflamed his ire.

  He smacked her again, and again. But spanking her through the muffling folds of her skirts was not nearly satisfying enough. He yanked them up.

  She warbled a shrill, incomprehensible howl.

  He ignored it.

  When his hand fell again, it was with the satisfying splat of flesh to flesh. Even more satisfying was watching his handprint rise in glowing red on her alabaster ass. She stilled. The sound emanating from her throat was something very different. A low, wild cry. One he’d heard on several occasions.

  His burning anger curled in upon itself and became a different kind of burn altogether. His cock rose, throbbed in tandem with his thrumming pulse.

  He smacked her bottom again, several times in succession, then swept his palm over the flesh. She murmured something he couldn’t make out and rubbed against him—ostensibly an attempt to escape but Ewan knew better.

  He’d had her many times now. He’d brought her to bliss more than once. He knew, could tell, she was aroused. He didn’t need her to turn just then and glance up at him with that simmering expression.

  He clenched his teeth and smacked her once more, this time following it with a swipe between her legs. And ah, yes. She was dripping wet.

  “You like this.” An accusation. A jubilant crow.

  “No.”

  “Admit it.” He toyed with her pearl, that hard, slick little button bathed in cream.

  “No. No!”

  “Violet,” he tsked. “A man can tell. Admit it.” He eased his palm over the glowing globes of her ass, teasing her with occasional forays between them. Her dampness swelled. She squirmed on his lap as he teased, bucking and sighing each time he brushed her clitoris. “You want this,” he hissed. “You want more. Say it.”

  She growled as he came close then danced away. It was a petulant growl.

  “Say it. Admit it.”

  “Yes.” A whisper, spat out like bile.

  He circled her nub. “What? I couldn’t make that out.”

  “Yes!”

  Elation slashed through him in harsh, hot shards. His pulse kicked up a notch. His cock lurched. A prickle rose at the nape of his neck. Hunger howled in his soul. Unable to resist, unable to think, really, he jammed his fingers into her cunt.

  She stiffened, bellowed, came around him.

  Yes. Yes. Complete and utter satisfaction whipped through him. She was so wet, so tight, so incredibly hot, he nearly came himself. But he didn’t. He fought back the urge.

  It was difficult.

  He did not let her orgasm trickle away. Oh no. He reached deeper, stroked her harder, worked away inside of her, keeping her there in the taut grip of bliss—coming again and again and again—until she was a panting, sobbing, limp mass dangling over his thighs.

  Then like the beast she claimed he was, he laid her on the bed, on her belly. He undid the ties of his braes and hunched behind her, lifting her boneless body into position, covered her…and he drove home.

  She engulfed him with a warm, wet heat. The sweetest embrace. The walls of her cunt fluttered around him. The intimate clench made him mindless. She was exquisite.

  He plunged into her body again and again from every conceivable angle, reveling in her low moan, the way she braced herself and pressed back, taking him deeper, urging him on.

  She thought him an animal? He would show her how an animal fucked his mate.

  Wildly. With no restraint. He took command of her body. Complete domination. Violet was his and he would prove his claim like this.

  Semen burned at the base of his cock, clamoring for release. He hissed a breath between his teeth as she came again, squeezing his cock in an agonizing grip. Passion possessed him. His thrusts went from long, hard plunges to short, deep, desperate lunges. Because the beast howled, because need clawed, because he burned to underscore who held dominion here, he smacked her bottom once more.

  And because with that smack she seized around him in a way that sent knives of pleasure into his belly, he did it again and again.

  And then he could do nothing. Nothing but sink his fingers into the flesh of her hips and hold her in place as his body, his mind, exploded with sensation. He flooded her as jet after scorching jet flowed from his body into hers.

  When it was all over, he didn’t withdraw. He stayed seated within her. A reminder to her. A declaration.

  She belonged to him.

  At long last, he eased out and flipped her over and covered her again, possessed her again, this time with his mouth, dominating her with his lips and tongue.<
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  That her response matched his soothed his soul. At least a bit.

  He raised his head and stared into her eyes. “You are mine,” he growled. “Mine.” He shook her. “Say it.”

  “Y-yours.” Her voice trembled on the word. Her expression was sated, soft. He loved the way she looked in the afterglow of passion. She stole his sanity. Words escaped him. He pressed a kiss on her forehead, tasting the sheen of sweat. Then another on her cheeks, her lashes, the tip of her nose.

  “Never run from me again,” he said, although this time it was not a snarl. More of a plea. And then, bereft of all vigor, drained absolutely dry, he collapsed at her side.

  The desire to sleep teased at the ragged edges of his consciousness but he didn’t succumb. He wasn’t stupid.

  Before he drifted off, he went to the box where he kept his hunting supplies and found a coil of rope.

  And he tied her to the bed.

  * * * * *

  Violet was annoyed with herself. More than annoyed.

  She shot a glance at Ewan from beneath her lashes as he led her down the track in the woods…at the end of the rope.

  She’d done it again. She’d succumbed to his charms. Granted, she hadn’t had much of a choice. Not with him teasing her and tormenting her until her passion would not be denied.

  The feel of his palm on her bare bottom had shocked her. Her reaction had shocked her more.

  She’d been caned more than once as a girl. Her father had been a proponent of a heavy hand and she had been rather defiant. But she’d never enjoyed a whipping. Never felt that curl of anticipation and delight and heat as she did when Ewan draped her over his lap and paddled her behind.

  What kind of woman liked that?

  She wasn’t sure. Also, she wasn’t sure what kind of woman a craving like this made her. It had been all she could do to press her lips closed and not beg, plead for more.

  And the ecstasy that followed had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The thrill of having Ewan take her from behind, control her movements, force wave after wave of pleasure upon her, had been stupefying.

  An apt word, she snorted to herself.

  Stupefying indeed.

  She was an idiot. A love-sodden idiot.

  Any woman with an ounce of self-respect would at least have pretended to hate it. Would have protested a little more than she had.

  But now he knew. He’d even said the words. She was his. Completely. She would do anything and everything he asked. She was helpless to resist.

  And he knew it.

  They rounded a curve and the shoreline of the river hove into view. Violet’s heart hitched.

  Well, so much for her attempt at escape.

  He would never give her so much as the hint of an opportunity again.

  She wriggled her wrists, chafing against the harsh threads of the rope. Did he really need to tie her up and lead her like a donkey? Apparently he felt he did. She glared at him. He didn’t notice.

  He hailed the men lounging on the shore, calling them to ready the boat. As they approached, the men took in the sight of her bondage and broad grins cracked their usually surly faces. Had she been free, she would have scratched their eyes out.

  She didn’t protest when Ewan lifted her into the boat. There was no point. And they were halfway to the island before she realized she was helpless, tied in a boat on a river, and there was not a flicker of panic in her soul.

  There was no room for old fears.

  New fears had replaced them completely.

  Because she was, without question, completely and utterly in love with a brigand.

  Chapter Eleven

  When they arrived back at the keep, Ewan took Violet directly up to his solar, ignoring the greetings and catcalls from his men. She decided to struggle on the landing so he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and carried her the rest of the way.

  The door slammed against the wall as he entered. He didn’t care. He stormed to the bed and tossed her onto the downy mattress. “Stay. There.” He untied the rope and yanked it from her wrists, forcing himself not to look at the red marks it had left.

  She glared at him. “I’m hungry.”

  “Good,” he snapped. But he clomped down to the great room and bellowed at Pip to take her something to eat and drink. “And don’t forget to lock the door,” he barked. He was not losing her again.

  Colin uncurled himself from the bench at the table and slapped him on the shoulder. “How did it go?” he asked with a smirk. Ewan wanted to plant him a facer. Just to wipe that sly grin from his face.

  He reined in his annoyance and scrubbed his forehead with a palm. “Fine. Thank you for your help.”

  Colin nodded. “I’m glad we found her.” He nodded toward the assemblage of men. “William’s here.”

  Ewan slanted a glance at the table, a frown puckering his brow. “William?” William Winslett, Lord Wickham, was one of his partners. Gentry, but a good sort for all that. He kept his ear to the ground in Edinburgh and London, feeding Ewan information on business opportunities and promising partners. “I thought he was in England. What’s he doing here?”

  Colin shrugged. “Now that you’re back with…everything under control, I’ll be taking my leave.”

  Ewan nodded. “Again, thank you, Colin.”

  “Anytime.” His friend grinned as he made his way from the room.

  William stood then and made his way over to Ewan. Everything, from his dress to his swagger, proclaimed him Quality with a capital Q.

  Usually Ewan despised such men. They’d never caused him anything but trouble. But he and William had been through a lot together over the years. Ewan knew the true measure of the man. He liked him immensely.

  “McCloud.” He nodded. A small smile graced his lips. It was always there, that smile, no matter the circumstances. Ewan knew not to trust it. Instead he gauged the hard glint in William’s eyes, the tightness of his lips. He knew this was not a casual social visit.

  “Shall we repair to my study?”

  William chuckled. He was used to Ewan’s mockery of the haute ton. “Indeed.”

  They sat in his office and Ewan poured them each a dram of whisky. It was not yet noon, but he felt in the course of the last few days he’d earned a drink. Or seven. Regardless of the time of day.

  “So. What brings you to the wilds of Scotland?”

  William tossed back his drink with a grunt and leaned forward. “I thought you should know. Word is out on the streets. There’s a bounty on your head.”

  Ewan nearly guffawed. There had been a bounty on his head since he was eighteen. But due to the reputation he had worked very hard to build and the fact that he never forgot a debt or failed to repay a betrayal—not to mention that he’d had made everyone in league with him very, very rich—no man with a brain in his head would turn on him. “And?”

  “The man searching for you is, ahem, rather powerful. A duke.”

  A tiny chill crawled up his spine. Violet had mentioned a duke the other night. A cousin. Who would be searching for her. He frowned.

  “Word is he’s on his way to Scotland to reclaim something you have of his.”

  Ewan cleared his throat and refilled both their glasses. “I appreciate the information.”

  “There’s more.”

  The bottle stilled. “What?” Fuck. He didn’t want to know.

  “It’s the Duke of Moncrieff.”

  Ewan’s heart stalled and then set up a rapid chatter in his chest. A cold chill gripped his bowels. The Duke of Moncrieff?

  Duke of Moncrieff was Violet’s cousin? How had he not known this?

  He hadn’t heard that name in years. He disliked hearing it now. Especially in this context.

  Of all the men to be searching for Violet, why did it have to be the one to whom he owed his life?

  He’d been a reckless idiot when he was young and had ended up in a French prison, charged as a spy. He’d been housed in a cell crammed with sold
iers and heroes collected during the war.

  Ewan had been neither a soldier nor a hero. He’d been smuggling brandy—a very profitable trade upon which he’d built the foundations of his empire. A French platoon had captured him on a beach and carted him off to some ancient castle on the coast and tossed him into the dungeons. A real dungeon, this. Fetid and dank and unspeakably foul. The captors had been cruel, hard men who hated the British. And though Ewan was a Scot, they hadn’t seen the difference.

  He’d been beaten, starved and near worked to death.

  He would have died there if a wealthy man hadn’t bribed the guards to engineer an escape for his son. On one dark, moonless night, their cell was left unlocked, allowing them—all fifty men—to melt into the shadows. They’d been met in the woods by a band of privateers and escorted to a sleek cutter anchored in the bay; the privateers had carried them all to England—and safety.

  The one word on every man’s broken lips was the name of their savior. Moncrieff.

  Fuck.

  When he came, when he demanded Violet, Ewan would have to comply. He would have to hand her over. He was honor-bound to do so.

  But now…after what they had shared, he didn’t think he could bear to let her go.

  * * * * *

  It was late by the time he and William finished their conversation—catching up on all that had passed since they’d seen each other last—so it was easy for Ewan to convince his friend to stay the night.

  And truth be told, Ewan was in no hurry to return to his solar.

  Oh, he was anxious to hold her again, to bed her. But he didn’t savor the prospect of looking in her eyes and seeing her hatred. He was sick of that to the depths of his being.

  He knew he wasn’t the man for her. He’d always known that, even as a boy. But now it chafed, like chains binding his soul.

  He had always been one to challenge authority, to taunt the powers that be. For the first time in his life he regretted some of his choices. He’d done what needed doing, to be sure. But he longed to step outside his skin and become someone else. A man who could claim her. For real.

  A man who could engender and hold her love.