The Devil Wears Plaid Part 7

His pace did not falter.

"Pardon me, sir sir?" she repeated, louder and more forcefully this time.

Jamie just kept walking, as if her words were of no more import to him than the distant call of a nightjar or the pesky chirping of a cricket.

Emboldened by a surge of anger, Emma jerked to a dead halt and wrenched her wrist out of his grip. Jamie stopped and slowly turned to face her.

The look on his face tempted her to go sprinting off in the opposite direction, but Emma forced herself to stand her ground. "We've traveled far enough, don't you think? Your men shouldn't be able to hear my screams from here."

Jamie gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. "I'm more concerned about them hearing my my screams. Although after that idiotic stunt you just pulled, I'm convinced no appeal to reason-however earsplitting-would penetrate that thick little skull of yours." He leaned closer, close enough to count every freckle on her nose. "If you ever pull a pistol on me again, la.s.s, you'd best be prepared to pull the trigger." screams. Although after that idiotic stunt you just pulled, I'm convinced no appeal to reason-however earsplitting-would penetrate that thick little skull of yours." He leaned closer, close enough to count every freckle on her nose. "If you ever pull a pistol on me again, la.s.s, you'd best be prepared to pull the trigger."

"I did pull the trigger," she reminded him with icy calm.

"Only after you made sure your shot would go astray."

She continued to glare at him. "Perhaps the weapon simply recoiled."

He c.o.c.ked a skeptical eyebrow. "Before you fired?" you fired?"

Emma swallowed her protest. She might be able to deny that moment to him, but she couldn't very well deny it to herself. Not even if she couldn't begin to understand it.

"There's a chance my men wouldn't have taken kindly to seeing me shot down in cold blood. What if one of them had been willing to shoot you to save me?"

"Then I guess you'd be robbed of your precious ransom and the earl would be forced to woo himself a new bride."

Jamie turned and paced a few steps away from her, running a hand through his thick mane of sable hair. His big body was fraught with tension, as if there was some invisible battle being waged within.

Emma could not have said what drove her forward, what possessed her to touch the back of his arm through the faded cambric of his shirt with trembling fingertips. "Can you truly blame me for trying to escape? If you had been captured by the redcoats or were locked away in one of the earl's dungeons, wouldn't you have done the same?"

He turned to face her, his expression so stern it took every ounce of her courage not to go stumbling backward in alarm. "Aye, I would. But I would have bluidy well succeeded. I wouldn't have been fool enough to end up at the mercy of a mon like me."

"Just what sort of mon mon are you, Jamie Sinclair? Judging from what your cousin Bon blurted out back there, you're not in the habit of terrorizing defenseless women." are you, Jamie Sinclair? Judging from what your cousin Bon blurted out back there, you're not in the habit of terrorizing defenseless women."

"That was before I met you. And one could hardly call you defenseless."

"If I hadn't learned which end of the pistol to point at a pheasant or a hare, there would have been many winter days-if not weeks-when my mother and sisters would have gone without meat."

"I wasn't talking about the way you handle a pistol. You have other weapons that are far more dangerous to a man's resolve." Her breath quickened as he lifted a hand to trace the curve of her cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

It had never occurred to her that he might use tenderness to quell her rebellion instead of brutality. Or that it would be so devastatingly effective.

"Such as?" she whispered, knowing she was even more of a fool to ask but unable to resist.

"Your wit. Your spirit. Your willingness to sacrifice everything, including any hope of happiness, for the good of your family. Even your loyalty to your bridegroom-misguided though it may be." His voice deepened to a smoky rumble that shook her all the way to her toes. "Your fine eyes. Your wee freckled nose. The softness of your lips..."

Before those lips could part in a wistful sigh, Jamie was on her. He seized her face in the cup of his hands, claiming her as if she had always belonged to him, would would always belong to him. always belong to him.

His mouth slanted hungrily over hers, parting her tender lips with a mastery as undeniable as it was irresistible. His tongue plundered the slick sweetness of her mouth until the whisky-and-woodsmoke flavor of him was all she could taste, all she desired. He might be holding her face captive between his hands, but he tasted of freedom, of pa.s.sion, of a danger as seductive and irresistible as it was terrifying.

It wasn't the kiss of a lover, but the kiss of a conqueror, a marauder, a man who had spent his entire life being taught that he would have to take what he wanted if he was ever to have anything at all. There was no defense against such a provocative a.s.sault on the senses, no words to deny its dark and primal power.

She felt her fingers unfurling like the petals of a flower, rising to slip beneath the hem of his shirt and dig into the smooth, muscled planes of his lower back. All she could do was hold on and try to keep from being swept away by the indomitable force of his will. Especially when all she secretly longed to do was let go and ride that surge to wherever it would take her.

One of his hands slid around her throat to tug away the leather thong at her nape, sending her curls tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray. As he raked his fingers through them, her scalp tingled with a decadent pleasure that made her want to b.u.t.t her head against his hand and purr like some sort of overgrown lap cat.

He seized a fistful of those curls and gently tugged, tipping back her head to allow him to lick even deeper into her mouth. She didn't even realize she had started to kiss him back, artlessly tangling her tongue with his, until she heard him groan deep in his throat, like a man who had tasted something he could no longer live without. Something he would be willing to die-or kill for-to possess.

That sound made a mockery of all her sacrifices, tempted her to forsake everything she held dear just to give him what he wanted. And what she wanted. But she had been bought and paid for with the earl's largesse. It was no longer hers to give.

Seized by panic, she shoved at his chest. He broke off the kiss abruptly, setting her away from him with hands as unsteady as her own.

Even though she was the one who had pushed him away, all she could do was stand there, trembling and bewildered, like a child who had been abandoned in some dark and fearsome forest with no hope of ever finding her way home.

Jamie's inky pupils had nearly swallowed the green in his heavy-lidded eyes, leaving them dusky and unreadable. As he gazed down at her, she could see herself through his eyes-the wild tumble of her curls, her dazed expression, the telltale flush where his beard-stubble had abraded the delicate skin of her jaw. She ran the tip of her tongue over lips that still felt tender and ripe from the ravenous force of his kiss.

Desperate to put some distance between them, she stooped to retrieve the leather thong from the ground. Gathering her curls at her nape, she began to twist them into a tight knot. "You've won, Mr. Sinclair," she said, fighting to keep her voice steadier than her hands. "I promise I'll be an obedient little captive until you deliver me safely into the hands of my bridegroom a few days hence. I won't try to run again so you'll be spared the onerous duty of chastising me with your kisses." She smoothed the rumpled front of her borrowed tunic as if it were the most expensive of ball gowns. "As far as your men are concerned, I shall endeavor to behave as if you simply gave me a stern scolding, forcing me to recognize the error of my ways."

With that p.r.o.nouncement, she turned and marched away from him as fast as her legs would carry her, her shoulders squared and her head held high.

"Miss Marlowe?"

"Yes?" She turned to find him still standing in the exact same spot, his expression inscrutable.

For an elusive instant, he looked as if he wanted to say something else altogether, but then he pointed in the opposite direction. "Our camp is that way."

WHEN EMMA WOKE THAT night, there were no warm, masculine arms to shelter her from the cold, hard ground. Her toes were numb and a thin layer of gooseflesh pebbled her arms. She sat up, blinking away the fog of confusion that came from waking up in a strange place surrounded by strangers. night, there were no warm, masculine arms to shelter her from the cold, hard ground. Her toes were numb and a thin layer of gooseflesh pebbled her arms. She sat up, blinking away the fog of confusion that came from waking up in a strange place surrounded by strangers.

On the opposite side of the dying campfire, Jamie's men lay in blanket-draped humps. If not for the occasional drunken snort or rumbling snore, they might have been mistaken for boulders.

When Jamie had marched her back into their midst, their curious glances had been quickly quelled by Jamie's ferocious scowl. After partaking of a meal of salted venison and stale brown bread washed down by some dark, bitter ale, she had retreated to her bedroll. She didn't realize how much she would miss Jamie's presence there until she awoke all alone, disoriented and shivering from the cold.

A distant yowl came from somewhere in the crags above the moor, raising the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. She climbed to her feet and peered nervously into the shadows, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. The night sky arched overhead like an expanse of the deepest, blackest ice, its stars glittering shards of frost. It was as if she were the only person awake in the entire universe. The only person alive.

Until she saw him.

Jamie had dozed off only a few feet away from her with his back propped against a boulder and without so much as a cloak to cover him. She frowned at the length of rope tied around his wrist, puzzled by its presence until her gaze slowly traced the other end of it to her ankle. He had evidently looped the rope around her ankle while she slept, not tight enough to bind her, but so that any suspicious movement on her part would rouse him from his slumber.

She shook her head, a reluctant smile touching her lips. She should have known he wouldn't be the trusting sort. If she had taken one more step away from him, the rope would have jerked him awake.

Apparently, he hadn't believed her when she had vowed not to run again. She could no longer afford to risk being punished for her disobedience by his kisses and caresses. He had warned her from the beginning that she just might enjoy him putting his hands on her. Had she known then just how much she would enjoy it, she might have heeded that warning.

Now that she was aware of his snare, it would have been a simple enough matter for her to extract herself from it. But instead of moving away from him, she found herself drifting toward him.

Just how many nights had he spent sleeping on the cold, hard ground with no roof to shield him from the rain, the snow, or the tenacious chill? He might be only twenty-seven years old, but constant exposure to sun and wind had already weathered his skin to burnished gold, carved deep brackets around his mouth and etched beguiling crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes.

Even in sleep, there wasn't a hint of softness in the man, no revealing glimpse of the boy he had once been. He didn't even sleep with his mouth hanging open, but compressed to a firm line, his only concession to vulnerability the smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Almost as if sensing her avid scrutiny, he stirred and turned his face toward the shadows, shielding it from her gaze.

Emma sighed. He had given her his blanket, yet she was still chilled to the bone. She couldn't help but remember how cozy it had felt to be curled up against him the previous night, how his lean, hard frame had wrapped itself around her, radiating heat like a coal stove on a snowy winter's eve.

That piercing yowl came again. She shuddered and edged even closer to Jamie. She had no way of knowing what sort of bloodthirsty creatures prowled this wilderness. Wildcats? Wolves? Bears? For all she knew, there could be a dragon stomping around in the crags above them, just looking for some tasty virgin to devour.

She stole one last longing look at Jamie before bending down and slipping the rope from her ankle.

JAMIE OPENED HIS EYES, going from deep sleep to sharp alertness with the peculiar ease that came from years of vigilance. going from deep sleep to sharp alertness with the peculiar ease that came from years of vigilance.

He was a.s.sailed by two immediate impressions.

There was a blanket draped over him that hadn't been there when he went to sleep.

And there was a woman beneath that blanket who hadn't been there when he went to sleep.

He blinked warily. Emma was curled up on her side facing him. Only a scant handspan separated their bodies, almost as if she had sought to get as close to him as she dared without actually touching him. Which touched him more deeply than he cared to admit, even to himself.

He was becoming accustomed to the dull ache that had plagued his groin ever since he'd been fool enough to abduct her. But this was a sharper and even more insistent pain, perilously near to his heart.

Her russet lashes were fanned against her freckled cheeks, making her look more like the vulnerable seventeen-year-old la.s.s who had sought love in London only to find heartbreak than the woman that la.s.s had become. Even with her arms folded around herself for extra warmth, she looked cold. She looked miserable. She looked lonely.

By waiting to send his ransom demand until they reached the higher climes of the mountain, Jamie had hoped to torment the Hepburn with h.e.l.lish visions of a Sinclair stealing what belonged to him. But now Jamie was the one burning, the one tormented by visions of another sort altogether-visions of Emma's pale, freckled softness beneath him, her lush lips eagerly parting to receive his kiss as she twined her arms around his neck, opened her shapely thighs and urged him to make her his own.

His mouth thinned to a grim line. No matter how eagerly she welcomed his kiss, she was still the Hepburn's woman. She didn't belong to him and she never would. He had no choice but to walk away and leave her to the cold comfort of her own arms.

She stirred. A frown furrowed her delicate brow. A sleepy little whimper escaped her parted lips.

Biting off a defeated oath, Jamie reached for her, drawing her up so that her cheek could rest against his chest. She nestled into the warmth of his arms with a throaty little moan of satisfaction, foolishly trusting him not to abuse the power he held over her. Before she was fully awake, Jamie knew he could have the laces of his breeches untied, Bon's borrowed trousers around her ankles and himself buried so deep inside of her she would never again be able to call her body her own.

But if he succ.u.mbed to that dark temptation, he would be no better than the Hepburn. He would have become the very thing he despised: a man who preyed on those weaker than himself, who was willing to destroy the very thing he desired the most just to keep someone else from having it.

He would have to remain vigilant if he was to extract himself from her embrace at the first stirring of life from his men. He rested his chin on top of her head and gazed into the darkness, knowing that dawn would be a very long time coming.

Chapter Fourteen.

EMMA AWOKE THE NEXT morning feeling surprisingly well rested. It was almost as if she'd spent most of the night nestled in a warm feather bed instead of sprawled on the cold, stony ground. Although the woolen blanket was tucked beneath her chin with painstaking care, Jamie was nowhere in sight. morning feeling surprisingly well rested. It was almost as if she'd spent most of the night nestled in a warm feather bed instead of sprawled on the cold, stony ground. Although the woolen blanket was tucked beneath her chin with painstaking care, Jamie was nowhere in sight.

She climbed to her feet, yawning and stretching her stiff muscles. A balmy April breeze had buffeted most of the clouds away, revealing a dazzling stretch of azure sky. Jamie's men were milling about on the other side of the campfire, breaking their fasts and making their horses ready for the day's ride.

At first she thought Jamie had decided to take her at her word after all and had failed to post a guard. But then she saw young Graeme lounging against a nearby boulder, pretending to whittle away at a block of wood that was growing more shapeless with each flash of his blade. When she started forward, he trailed a few steps behind, trying to look nonchalant. She was tempted to bolt for the trees just to see if he actually possessed the courage to stop her.

As she wended her way through the camp, her gaze instinctively seeking but not finding Jamie's tall, imposing form, his men gave her a wide berth. Several of them even averted their eyes as she pa.s.sed, devoting themselves to shoveling down mouthfuls of mealy porridge or waxing their bridles with renewed vigor.

She was only able to sneak up on Angus and Malcolm because they were too busy arguing over a hunk of scorched bannock bread to notice her approach.

"d.a.m.n it all, mon, I told ye there weren't eno' left for the both of us," one of them was saying as he plucked the bread from his twin's hand.

"There would be if one of us wasn't ye!" his twin insisted, making a vain grab for the bread.

Spotting her, they lapsed into sullen silence.

Emma eyed their tangled brown locks and full lips with poorly disguised fascination. Their off-center noses even looked as if they'd been broken in precisely the same spot. "So how do the other men tell the two of you apart?"

Pointing to each other, they said in perfect unison, "He's the ugly one."

"Oh, I see." Still puzzled, she nodded politely and backed away, leaving them to return to their squabble over the bread.

"Watch yer step, la.s.s," someone warned as she nearly backed right into the campfire.

She turned to discover Bon sitting on a rock, hunkered over a rasher of bacon smoking in an iron skillet. Although the meat was already scorched to a blackened crisp, he didn't appear to be in any hurry to remove it from the pan.

Following the direction of her glance, Bon glared up at her. "Now that ye've stolen me britches and boots, I suppose ye'll be wantin' me bacon, too."

Emma glared right back at him with all the affronted dignity she could muster. "I didn't steal your britches and boots. Your cousin stole your britches and boots and gave them to me. And I wouldn't dream of depriving you of your breakfast, sir."

Snorting, Bon stabbed the blackened strip of meat with the point of his knife and slapped it on a battered tin plate. He held the plate out to her, his impish face scrunched into a fierce scowl. "Ye might as well go ahead and take it. I wouldn't want ye to shoot me."

Emma hesitated, suspicious of any kindness on his part.

"Go on. I didn't have time to poison it." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Yet."

Emma accepted the plate and took a nibble of the blackened pork. She couldn't hide her grimace. It was like licking an ash can.

"Have you any more?" she asked, her stomach already rumbling a hollow protest. Ever since her papa had accepted the earl's proposal, very little had been able to tempt her appet.i.te, but suddenly she was famished. It had to be all the riding and the fresh air.

"Greedy wench, are ye? I would expect no less from the Hepburn's woman." Still grumbling beneath his breath, he speared another rasher of bacon with his knife.

Before he could slap the meat in the pan, she stayed his hand.

"Please. Allow me."

He eyed her suspiciously, then reluctantly surrendered the knife and the bacon into her hand, muttering, "Probably end up with the blade stuck in me gullet for me trouble."

She joined him on the rock and dropped the fresh rasher of bacon into the skillet. As it began to sizzle, Emma glanced over her shoulder to find the other men still giving them a wide berth. "Why are they behaving in such a peculiar manner? It's almost as if they're afraid of me."

Bon stroked his pointed black beard. "It's not ye they fear, but Jamie. He's made it clear they're not to trouble ye or they'll have to answer to him."

"And just what would he do if they disobeyed him?"

Bon shrugged one skinny shoulder. "Probably shoot them."

A disbelieving laugh escaped her. "Jamie told me he considered his men his brothers. Do you honestly believe he would kill one of them over me?"

"I didn't say he'd kill them. I said he'd shoot them." The perpetual twinkle in Bon's eye made it impossible to tell when he was joking. "But ye needn't worry the lads'll think less o' ye because of it. He's also made it clear ye're not his woman."

Jamie's woman.