The Devil Wears Plaid Part 9

She spent a blissful moment breathing in the steam wafting up from the cup before lifting it to her lips.

The liquid slid down her raw throat, burning every inch of the way. She choked, shooting Muira a betrayed look.

"Drink up, la.s.s," the old woman urged, settling her considerable bulk on the edge of the hearth. "The whisky'll warm ye far faster than the tea will."

Blinking the stinging tears from her eyes, Emma tentatively took a second sip of the whisky-laced tea. Muira had spoken the truth. The burn soon subsided to a pleasant glow that warmed her belly and made her numb fingers and toes begin to tingle.

Emma couldn't have said if it was the whisky or the compa.s.sionate sparkle in the woman's eyes that thawed her frozen tongue but she suddenly found herself blurting out, "How long have you known Jamie?"

"Since he was naught but a wee lad ridin' on his grandfather's shoulder." The woman's plump cheek dimpled in a smile. "Ramsey couldn't take a step in those days without Jamie tuggin' on his coattails. Oh, he would fuss and bl.u.s.ter, but ye could tell the lad could do no wrong in his eyes. It nearly broke his heart to send Jamie away to that fancy school when the lad turned seventeen."

"It's a shame they weren't able to teach him any manners there," Emma muttered, still feeling oddly out of sorts after witnessing Brigid's overly familiar greeting.

Muira gave her a reproving look. "Mind yer tongue now, la.s.s. A mon doesn't need manners when he has a stout heart. There's been many a bitterly cold winter when me and mine wouldna have survived if Jamie-or his grandfather before him-hadn't brought us milk and meat in the shape of a stolen heifer or two. If not for the Sinclairs, we'd have all been driven off this mountain and into the lowlands long ago by the Hepburn and his lapdogs. The Sinclairs are the ones who put meat on our tables and coins in our purses when times are lean. Why, three o' me own lads even rode with Jamie for a season before settling down with their wives to raise bairns of their own."

"Would you be so quick to defend him if I told you he had abducted me?"

Considering the fawning welcome Muira had given Jamie, Emma hardly expected their hostess to gasp in horror and go running for the authorities. But she was still a little nonplussed when the woman leaned over and gave her a motherly pat on the knee. "I suspected as much, dearie. Me own Drummond stole me right out from under me dear father's nose."

Emma eyed the woman in disbelief. "Do you mean to say your husband abducted you as well?"

"Aye, that he did." Muira sighed, her eyes growing a bit misty at the memory. "Tossed me o'er the back o' his horse and made off with me in front o' half the village. I had six younger sisters and they were all pea green with envy."

Perhaps the woman was mad, Emma thought as she blinked at Muira's beaming countenance. Perhaps all Scots were mad.

"But this isn't the Dark Ages." She took another sip of the tea and whisky concoction, feeling her indignation begin to mount along with her body temperature. "Where I come from, a man courts the woman he fancies. He woos her. He writes poetry to praise the fairness of her face, the grace of her steps, the gentleness of her temperament. He doesn't toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his cave. Or his cottage," she added, stealing a glance at their homey surroundings. The cottage with its worn rag rugs and scarred but st.u.r.dy furniture looked like a place where life was not only lived, but celebrated. "Where I come from, men behave in a civilized manner. Like gentlemen," she finished stiffly, "not like savages or barbarians."

"Och, but there's nothin' gentle or civilized aboot what happens between a man and a woman in the bedchamber." Muira gave her a broad wink. "At least not if a la.s.s is lucky, that is."

"And Muira has always been among the luckiest of la.s.ses." Emma jumped as Jamie's voice came from just behind her, warning her he'd probably heard every word of her ridiculously pa.s.sionate speech. "She has seven strapping sons and twenty-seven grandchildren to prove it."

Muira rose from the hearth to smack him on the arm, her laugh a bawdy bray. "Go on with ye, lad! 'Twould be eight-and-twenty grandchildren now. Callum's wife had her seventh bairn while ye were off tweakin' the Hepburn's forked tail."

Reminded anew that her fiance didn't have many admirers on this mountain, Emma drained the dregs of her tea in a single bitter swallow and waited for Jamie to inform Muira that he hadn't stolen her so he could make her his wife, but to sell her back to his enemy for a profit. But he simply plucked the empty tea cup from her hand and handed it to Muira before scooping Emma back into his arms.

She stiffened, no longer willing to submit to being treated like some slow-witted child. "You may put me down now, sir. I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable-"

"-of holding your tongue for another five minutes," he finished smoothly, striding toward the stairs.

Emma snapped her mouth shut, reluctant to make a scene in front of Muira or her servants. The girls had reappeared and were watching Jamie carry her off. The stout la.s.s was gaping with open-mouthed fascination while Brigid watched through eyes narrowed to feline slits.

Muira's younger sisters must have looked equally envious when Drummond MacAlister had gone riding out of that village with his squealing bride-to-be on the back of his horse. Emma knew she should be more concerned about how Jamie's manhandling could damage her reputation, but she could barely resist a childish urge to poke her tongue out at Brigid as they pa.s.sed.

Jamie turned left at the top of the stairs, carrying her to a chamber at the far end of the narrow corridor that was little more than a dormer tucked beneath the eaves. The only furniture in the room was a ladder-backed chair, a small table with a lamp on it and a round wooden tub banded in iron.

A round wooden tub with curlicues of steam rising from the heated water within.

"I'm afraid it was the best I could do since I didn't have time to compose an ode to the fairness of your face and the grace of your step. Or the gentleness of your temperament," Jamie added wryly.

Emma slid to her feet and drifted forward, forgetting all about her annoyance with him. In that moment, she would have forgiven him anything, even murder. She'd heard the maidservants trudging up and down the stairs while she languished in front of the fire but her mind had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion to realize they'd been hauling buckets of heated water. Now she knew exactly what Jamie had whispered to Muira before ducking back out into the snow to tend to his horses and his men.

"Oh, Jamie," she breathed, trailing her fingertips through the warm, silky water. "It's beautiful!"

She lifted her head to find him surveying her with an odd light in his eyes. Her smile faded. "What is it? Why are you staring at me?"

"That's the first time I've heard my Christian name on your lips." His gaze dropped to those lips, its smoldering caress warming her in places even the whisky had not been able to reach. "I rather fancy the sound of it."

Before she could fully absorb the impact of his words, he was gone, leaving her all alone to run a trembling finger over her parted lips.

OH, JAMIE...

Jamie went striding from the cottage, trying not to think about just how badly he longed to hear those words on Emma's lips again, this time ending on a breathless sigh of pleasure or perhaps even a deep-throated moan of surrender as he knelt between her fair, freckled thighs and...

He bit back a groan of his own. His restless strides carried him to the very edge of the rocky slope behind Muira's cottage. The snow was still tumbling from the sky but the brittle flecks of ice did little to cool his fevered flesh. Despite the frigid bite of the wind, all he could see was Emma peeling off her damp garments and sinking into the warm water just as he longed to sink into her.

It was far too late to entertain such a foolish notion. He'd already waited a lifetime to wrest what he wanted from the Hepburn and now his time was running out.

If the Hepburn gave him what he wanted, he would have no choice but to honor his word and send Emma back to the front of that abbey, where she would take the earl to be her husband, her lord and master, and the father of her babes.

His hands clenched into fists. He'd managed to convince himself long ago that there was only one thing the Hepburn possessed that he could not live without. He'd scorned the man's greed, his arrogance, his insatiable l.u.s.t for power.

After all, why should he-Jamie Sinclair-envy an ancient pile of stones when he possessed something far more precious-his freedom? He wasn't caged by four walls, but slept beneath the star-spangled expanse of the sky, the entire mountain his kingdom. Why would he require a bevy of servants to be at his beck and call when he had loyal men willing to ride by his side for little more than the promise of companionship and adventure?

And yet here he stood coveting the Hepburn's proud and p.r.i.c.kly tempered bride. Why couldn't she have been some spoiled, grasping creature willing to sell her succulent young body to the earl for a pair of diamond earbobs or a cloak trimmed in ermine? If she had been, he might not want her so badly for himself. He wouldn't be standing out there in the cold, every inch of his body burning so hot he could almost feel the snow melting beneath his boots. He might still be content with the sort of woman who would welcome him into her bed without requiring so much as a kiss, much less a lifelong pledge of devotion.

Almost as if his thoughts had conjured them from the swirling snow, a pair of warm female arms materialized to slip around his waist.

Jamie closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine for the s.p.a.ce of one heavy, thudding heartbeat he felt all the way to his groin that they were Emma's arms. That it was Emma who had braved the snow to seek out his company, fresh from her bath, her skin still damp and rosy, the irresistible softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his back.

But it wasn't the intoxicating scent of rain-washed lilacs that tickled his nose. It was a hint of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire underlaid with the unmistakable musk of female desire.

He turned, his sigh visible in the frigid air. "You should get back in the cottage, Brigid, before you freeze your silly self to death."

The buxom servant girl twined her arms around his neck, laughing up at him. "Ah, but there's no danger o' that as long as ye're around, is there? As I recall, ye've yer own special way o' warmin' a la.s.s."

Jamie groaned as one of her greedy little hands ventured between them, rubbing the rigid length of his staff through the soft buckskin of his breeches.

"Oh my," she breathed, shooting him a coy look. "I told Gilda ye'd be eager to see me tonight. But I had no idea just how how eager." eager."

Jamie didn't have the heart to tell her he'd been eager eager ever since he'd tossed a certain willowy young English miss over the front of his saddle two days ago. ever since he'd tossed a certain willowy young English miss over the front of his saddle two days ago.

It seemed she wasn't in the mood for conversation anyway. She was too busy nuzzling his throat with her moist, hot lips and rubbing her plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest.

Jamie knew he'd be a bluidy fool not to hike up her skirts right there where they stood and take her up on her offer. Perhaps if he could relieve the unrelenting ache in his groin, he would be able to shunt some blood back to his brain. He'd be able to quell his growing obsession with another man's bride.

Biting off a savage oath, he wrapped his arms around Brigid and gave himself over fully to the ripe, open-mouthed carnality of her kiss.

EMMA RESTED THE BACK of her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes, letting the water melt the last of the chill from her bones. A delicious drowsiness stole over her as the lingering burn of the whisky in her belly mingled with the seductive warmth of the water lapping at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. of her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes, letting the water melt the last of the chill from her bones. A delicious drowsiness stole over her as the lingering burn of the whisky in her belly mingled with the seductive warmth of the water lapping at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The serving girls had left a clean rag, a ball of soap and a linen towel perched on the rim of the tub. Although the crude soap was no doubt made by Muira's own hands, Emma would have found it no more divine had it been French-milled in Paris and reeking of lavender. She had worked up a generous lather with it and taken her time scrubbing the grime of their journey from her skin and hair.

She sank even deeper into the water and listened to the wind whistling around the eaves, biting back a moan of pure pleasure. She knew she would have to emerge from the tub eventually. If she dallied too long, she was afraid Jamie might just come strolling back in and decide to join her.

Against her will, her wayward imagination conjured up an image of him sinking into the water as naked as on the day he was born, reaching to tug her into his arms with a wicked come-hither smile, his well-muscled body as wet and sleek as a seal's. A heat of another kind swept over her, tightening the rosy peaks of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and making the fire in her belly snake lower until it settled into a dull ache between her thighs.

She sat straight up in the tub, her eyes flying open. Despite the brisk air caressing her cheeks, she suddenly felt feverish and cross. She pressed the back of her hand to her brow. Perhaps the exposure to the elements had been too much for her. Perhaps she was taking a fatal ague. She'd spent countless hours mooning over Lysander in the privacy of her bath-the only place she could escape her sisters' inquisitive eyes-but she'd never before been troubled by such disturbing visions. Even in her boldest fancies, Lysander had been garbed in the full regalia of a gentleman, his fashionable Hessians perfectly polished, his cravat flawlessly knotted. She'd never dared to imagine him doing anything more audacious than stealing an innocent kiss from her puckered lips.

She frowned. Now that she thought about it, she could hardly recall his face. Features that had once been incredibly dear to her eyes were nothing more than a vague blur. His curling hair no longer gleamed like gold in her memory, but seemed as pale and lifeless as corn husks. His perfectly modulated voice with its precise diction and crisp consonants sounded as tepid as a day-old cup of tea. There had been no hint of smoke in that voice, no echo of simmering pa.s.sion to make a woman dream about more than just kisses when she was alone in her bath.

As that unsettling fever swept through her once again, Emma quickly clambered out of the tub, toweling herself dry with the rough linen. She was already dreading the prospect of trying to wriggle her way back into her clammy garments when she spotted the nightdress hanging on a nearby peg.

She drew the crisp, freshly laundered folds over her head. A stray gust of wind struck the window beneath the dormer, sending it banging open. Cold air flooded the room, pebbling Emma's damp skin with gooseflesh.

She rushed over to close the window but her fingers froze on the latch when she spotted the two figures locked in a torrid embrace at the edge of the slope below.

Chapter Sixteen.

THE SNOW SEEMED TO cast a supernatural glow over the stony terrain behind the cottage, making it that much easier to spot Jamie in the arms of another woman. cast a supernatural glow over the stony terrain behind the cottage, making it that much easier to spot Jamie in the arms of another woman.

The sight made Emma feel strangely hot, then cold-as if the icy flakes were no longer swirling outside the window but inside her heart.

As she watched, longing to avert her eyes but unable to look away, Brigid twined her arms even more tightly around Jamie's neck and tipped her head back to laugh up at him, her teeth a flash of white against her swarthy skin. Emma couldn't hear what the woman was saying, but when her hand glided downward and disappeared between the two of them, Jamie threw back his head and gritted his teeth, his expression only too easy to interpret.

It was the expression of a man in the throes of some sort of terrible, yet exquisite, pain. A man willing to do whatever it took to turn that pain into pleasure.

Pressing her advantage, Brigid nuzzled his throat and rubbed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the broad chest where Emma had so recently rested her head. Then Brigid's head fell back in wordless invitation, baring the graceful line of her throat. Emma squinted through the falling snow, almost willing to swear she saw Jamie hesitate. But it must have been nothing more than a trick of the spinning flakes and the ghostly light because the next thing she knew Jamie had wrapped his powerful arms around the woman and was devouring her lush mouth with a hunger that refused to be denied.

Resisting the urge to slam it with enough force to shatter the gla.s.s, Emma gently eased the window shut without a sound.

BRIGID MOANED AGAINST JAMIE'S lips, her voice deepening to a throaty purr, "Oh, Jamie..." lips, her voice deepening to a throaty purr, "Oh, Jamie..."

Jamie's eyes flew open. Even with Brigid's voluptuous curves in his arms, it was Emma's voice he heard sighing his name, Emma's eyes he saw shining up at him, Emma's lips he felt moving beneath his-parted and wet and hungry for his kiss. And for all the pleasures she would never know at the earl's hands.

Closing his hands around Brigid's upper arms, he set her gently-but firmly-away from him. "You'd best get back to the kitchen before your mistress finds you gone. It's been a very long journey and I'm wearier than I realized."

Brigid rested her hands on her hips, her eyes slowly narrowing. "Not too weary to cart that scrawny bag 'o bones up the stairs. Since the rain didn't do the job, I was rather hopin' ye were goin' to finish drownin' her in the tub."

If Brigid in the throes of l.u.s.t was an impressive sight, Brigid in the throes of jealousy was even more magnificent. Jamie half-expected the buxom, raven-haired beauty to start hissing and spitting at him like some furious cat.

"Why don't you let me walk you back to the cottage?" he offered, hoping to distract her from clawing his eyes out.

"Don't trouble yerself overmuch on my behalf, sir," she snarled with mock sweetness. "I'm sure Angus or Malcolm won't be too weary to warm a bonny la.s.s on such a cold night." She gave her curls a defiant toss. "Or Angus and and Malcolm." Malcolm."

Eyeing the saucy twitch of her rump as she whirled around and went storming off toward the stables, Jamie shook his head and muttered, "G.o.d help the lads."

Unfortunately, he might be in even greater need of the Almighty's a.s.sistance. His brief encounter with Brigid had only succeeded in rendering him more eager eager than ever, sharpening the dull ache in his groin to an incessant throb that was as painful as it was impossible to ignore. than ever, sharpening the dull ache in his groin to an incessant throb that was as painful as it was impossible to ignore.

Still shaking his head, he started back toward the cottage, already cursing himself for being a bluidy fool.

WHEN JAMIE'S KNOCK FAILED to garner an answer, he gingerly pushed open the door of the bathing chamber to find Emma sitting in the ladder-backed chair, her hands folded primly in her lap. to garner an answer, he gingerly pushed open the door of the bathing chamber to find Emma sitting in the ladder-backed chair, her hands folded primly in her lap.

Muira's billowing nightdress enveloped her slender curves. Her freckled face was still pink from the bath. A halo of damp ginger curls framed her face.

"Well, that that certainly didn't take very long," she said, shooting him a vaguely contemptuous glance from beneath her lashes. certainly didn't take very long," she said, shooting him a vaguely contemptuous glance from beneath her lashes.

Studying the sulky bow of her mouth, Jamie frowned. When he'd left her, she'd appeared to be on the verge of throwing her arms around his neck and smothering his face with grateful kisses. Now she looked more inclined to hold his head under the cooling water in the tub until the bubbles stopped rising.

It seemed to be his night for infuriating women. At least he knew what he'd done to send Brigid stomping off in such a snit. Emma's sudden bout of ill temper was a complete mystery to him.

"I was hoping to leave you enough time to finish your bath," he said cautiously.

"How very generous of you to consider my needs before your own," she replied with a scornful sniff. "From what I understand, most men are only concerned with satisfying themselves. By any means necessary... especially the most convenient"-her delicate upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer-"or the most common."

Almost as if responding to her mood, the wind whining around the eaves surged to a howl. The window in the corner rattled in warning, then flew open with a bang, sending a dervish of icy wind and snow whirling through the room.

Jamie strode over to secure it, but paused with his hand on the faulty latch when his gaze fell on the stretch of ground below. The thin blanket of snow reflected every available sc.r.a.p of light, including the gentle glow of the lamplight streaming through the kitchen windows, making the night seem as bright as dawn.

He glanced over his shoulder at Emma. She was still staring straight ahead, her delicate jaw squared. Her shoulders were rigid, her spine so stiff it wasn't even touching the back of the chair. A knowing smile began to steal over his face.

He eased the window shut, then sauntered back into her line of view, hiding his budding grin behind an exaggerated yawn. "I'm so spent I can barely keep my eyes open. I wager I'll sleep like a babe tonight."

"I dare say you will." She slanted him a look that made him glad he'd left his pistol belowstairs in his pack. "Sudden and violent exertion frequently has that effect."

He extended his arms in a mighty stretch, deliberately giving her a languid look from beneath his shuttered lids. "I don't think I can remember the last time I felt so turribly... drained."

The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees, prompting him to steal a glance at the window to make sure the latch had not failed again.

"I'm surprised you still have the strength to speak. Much less stand."

As if in total agreement with her, he leaned against the tub, bracing his weight on its edge, and heaved a l.u.s.ty sigh of contentment. "Aye, my legs are as weak as a newborn lamb's. I'd like nothing more than to just collapse."

"Well, by all means, don't let me stop you!" Springing to her feet, Emma gave his chest a surprisingly hearty shove, sending him teetering backward into the tub. He landed with an impressive splash, the water closing over his head.

When he surfaced, still sputtering with surprise, Emma was stalking toward the door as if she had every intention of marching all the way back down the mountain in her nightdress and bare feet.

Jamie struggled to his feet, his garments plastered to his body, and tossed his dripping hair out of his eyes. "And just where do you think you're going, la.s.s?"

"To sleep with the hound on the hearth rug. I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding someone to share your your bedroll. My companion will probably have better manners than yours, though. And fewer fleas." bedroll. My companion will probably have better manners than yours, though. And fewer fleas."

Bracing one hand on its edge, Jamie vaulted out of the tub and caught up with her in two long strides. Without slowing his pace, he swept her into his arms and tossed her belly-down over his sodden shoulder.

"Put me down this instant, you overgrown oaf!" she snapped, beating on his back with her small fists. "I'm tired of being hauled all over this G.o.dforsaken country like a sack of potatoes!"