Surrender

  Despite her anger with Lord William, she found herself feeling dangerously at home at his table. Lord William’s officers in their fine uniforms reminded her of the young men who’d visited her uncle. ’Twas hard to remember that she must keep secrets from them, that she could not seem to be one of them. What simple crofter lass would ever have sat at such a board, eaten such delicacies, or partaken of such conversation? For that reason she decided not to speak except in answer to questions and then to keep her answers brief. The less she said, the less chance there was that she might slip and reveal something.

  Yet it was difficult to stay silent, as Lord William’s officers seemed to be doing their best to engage her in their good-natured banter, plying her with polite questions about her life in Scotland and even complimenting her beauty. As the evening had worn on, she realized Lord William himself had said little, but simply sat back listening and watching.

  Was it her imagination or was he studying her?

  After dinner, they adjourned to Lord William’s study, where he insisted she play chess with him, despite her protestations that she did not know the game. She swiftly lost two games, only to have him insist on a third.

  She pretended to study the chessboard, well aware that Lord William was still watching her with those cold gray eyes of his. She struggled to feign interest in the game, her mind worn with worry for Iain and dulled by wine, her body aching from lack of sleep. How did he suppose she could give one jot or tittle about chess?

  Lord William had already taken her rook and both of her knights and was bearing down upon her with his bishops and his queen. She moved her bishop, deliberately leaving her king and queen vulnerable, wanting the evening to end so she could return to the hospital and Iain.

  “That might not have been the wisest move, Miss Burns,” Lieutenant Cooke advised her.

  She looked up at him, pretended confusion. “’Tis a tricky game. I dinnae ken how anyone can keep all the rules in mind at one time.”

  Lord William’s gaze was now on the board. “With practice, Miss Burns—with practice.”

  He moved his queen boldly forward, and Annie saw his mistake.

  Whether it was from wine or lack of sleep, Annie took up her rook and captured his queen. Blood rushed to her head as she realized what she’d done.

  Lord William’s measuring gaze cornered hers, and for a moment she felt like a fly looking into the spider’s eyes.

  But Lieutenant Cooke was beside himself. “Oh, very good, Miss Burns! Brilliantly played. See, you can learn the rules.”

  His enthusiasm was at once so sincere and amusing that Annie couldn’t help but smile.

  That was how Iain found her—playing chess with Wentworth and surrounded by his officers, her golden braid hanging over her shoulder, a smile upon her face. He had not expected to find her enjoying herself. Hot rage burnt in his gut, overcoming his pain and lingering dizziness.

  “You wait until she’s wi’out protection, and then you take her. The price was paid, Wentworth. You had no right!”

  “Iain!” The blood leached from Annie’s face.

  Everyone but Wentworth gaped at him in surprise, which swiftly became outrage.

  “Now see here, Major!” Cooke spluttered, leaping to his feet. “No one seeks to dishonor Miss Burns.”

  Iain heard the two redcoats who’d been guarding the door approach from behind. They’d regained their feet faster than he’d imagined. Clearly, he was weaker than he realized.

  “My apologies, Colonel. We tried to stop him, but he—”

  “Major MacKinnon. What an unexpected pleasure.” Wentworth dismissed the redcoats with a flick of his lace-clad wrist. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Nay, I willna bloody join you.” Then he looked into Annie’s wide eyes and switched to Gaelic. “Tiùgainn leam, a dh’Annaidh!” Come away, Annie!

  She stood as if to obey, then turned her gaze to Wentworth.

  This time Iain spoke English so Wentworth would understand. “You dinnae need his consent, for God’s sake! You are no’ bound to him.”

  Still she hesitated. “Iain, I—”

  “Nor is she bound to you, Major.” Wentworth stood, took her hand, bowed over it, touched it to his lips. “You are free to go with him, if that is what you wish, Miss Burns. Thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I can’t remember the last time anyone has even come close to besting me.”

  If Iain had had any doubts as to Wentworth’s intentions toward Annie, those doubts vanished. He could smell the heat in Wentworth’s blood from across the room.

  Disgust rose in Iain’s throat. He strode forward, forced Cooke out of his way with a glance, then took Annie by the arm and pulled her after him.

  She followed without struggle, harrying him with questions. “Are you daft? What are you doin’ out of bed? Why do you risk Lord William’s wrath again?”

  The sound of Wentworth’s Christian name on her lips forced him to the brink. “Uist!”

  “Iain, he didna touch me.”

  Morgan blocked his path. “Dinnae take your rage out on the lass. This was no’ by her choice.”

  But Iain could think only of the smile he’d seen on her face. She’d looked willing enough. “Move aside.”

  He pushed past his brother, his strength sustained by raw anger. Ignoring her protests, he led her out of the fort, across the bridge, past his startled men to his cabin. Then he’d pulled her through the door and barred it behind him.

  “Iain, please! You are no’ yourself.”

  Later he would not be able to say why he did it. Perhaps he was out of his mind from pain. Or mad with jealousy. He’d wanted to berate her, to rage at her, to throttle her. Instead, he found himself kissing her, marking inch by soft inch the lush territory another man had tried to claim from him.

  Annie had hoped he would kiss her again, but not like this. Not out of anger. Not when he was so badly hurt. She turned her head away and pushed her hands against his chest, trying to free herself from his iron grip. “Please, Iain! You can barely stand.”

  He took her chin in one hand, forced her to meet his gaze, his eyes as dark as midnight. “Did he kiss you like this?”

  “He didna—!” she tried to answer.

  But Iain thrust his tongue into her mouth, cut off her words.

  The sweet delight of it drove all else from her mind, and for a moment she lost herself in him, in the burning crush of his lips, in the hot glide of tongue against tongue. A fluttering warmth rose from deep in her belly, and she could not help but kiss him back, meeting him stroke for stroke, pressing herself against him, her body seeking something from his.

  Then, remembering, she tried to pull away from him. “Iain, you shouldna be—”

  But he twisted his hands in her hair, forced her head back, and laid bare the column of her throat. “Did he taste you like this?”

  His teeth and tongue nipped and licked the sensitive skin beneath her ear, making her skin tingle, sending a sultry shiver of pleasure down her spine.

  She moaned, clung to him, her hands fisted in his shirt. “He didna . . . He didna touch me at all!”

  Without warning, she was falling, being borne back onto his bed, his weight upon her. She felt a trill of alarm, but it melted under the onslaught of his lips and teeth and tongue.

  “Did he touch you like this?” He captured her wrists in one big hand and pinioned them above her head. Then he yanked down her bodice, freed her breasts, and began to suckle her.

  “Iain!”

  Oh, but it felt good! His tongue licked fire against her nipples. His lips drew them to taut points that ached and burnt. His teeth grazed and pinched them, making her gasp. Heat flared in her belly, turned to liquid between her thighs. She heard herself whimper, felt herself arch against him, and knew she could not resist him.

  Iain heard her soft moans and felt her writhe with desire beneath him as he spent his rage on her flesh. But as the sweet taste of her soothed his anger, pain and exhaustion set in. And
finally her words pierced his mind.

  He didna touch me at all.

  Wentworth had not tried to seduce her?

  With that realization came an understanding of what he had just done.

  He lifted his head, looked into Annie’s green eyes, and hated himself for the uncertainty he saw there. “Forgi’e me, lass!”

  But ere darkness could claim him, he discerned another emotion in her eyes—desire.

  Her body trembling with unfamiliar sensations, Annie felt his head relax against her bared breast, heard the slow, steady sound of his breathing, and knew he was utterly spent.

  But so was she, and before the heat in her blood had cooled, she was fast asleep.

  William closed his eyes as pleasure overtook him and imagined that it was Miss Burns’s slick heat that gripped his cock. He thrust hard into his hand to finish it. Then he lay still for a moment, felt his body ease.

  He reached for a cloth and wiped away his seed, which lay in pools against his abdomen. He would have rather left it deep inside Miss Burns, but he’d long ago promised himself he’d not squander his wealth by spawning a brigade of bastards as his older brother had done. He’d not be able to call himself honorable if he allowed his get to starve on the streets, but he did not wish to take coin or property from his legitimate issue in order to support his by-blow.

  Not that he was a monk—far from it. But he preferred to take his pleasure with married women who could blame their condition on their husband and add another blessing to his household, rather than looking to William for support. If the woman were already with child, so much the better. He couldn’t plant a field that had already been sown.

  Despite his vow to himself, he’d found it unusually difficult to proceed with his original plan tonight and not take Miss Burns to his bed. Knowing she’d come to him assuming he would rape her had been more than a little arousing. But he preferred a willing woman to an unwilling conquest, and Miss Burns had been visibly unhappy at the thought of lying in his bed.

  But that could still change.

  William stood, crossed the room naked, and added more wood to the fire. Then he poured himself a cognac, savoring its aroma as the snifter slowly warmed in his hand.

  He’d bet a chest of Spanish silver that she was untouched. Annie Burns radiated the ripe innocence of a virgin bride. As to why MacKinnon had not plucked her yet—that William could only credit to MacKinnon’s exaggerated Scottish sense of honor. William understood him well enough to know MacKinnon wouldn’t debauch a woman he’d taken under his protection—at least not until he’d fought a long and arduous battle with himself.

  Given the way he’d kissed her before his flogging—staking his claim to her before every man in the fort—he was already deep into that battle. William would enjoy watching him lose, just as he’d enjoyed watching MacKinnon charge into his home like an angry bull this evening. That the man could still stand on his feet after losing most of the skin on his back was nothing short of astonishing.

  Iain MacKinnon had the endurance of stone.

  William sipped his cognac, his mind drifting back to Miss Burns—if that was truly her name. As he’d watched her tonight, he’d grown more certain that he’d seen her someplace before—and that she was not who she said she was.

  He’d set out the bait so as not to make her wary, then watched her respond. Though she’d wanted him to believe she did not possess refined table manners, he’d seen her shift her fork more than once from a proper hold to an improper one. Then, when he’d offered to pour her dessert wine, she’d reached immediately for the correct glass. And although she’d feigned ignorance of chess and had played poorly, her last move had been quite clever, taking him unawares.

  In that moment when she’d captured his queen, her mask had dropped. Her gaze had met his, her eyes reflecting not a baseborn peasant’s ignorance, but a well-bred young woman’s intelligence—and more than a little panic. She’d slipped, and she’d known it.

  But why would any young woman as fair and defenseless as she turn her back on privilege and choose to live a life of deprivation and hardship on the frontier? What was she running from? What was she hiding?

  William smiled to himself, anticipating a fine game of wits. He was going to enjoy uncovering Miss Burns’s secrets—one by one.

  Someone was pounding on the door.

  At first Annie thought it a dream. She ignored it, tried to roll over and keep sleeping, but a heavy weight pinned her down.

  Drowsy, she opened her eyes and gasped.

  Iain lay atop her, asleep, his head upon her still-bare breast.

  “Iain, open up, or we’ll break the door down!” ’Twas Morgan.

  In a panic lest Iain’s brothers see her like this, she tried to slip out from beneath him without waking him, but it was too late.

  He lifted his head, his brow furrowed with pain and irritation, and shouted toward the door. “Bide one bloody moment!”

  She felt her face burn as his gaze met hers. “I’ll let him in if you . . . if you can move.”

  A faint smile played across his pale face as he realized what he’d been lying upon, and he kissed her nipple. “A man couldna ask for a softer or finer pillow.”

  He gritted his teeth, raised himself off her, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  The heat of a blush in her cheeks, she rose quickly, adjusted her gown, and hurried to open the door.

  “Thank you, Annie.” Morgan strode through the door, followed by Connor.

  And an Indian.

  Annie’s thoughts scattered as he strode toward her. Though some part of her knew he must be a friend of the MacKinnon brothers, she could not stop the panic that welled up inside her at the sight of him.

  He was almost as tall as Iain, his hair long, straight, and black as midnight and his skin dark and tanned. Apart from the bronze gorget that hung from his throat and the thin band of colorful beads that encircled his forehead, he wore only a leather breechclout with leggings, seeming to Annie to be nearly naked. Markings like Iain’s decorated the brown skin of his arms, chest, and belly, but there was no paint on his face. Every inch of him was sleek muscle.

  Morgan laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “Sorry, Joseph, but the lass has ne’er seen an Indian who wasna tryin’ to kill her.”

  The Indian met her gaze through eyes as dark as night. Then he smiled, flashing white teeth. “So you’re what all this trouble is about.”

  Chapter 16

  Annie looked first at the cloth and jar of fresh salve in her hand and then at Iain’s raw, torn back, dreading what she must do. She knew how badly this concoction burnt and couldn’t imagine putting it on wounds as deep as Iain’s. She did not want to cause him suffering, but she refused to let him grow sickly with fever.

  Outside, a fiddle sang out the strains of a jig as the Rangers settled down with their nightly ration of rum, but she scarce heard it.

  “Are you ready, lass?” Morgan had laid himself across Iain’s legs so that his brother would not thrash about and hurt someone.

  Connor and Joseph each held an arm.

  Iain was clearly furious, cursing Morgan. “You neach dìolain, I dinnae need to be held down! Deog am fallus bhàrr tiad-hain duine mhairbh!”

  The first part translated to “bastard,” while the second seemed to suggest that Morgan should suck the sweat off a dead man’s . . . testicles.

  “Aye, I’m ready.” She dipped the cloth into the salve, then took a deep breath. “Forgi’e me, Iain.”

  Quickly, she spread the burning ointment across his back, starting at his shoulders and working her way down his flayed skin. She bent her mind upon her work, tried to ignore the way his body immediately tensed and arched beneath her hands, tried not to hear his groans.

  But groans quickly turned to profanity. “Och, Christ!”

  “Don’t tell me you think this hurts.” It was Joseph who jested with him.

  Iain answered in kind, his voice forced between gritted teeth. “No mor
e than . . . the touch of a feather. Holy Mary!”

  Images from earlier in the evening flooded her mind. Iain storming, pale and furious, into Lord William’s study. Iain trying to punish her with his kisses. Iain making her tremble, his mouth upon her breasts.

  But other images came to her mind as well. Iain grinning to his men as he walked, shackled, toward the whipping post. The reassuring strength in his eyes. His body tensing with agony at each stroke of the lash.

  ’Twas the price he’d willingly paid for her life, though she was but a stranger to him.

  She’d thought him a barbarian at first, and she’d been right. But there was honor in him—honor that went soul deep—and courage as strong as the roots of a mountain. Honor and courage—if those weren’t the traits of a gentleman, what were?

  By the time she had finished rubbing the salve into his wounds, he was blessedly unconscious. Quickly she bandaged him, then she sat on the edge of his pallet, her legs suddenly unwilling to hold her, her hands trembling, her lungs bereft of breath.

  She heard Morgan’s voice as if it came from far away. “That’s a good lass.”

  “You’ve the touch of a healer.” That was Joseph.

  “That ought to cure him—if it doesna kill him.” Connor placed his big hand upon her shoulder, gave her a squeeze. “Our thanks.”

  Outside, the fiddle played on.

  Still shaking, Annie looked at the jar in her hand and thought of the two Rangers still in the hospital. And she wondered.

  Iain heard the honeyed sound of her voice.

  Annie was humming.

  He opened his eyes, found himself lying on his belly on his own bed. His back hurt horribly, and he felt as weak as a newborn cub. His mouth once again tasted of laudanum, and he thought he remembered Annie coaxing him into swallowing a spoonful last night when he’d been half asleep, his mind clouded by pain.

  Groggy from the tincture, he lifted his head, searched her out, found her sitting at his table stitching upon something.