Some Like It Wicked
He was no hero. He was a bastard and a coward who would never be worthy of so much as a rose petal from a woman like Catriona.
He sank back on one elbow, determined to drink until he couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember what he was drinking to forget.
Catriona couldn’t run far or fast enough to escape her own folly. A strangled sob caught in her throat. She didn’t even care where she was going, as long as it was away from him.
She had wasted five years of her life loving the ghost of a man who had never even existed. She had fallen in love with a pretty boy in a starched uniform, only to discover that the boy was nothing but an illusion and the uniform might as well have been hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy. She had been blinded by both the teasing sparkle in his eyes and the shiny braid on his shoulders and now she was left with nothing to blind her but her tears.
It was incredibly mortifying to remember how she had entertained any number of fantasies that involved dabbing a cool cloth on his wounded brow and spooning broth between his lips while he recovered from his injury and fell deeply and irrevocably in love with her. And what about all of the hours she had wasted kissing her hand and pretending it was his lips and practicing her penmanship by copying Catriona Wescott and Mrs. Simon Wescott into the pages of her journal?
She could have easily forgiven him for not intentionally saving his captain from that musket ball. But she didn’t think she could ever forgive him for deliberately trying to break her heart. For denying the truth she tasted on his lips every time he kissed her.
Stray twigs lashed painfully at her cheeks as she raced through the forest, her half boots crunching over the thin crust of snow. She dodged the outstretched claws of a hazel tree and plunged down a long, stony hill furred with moss and mottled lichen. She might have run all the way to the highest peak of the Highlands if she hadn’t been forced to stop and catch her breath.
Clinging to the smooth trunk of an aspen, she sucked frigid gasps of air into her starving lungs. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a burn rushing over the rocks of a creek bed. After only a few seconds of inactivity, she began to shiver with both exhaustion and cold. It was far too easy to wish she had Simon’s coat wrapped around her. And easier yet to wish she had his strong, warm arms wrapped around her.
She took off again, scrambling up a steep hillside. Her nails dug into the exposed roots that jutted from the rocky soil.
She burst over the top of the hill, only to find herself teetering on the brink of a dizzying precipice. Her arms cartwheeled wildly, snatching at the air for tree limbs that were just out of her reach. A shrill scream tore from her throat as her momentum sent her plunging over the edge of the cliff and into the icy waters of the burn below.
The cold dug its razor-sharp claws into her with brutal force. For a terrifying flash of time, she couldn’t scream, breathe or think.
The creek would probably shrink to a lazy trickle during the summer, but at the moment its banks were swollen with the melting snows pouring down from the mountains. By the time Catriona surfaced, sputtering and coughing and gasping for breath, she had traveled a good ways downstream.
Bobbing like a cork on the open seas, she tipped back her head and screamed, “Simon!”
He might not want to be her hero, but he was all she had. And hadn’t he held her when she was lonely? Covered her when she was cold? Stood up to her uncle and Alice and Eddingham on her behalf?
She opened her mouth to scream again but was only able to drag in a single desperate gulp of air before the weight of her skirts dragged her beneath the water and into the merciless arms of the current.
Chapter 13
Simon! Help me, Simon! Please!
Simon sat bolt upright, his heart thundering like a cannon and that beseeching cry still ringing in his ears. He cocked his head to listen, but all he could hear was the merry chittering of a red squirrel and the hoarse rasp of his own breathing. He ran an unsteady hand over his jaw, haunted by that hollow echo.
He must have been dreaming.
God knows his dreams had been vivid enough. He had been roaming the bewildering labyrinth of his father’s house—one minute a small boy, the next a man. He would catch a glimpse of flowing skirt down a shadowy corridor and hear a haunting echo of his mother’s laughter. But when he tried to follow her, his legs would grow shorter with each step and he would soon find himself all alone again.
Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, he had finally turned a corner, only to come face to face with a chilling apparition of Catriona holding out her hands to him in supplication, rose petals streaming like blood from her pale fingers.
Shrugging away a shudder, he slowly climbed to his feet, his limbs so stiff with cold he was surprised they didn’t creak. The fire had died sometime during the night and his mouth tasted like ashes. The empty whisky bottle lay on the ground a few feet away, as if it had been flung there in a fit of pique. As the watery sunshine struck him full in the face, the pounding of his heart was supplanted by the pounding in his head.
Burying his head in his hands, he groaned.
He was answered by a plaintive meow.
Simon lifted his head to find Robert the Bruce’s chicken crate sitting next to an empty nest of blankets. A chill traveled down his spine. Catriona might abandon him without a backward glance, but she would never abandon that damn cat of hers. If he had been in full possession of his wits last night, he never would have let her go running off into the forest by herself.
He swung around, his bleary eyes scanning the underbrush. “Catriona!” he called. “Where are you, sweetheart?”
The wind whispered through the swaying boughs of the pines, but its secrets were not meant for his ears. He started toward the direction where he had a vague recollection of her disappearing, but a doleful “Mrrrwww” stopped him in his tracks.
He swore but turned back anyway, knowing what Catriona would want him to do. He soon had Robert the Bruce tethered to a tree by the generous length of leather designed to allow him a bit of freedom during their travels. It was also long enough to allow him to climb the tree if a predator approached. The cat glared at him accusingly over a mouthful of dried beef.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Simon ordered, glaring back at him. “I’ll soon find your mistress and she can go back to pampering you like the fat little brat you are.”
Leaving the cat to his breakfast, Simon plunged into the woods. Although he felt as if his skull were going to crack wide open each time he did it, he paused every few steps to call Catriona’s name. She was probably ignoring him just to punish him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it. For a man who had always prided himself on treating the fair sex with the tenderest of consideration, he had certainly behaved like the bastard he was last night.
As if to atone for yesterday’s flirtation with winter, the morning had brought with it a tantalizing promise of spring. A warming breeze wafted in from the west, caressing the tightly coiled buds on the naked tree branches and stirring Simon’s hair. He hesitated at the top of a steep hill, the back of his neck prickling. Haunted by the sensation that he was being watched by eyes even more ancient than the towering evergreens, he glanced behind him. Despite the feeling that he was being followed, he had never felt more alone in his life.
He was beginning to feel as if his nightmare had pursued him into his waking hours. He half expected to catch a glimpse of flowing skirt in the distance or hear the haunting echo of a woman’s laughter. Growing ever more fearful that his path was carrying him farther away from Catriona instead of closer, he swung around to circle back to their camp. But the faint murmur of water lapping at rock lured him into a spacious glade occupied by a deep, dark pool. Its serene waters were fed by a natural waterfall that burbled over a jagged shelf of rock on the far side of the pool.
Simon staggered to his knees along its bank, promising himself he would linger just long enough to rinse his mouth and splash the remaining fog from his
head.
He dashed handfuls of water over his face, welcoming its icy sting. The man gazing back at him from the pool with the beard-stubbled jaw, haggard cheeks and desperate, bloodshot eyes suddenly seemed as much of a stranger to him as the handsome young officer in Catriona’s clippings.
He plunged his whole head beneath the water, obliterating his reflection, then jerked it back out, flinging his sopping wet hair out of his eyes. Only then did he notice the large flat rock crouching in the sun-dappled shadows on the other side of the pool.
And the reddish-gold tendrils of hair floating lazily on the surface of the water.
Just like that, his heart stopped. And for one agonizing moment, he wasn’t sure it was ever going to beat again.
But then he saw the small, pale hand curled up at the rock’s edge and realized the tendrils of hair were cascading over the rim of the rock and into the water.
“Sweet mother of God,” he breathed, the words more prayer than oath.
Without a thought for his clothes or his comfort, he plunged into the water and splashed his way over to the rock. He hauled himself on top of it to find Catriona stretched out on her back with her eyes closed, so still and pale that for one terrible moment he feared it would take more than a prince’s enchanted kiss to rouse her.
But the sodden bodice of her gown clung to a chest that was gently rising and falling with each shallow breath. Simon gathered her into his arms, shuddering to think what might have happened if she hadn’t found the strength to drag herself out of that frigid water. Her flesh was damp and clammy, but he could feel the precious warmth radiating from her body’s core.
He gazed down into her face, desperately missing the roses that usually bloomed in her cheeks. “Catriona? Sweetheart? Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you,” she murmured, her voice weak but clearly audible. “I’m not deaf like some people.” She slowly opened her eyes and glared at him, looking even more disgruntled than Robert the Bruce. “I’ve been calling for you for hours. What took you so long to rescue me? Did you trip?”
A raw bark of laughter escaped him as he tightened his arms around her and buried his face in the damp ropes of her hair, humbled by a grace he did not deserve. “That’s right, angel. I tripped. And I don’t think I’ve ever fallen quite so hard or so far before.”
Catriona had to be dead. It was the only explanation for what she saw when she finally managed to shake off her exhausted stupor long enough to pry open her eyes.
She sighed, feeling a vague pang of disappointment. She had fought so hard to survive tumbling into that burn. She had spit and sputtered and struggled and snatched at the passing branches, never dreaming her deliverance would come in the form of being swept over a waterfall. When the still, cold waters of the pool had sought to lure her into their seductive embrace, she had even managed to claw her way out of them and collapse on top of the rock. But apparently all of her efforts had been in vain.
Because if she wasn’t dead, then why was the ghost of all of her girlhood passions kneeling a few feet away, pouring the contents of a full whisky bottle into the rocky soil?
His cheeks and jaw were freshly shaven, his tawny hair bound neatly at the nape in a leather queue, his profile classically handsome enough to be minted on a Roman coin. He still had the shiny black Hessians and dazzling white shirtsleeves. All he lacked was the dark blue dress coat and white breeches of a Royal Navy officer and he would have been one wicked grin away from seducing her cousin and stealing her heart.
Sunlight winked off the bottle as he held it up, shaking the last few drops from it. Catriona frowned, growing even more bewildered. If she wasn’t dead, then she was definitely delirious with fever, because the Simon Wescott she knew would never waste fine Scots whisky that way. The only place he’d be pouring it was down his throat.
Tossing the empty bottle away, he glanced in her direction and their eyes met. That’s when she saw the jagged scar that bisected his left eyebrow and gave the boyish purity of his looks its compelling masculine edge.
Her sense of reality was knocked even further askew when Robert the Bruce butted his furry head against Simon’s thigh, his adoring purr audible all the way across the clearing.
“Traitor,” she muttered, turning her face away and closing her eyes.
When she opened them again, Simon was standing over her, his golden hair haloed by sunlight.
“If you’re an angel,” she said crossly, “then God has a remarkably wicked sense of humor.”
“Oh, I’m no angel, sweeting.” He knelt beside her, bringing his devilish grin into crisp focus. “I’m Lieutenant Simon Wescott, at your service, miss.”
She pressed the back of her hand to her brow, striving to be brave but failing miserably. “I knew it! I’m dying, aren’t I? I must be delirious with fever.”
He gently tugged her hand into his own, forcing her to look at him. “On the contrary, there’s no trace of fever, no chills, no congestion in your lungs. You’ve been sleeping like the dead all morning, but I think you just might survive.” The teasing sparkle in his eyes faded to a somber glow. “I have to confess that when I first saw you lying on that rock, I thought—”
“You would have need of a new situation. And a new wife,” she finished softly, the word sending an absurdly pleasurable little shiver down her spine. “Ah, but there was a bright spot. My entire dowry would have been yours.” As Robert the Bruce sought to shove his way between them, rubbing against Simon and shooting her a resentful glance, Catriona scowled. “As well as the fickle affections of my cat.”
Simon gave the cat a gentle shove, but Robert failed to budge and only purred louder. “I can promise you that I’ve done nothing underhanded to court the rascal’s favor. He’s shadowed my every step ever since I roasted a fresh fish I caught in the pool so you’d have something to eat when you woke up.”
She sighed. “If he were Roberta the Bruce, I could understand his defection.”
As she struggled to a sitting position, Simon slipped one arm around her shoulders. She wanted nothing more than to sink into his embrace, but she forced herself to wiggle around until she was supporting her own weight. Only then did she realize that the gown and shift she’d been wearing the previous night were draped over a nearby branch. She glanced down, half afraid of what she would find, but she was comfortably enveloped in one of Simon’s crisp dry shirts.
As she tugged down the hem to cover an alarming expanse of pale thigh, Simon held up one hand as if to forestall a lecture. “I know what you’re thinking, and I can’t say that I blame you, but I can promise you that I was—”
“A perfect gentleman,” she finished for him. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “You did say you were at my service, didn’t you, Lieutenant? Just what services do you provide?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Sorry. Old habit.” His sheepish smile faded. “You hired me to look after you, but I’m afraid I’ve been woefully remiss in my duties.”
She shrugged. “You didn’t push me into the burn.”
“But I did fail to pull you out of it. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I might have heard your cries for help long before I did.”
“And come rushing to my rescue, just like the hero of my dreams?” she asked, mocking herself as much as him.
He cocked one eyebrow. “If nothing else, I could have tossed you a rope while I polished off the last of the whisky.”
Catriona glanced across the clearing to where the empty bottle lay glinting in the sun. “If I’m not mistaken, you just polished off the last of the whisky.” She frowned at him in puzzlement. “Why did you pour it out? Was there something wrong with it? Was it bad?”
He rested one elbow on his bent knee, gazing off into the distance as if he could see something she would never be privy to. “No. But it made me that way.”
Noting for the first time that his hands weren’t completely steady, Catriona couldn’t resist capturin
g one of them in her own. “You’ve never been truly bad. Only a trifle bit naughty on some occasions and a wee bit wicked on others.”
Simon lifted his hand to her cheek. His fingers gently cupped her jaw while his thumb feathered gentle strokes over her lips, coaxing them to part of their own accord. As she gazed into the fathomless green depths of his eyes, a sweet shiver cascaded through her. He had been wrong. She was suffering from a fever. A fever that raced through her veins and burned away all traces of common sense, leaving only an unbearable yearning for this man.
She closed her eyes, already anticipating the tantalizing caress of his lips against hers. Which left her feeling rather ridiculous when it didn’t come. She opened her eyes to find him standing a few feet away, his hands on his hips and his back to her. Something in his stance made her climb to her feet as well.
“You hired me to escort you to your brother,” he said, “not seduce you.”
“And what’s this? A sudden attack of scruples? If you lie down for a while and put a cool cloth on your head, I’m sure it will pass.”
He turned to look at her then, his expression grim. “My lack of scruples nearly cost you your life last night. Among other things,” he added pointedly.
“Yes, that’s why I really threw myself into that burn,” she said cheerfully. “I was playing at Ophelia because I couldn’t bear the shame of nearly being ravished by my own husband.”
He stabbed a finger at her. “Don’t call me that!”
“What should I call you?” She took one step toward him, then another, her long legs exulting in their freedom from stockings, petticoats and cumbersome skirts. “Darling? Sweetheart? My lord and master?”
He took a step backward. “You are the most infuriating woman. I don’t even know who I am anymore. You make me a stranger to myself!”