“Oh, I know exactly who you are. You’re Simon Wescott—notorious libertine.”
“That’s bloody well right! I may not be a gentleman, but I don’t lose my temper, I don’t get mean when I drink, and I seduce women, not ravish them.” He shook his head helplessly, his voice both deepening and softening. “I’ve never touched a woman the way I touched you last night.”
She drew another step closer to him. “As if you’d been waiting your whole life to taste her kiss? As if you’d die if you couldn’t have her?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you were the one who nearly died.”
“That’s only because I forgot what my brother told me all those years ago. That the Kincaids never cry when they can fight. I shouldn’t have run away last night. I should have stayed and fought for what I wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“You. Not Simon Wescott the legendary hero, but Simon Wescott the man.”
Simon didn’t exhale for a long moment and when he finally did, his exhalation was as fierce as his expression. “If you truly know what sort of man I am, then you also know I’m perfectly capable of making love to you without loving you.”
Another step and she would be close enough to touch him. “I’m not asking you to love me.”
He was the one who closed the distance between them then, drawing her into his arms and brushing the smooth, firm warmth of his lips over hers again and again, as if to savor their plump sweetness before delving deeper with his tongue.
If last night’s kiss had sought to take, this one sought only to give. To give pleasure, to give bliss, to give a tantalizing taste of the services he was only too capable of providing. As his tongue danced over hers in the most compelling of rhythms, she felt like she was drowning all over again. Only this time she wasn’t sure she could survive without the life-giving sweetness of his breath in her mouth.
A life that was nearly ended by the arrow that came whizzing past them, burying itself with a deadly thunk in the trunk of a nearby birch.
Yelping with alarm, Catriona threw her arms around Simon’s neck. “What was that?”
His arms tightened around her waist, drawing her against the shield of his body. “If I remember my navy cant correctly,” he whispered into her hair, “I believe that was a warning shot fired across our bow.”
Simon’s words proved prophetic because a heartbeat later more than a dozen gray-and-green-garbed figures came melting out of the forest, bows drawn.
Simon tried to tuck her behind him, no easy feat since they were surrounded on all sides. As he pivoted in a wary circle, Catriona danced on her tiptoes, struggling to see over his shoulder.
Dark hair hung in greasy braids around their attackers’ faces. They’d painted their cheeks with some sort of dried mud, which made their narrowed eyes stand out in stark contrast.
Gray, dark-lashed eyes the color of the morning mist hanging over the moors.
Catriona popped out from behind Simon, an astonished smile breaking over her face. “Why, I know who you are! You must be my brother’s band of merry men!”
Simon snatched her back into his embrace, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist. “I hate to be the one to point this out, darling,” he murmured, eyeing the deadly tips of the arrows aimed directly at her heart, “but they don’t look particularly merry at the moment.”
Chapter 14
Catriona could only imagine what a sight she must make, stripped down to Simon’s shirt with her long legs exposed and her hair hanging in tangled elflocks around her face. Even so, she could not bring herself to cower in mortification before these men. She held her head high as she scanned their forbidding faces, Simon’s arm still locked like an iron bar around her waist.
“You’re the band of men led by the outlaw who calls himself the Kincaid, are you not?” she called out boldly. Unable to hide her eagerness, she studied each face in turn. “Is he here? Is he among you?”
The men exchanged uncertain glances. One of them—a head taller than the others—stepped forward, his deadly grip on his bow never wavering. His rawboned face might have been handsome had it not been stripped of every last trace of humor and hope. “Why don’t we discuss that after ye hand o’er yer money and jewelry, lass?”
She tried, but could not quite stifle her laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no need for you to rob us. Why, I’ve brought you all gifts!”
One of the other men snorted. “Did ye hear that, Kieran? The lass has brought us gifts. What does she think this is? Christmas morn?”
“I’ve allus wanted a spinning top and a set of tin soldiers,” one of his companions quipped, earning a rumble of laughter from the rest of the men.
“Hush!” Kieran snapped, stifling them in mid-chuckle. “There’s no need to mock. The puir wee lass is plainly daft.”
“That’s right, gentlemen,” Simon inserted smoothly. “The puir wee lass is indeed quite daft, and if you’ll give us leave to go, I promise to cart her right back to Bedlam where she belongs.”
Catriona trod firmly on his toes, earning a pained grunt. “I’m not going anywhere until I find what I came for, and that’s a man who calls himself the Kincaid. But you might know him as Connor Kincaid—my brother.”
Again those uncomfortable glances. A knot began to form low in Catriona’s belly.
“Connor never mentioned no sister,” one of the men called out.
She shrugged to hide how much his words stung. “That doesn’t surprise me. After he sent me back to London to save me from the redcoats, he probably thought I’d be safer if everyone forgot I existed.”
The Kieran fellow who seemed to be their leader lowered his bow and sauntered forward, jerking his head toward Simon. “If ye’re Connor’s sister, then who is he?”
She and Simon spoke at the exact same time.
“He’s my husband.”
“I’m her bodyguard.”
Catriona felt Simon tense as Kieran looked her up and down, his lascivious gaze taking in every inch of her, from the crown of her disheveled hair to her pink little toes. “Husband or bodyguard, it looks like he’s been performin’ his job with great enthusiasm.”
Suddenly it was no longer Catriona in Simon’s arms but the insolent Highlander. The man made a strangled sound as his bow tumbled to the ground and Simon rammed the muzzle of a small but quite deadly pistol against his jaw.
Catriona could only gape at him, dizzied by the swiftness and grace of the move. She hadn’t even known he owned a pistol, much less carried it on his person.
Using his captive as a shield, Simon swung in a tight circle, making sure every man in that clearing saw the weapon pressed to their leader’s bobbing Adam’s apple. “This pistol only carries one shot, but I can assure you that’s all I’ll need. Now toss your bows to the ground or you’ll be one man short.” The brisk note in his voice warned that he would brook no disobedience. “Or should I say one head short.”
After a round of hostile mutters and surly glances, the Highlanders reluctantly complied.
“Your knives as well,” he demanded, watching with grim satisfaction as a host of blades emerged from grimy sleeves and secret pockets to clatter into the growing pile of weapons on the ground.
“Nicely done. Now, if one of you is Connor Kincaid, I suggest you step forward and apologize to your sister for allowing these mannerless ruffians to insult her.”
The men shuffled their feet for a minute or two before a squat fellow with jug ears and two front teeth missing finally stepped forward. Simon frowned. He certainly couldn’t see a family resemblance.
The man scuffed one rag-wrapped foot on the ground, the mud streaking his cheeks only making his broad, homely face look more doleful. “Conner isna with us no more.”
The blood drained from Catriona’s face, leaving it as pale as an alabaster mask. As she swayed, Simon swore beneath his breath, wondering if he was going to have to free Kieran so he could catch her.
But she bit her bot
tom lip, visibly composing herself, and asked softly, “How long?”
Before the man could reply, Kieran spat, “The bastard ducked out on us before the winter snows. Said he was sick of our drinkin’ and our wenchin’ and our thievin’ ways. Said we could end up dancin’ a fling at the end of a hangman’s noose if we wanted, but he’d had his fill o’ this life and the cursed Kincaids.”
Catriona didn’t say a word. She simply turned, walked over to the wagon and stood with her back to them all.
Kieran squirmed violently in Simon’s grip. Sensing that the man was no longer a threat to them, Simon shoved him to his knees and slid the pistol into the waist of his trousers.
He moved toward the wagon. Catriona’s shoulders were bowed. Her slender white hands gripped the wagon’s bed as if it were the side of a rapidly sinking dinghy.
Simon rested a hand on her shoulder, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, darling.”
She turned to look up at him, but it was fierce joy that lit her face, not sorrow. “Why are you sorry? Don’t you see? My brother is still alive!”
Simon gazed down at her, waiting for her words to make sense. When they finally did, he almost regretted it. “Do you mean to say that you dragged me all the way up to this godforsaken wilderness without even knowing if this brother of yours was dead or alive?”
“Uncle Ross tried to convince me that he was dead. I haven’t received so much as a note from him in the past ten years. When Eddingham came to my uncle’s house, he told us that the outlaw they called the Kincaid had vanished several months ago. Naturally, I feared the worst.”
“Eddingham? What does Eddingham have to do with all this?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid the marquess just bought this parcel of land from the Crown. He’s planning to use English soldiers to hunt down the last of the Kincaids so he can use the land for grazing Cheviot sheep.”
Simon’s ears were beginning to feel curiously hot. “And just when were you planning to tell me all this? Before or after the redcoats ran me through with a bayonet?”
“I was afraid you’d back out of our arrangement. I know you don’t care for…”—she inclined her head, the first flicker of guilt dancing over her delicate features—“complications.”
“Oh, my life has become very complicated indeed since that unfortunate moment when you strolled into my jail cell.” He paced a few feet away from her and then back, raking a hand through his hair. “Just when is Eddingham planning to carry out this plan of his?”
Catriona swallowed. “As soon as the winter snows thaw.”
Simon glanced down. They were standing in a puddle of mud. The bright spring sun and westerly breeze had melted away every trace of the snow that had fallen the night before.
Grabbing Catriona by the hand, he yanked her toward the front of the wagon.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried, stumbling after him.
“Taking you back to your uncle in London. That Kieran fellow was right. You’re a puir daft lass and you ought to be locked away.”
She planted her feet in the mud but could find no purchase against his determined momentum. “We can’t leave now! Just look at the unfortunate creatures!” She swept a hand toward the motley crew of bandits who were gathering their weapons, muttering among themselves, and shooting her and Simon murderous looks. “They’re the last of the Kincaids. Even Connor has deserted them. They need me now more than ever!”
“If you had been standing downwind of them, you’d know that what they need is a nice hot bath. Preferably in a jail cell.”
Digging her sharp little fingernails into Simon’s palm, Catriona broke away from him. She snatched up her tattered plaid from her pile of blankets, wrapped it around her shoulders and marched resolutely over to the milling band of thieves.
“My brother was right,” she shouted, winning back their reluctant attention. “You are cursed. I know you’ve all heard the words that were spoken by my great-grandfather as he lay on that battlefield at Culloden with his life’s blood seeping into the dirt after being betrayed by his own son for thirty pieces of silver and an earldom. ‘The Kincaids are doomed to wander the earth until they’re united once again beneath the banner of their one true chieftain.’” She straightened to her full height, her gray eyes glittering like polished moonstones. “Like it or not, with my brother gone, I am that chieftain. I am the Kincaid.”
Kieran shook his head and laughed aloud. “Och, lass, what ye are is out o’ yer bluidy mind.”
Still shaking his head, he slapped one of the other chuckling men on the back and started toward the forest.
As the men began to melt back into the trees, Catriona felt a flare of panic. She’d waited ten long years for this moment. Ten years of enduring Alice’s taunts and pinches, ten years of feeling like an unwelcome stranger in her uncle’s house, ten years of longing for a home she could barely remember.
“Wait!” she cried. “You can’t go! I brought you gifts, remember?”
The men froze, then turned back as one, unable to hide the greedy gleam in their eyes. Catriona marched boldly over to Kieran, jerked the dagger out of his belt and strode back over to the wagon.
Simon watched through narrowed eyes as she sawed at the ropes binding the oilcloth. It took her several minutes of struggle, but they finally fell away, allowing her to throw back the oilcloth with a theatrical flourish.
The men inched nearer, their curiosity outweighing their caution. Catriona beckoned them forward, eager to reveal her treasures.
“I know the English have outlawed most of these things to rob you of your heritage and your pride. We could have been hanged for smuggling them into your hands, but I thought it well worth the risk.”
“How very noble of you,” Simon said dryly, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m glad to know it was worth risking my neck as well.”
She shot him a quelling glance. Reaching into the bed of the wagon, she dragged out a heavy bolt of green and black tartan. “This isn’t precisely the pattern of the Kincaid plaid, but it’s as close as I could come. I bought two dozen bolts of the wool. You can use it to make kilts and plaids for yourselves, gowns for your wives, and blankets for your horses.”
“What horses?” asked the homely fellow who had stepped forward earlier, scratching one of his enormous ears.
“What wives?” asked another man, spitting a fat wad of tobacco on the ground.
“Well…” Catriona said, at a sudden loss for words. She awkwardly heaved the bolt of wool back into the wagon, then dusted off her hands. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate my next purchase. I’ve brought you several volumes of poetry by your esteemed countryman Robert Burns. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I stumbled upon them in a tiny bookshop in Gretna Green.” She drew out one of the cloth-bound volumes, leafing through its faded, gilt-edged pages with reverent hands. “They’re a bit the worse for wear, but that won’t stop you from reading them by the fire on a cold winter’s night.”
“If we could read, that is,” Kieran said with such gentle sarcasm that even Simon winced.
“Oh.” Both her face and her spirits falling, Catriona tucked the book back into the wagon. She could not help but brighten when she saw her next treasure. “I suppose that brings us to the crown jewel of our little collection.” Reaching back into the wagon, she dragged out a tangled nest of pipes. “Aye, it’s just what you’d hoped for—a genuine set of bagpipes!”
She stroked the instrument, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “They’ve been banned in the Highlands since old Ewan Kincaid died at Culloden. The English thought that if you could rob a man of his music, you could crush his spirit as well. Without the triumphant wail of this exquisite instrument calling him to battle, they believed he would be too disheartened to fight.” She lifted the bagpipes to her shoulder, sweeping each of her kinsmen in turn with her shining gaze. “But they didn’t take into account the song that still echoes in the heart of every Highlander. The stirring drumbeat that de
mands freedom—freedom from oppression, freedom from tyranny, freedom from—”
“Have ye any whisky in there?” Kieran interrupted impatiently, peering over her shoulder. “Any gold? Any food?”
Catriona blinked at him, taken aback. “We have a few extra potatoes and a loaf of bread.”
“Have ye any boots to keep our feet from crackin’ and bleedin’ durin’ the long winter months? Or guns to fight the English who’ve spent the last fifty years tryin’ to drive us off our own lands?” He plucked the bagpipes from her hands and held them aloft. “What do ye expect us to do with these, lass? Pipe them to death?”
His men responded with an ugly swell of laughter. Catriona felt something deep inside of her begin to shrivel.
Kieran carelessly tossed the bagpipes into the back of the wagon and plucked out one of the books. “Or maybe we could read ’em a poem from one o’ these fancy books o’ yers. If we’re lucky, they might doze off before they could find a rope and string us up from the nearest tree.”
“I d-didn’t…” Catriona stammered, mortified that she had been so painfully naïve. “I never meant to…”
She flinched as Kieran used his wiry hands to break the spine of the book and rip it clean in two. “Ye can take yer gifts back where they came from. We don’t need yer bluidy charity and we sure as hell don’t need ye. We’ve done just fine without a chieftain for all these years. We’re free men and we’d just as soon stay that way—free o’ the English and free o’ the likes o’ ye!”
Tossing the book at Catriona’s feet, Kieran turned on his heel and strode toward the forest with his men falling into step behind him.
Catriona stood there, looking much as she had the first time Simon had seen her—barefoot, wrapped in her beloved plaid, her sun-kissed hair tumbling around her face, her slender shoulders painfully rigid. But then her pride had been a shining mantle and now it lay in tatters around her feet.
Simon tore his gaze away from her stricken face, wishing he could turn his back on her as easily as her kinsmen had.