If You Dare (21 page)

“Can you never stand still, lass?”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “Does it
bother
you? My pacing?”

“No, no' at all. Just thinkin' if you agree, we're goin' to need a bigger room in the future. Else you'll get dizzy.”

Whatever he said was a winner of a response. She stilled, and her gaze softened so sweetly on him—she had
never
looked at him like that—and damned if he knew why. But he found he liked it. A lot.

“Just a kiss?” she murmured shyly.

“Wherever and whenever I feel like it.”

She resumed her glare at that, but mumbled, “Very well.”

Court was amazed she'd agreed. All he had to do was risk his life to keep her safe from the most vicious assassin order in Europe? And he got to kiss her, at his pleasure? He definitely had struck the better bargain. “Then we have a deal.” He rose and made a sweeping gesture. “You can have the bed.”

She eyed him warily before she unwrapped the blanket from her torso then hastened under the cover. The moment she lay on her side, he eased down alongside her.

She gasped. “You said I could have the—” She stopped herself. “I do have the bed, don't I? But you didn't say to myself.”

“You learn too quickly, lass. I'll have no more tricks in my bag.”

She stiffened, and right when she would scramble away, he threw his arm over her, careful of her bandage. “Anna, stay. I will no' take my payment now. We are both hurt, exhausted, and drunk. Nothing could stir me. Even the sight of your lovely bottom dinna stir me,” he said, lying so much he thought he'd be struck down. She relaxed somewhat. “But if you took away any one of the three, then I'd kiss you.”

She was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

“Because you're the type of woman who needs to be kissed. Hourly, softly. Fiercely.” He skimmed his hand down over her hip and murmured near her ear, “Thoroughly.”

She shivered, then eased over on her back and faced him. Her breasts pressed against her nightdress, her nipples hard, and just below them she ran her finger back and forth across the cover in long, languorous movements. “That sounds like a lot of work, MacCarrick,” she purred with that accent. “Will you be the man to do all that to me?”

He groaned and leaned forward, thanking God for whisky.
“Anna, you have no idea.”

She put one finger against his chest and pushed. As she turned away, dismissing him, she said, “Stirred?”

W
hat imp had caused her to taunt him like this? She didn't feel like she was rubbing a bear's belly, she felt like she was jabbing it with arrows when the beast was in bed with her. And she knew better.

It was just that the ride here against his chest had been so surprising, and then seeing him grin had been confusing. Here was the man who'd just spied on her and seen her naked, but the look on his face afterward had been . . .
rewarding?

Or she was simply drunk. Yet again.

“I like that,” he said. His voice, so husky and rumbling, always pleased her. Even when she'd despised him and the words—and accent—his deep voice conveyed, she'd enjoyed the sound. But tonight she could no longer despise him. Tonight it made her tremble.

“You like what?” she asked, too curious to refrain.

“No' that you tease me.”

“Then what?”

“That you think you can tease me and actually keep
my
hands off
your
body with a finger.”

She did think that. For some reason she'd always known he would never force himself on her, even when he'd kissed her at the lodge. “But I have.” She needed to bite her tongue. Was she trying to provoke him? She'd already agreed to let him kiss her whenever he pleased!

“Tonight you have,” he agreed, then pulled her to her back to face him. “But if you look at me like that again and speak to me in that voice, you will no' fare so well in the future.” His tone was low, his eyes watchful. She realized she found his eyes as pleasing as his voice. They were dark, but now she noticed lighter flecks. She wished she knew what color those were. . . .

Oh, Lord, she feared she was looking at him like that just this second. She tore her gaze from his and studied his lips. She remembered how good kissing him had felt and absently asked, “Then what would happen?”

“Then I would kiss your lips.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, and the whisky insisted that she allow it. “And your neck.” He caressed his fingers down her neck. The feeling was so pleasurable, she fought to keep her eyes open and lost. Then no touch at all. Just when she was opening her eyes to his, she felt the first contact to her breast. “And then your breasts.”

Never breaking her gaze from his she sucked in a breath and tensed. Because she would pull away. Now she would. In one second . . . He continued watching her, making it impossible to look away, while lower, his fingers were slow and hot on her hardened nipple.

“You mustn't do—”

He pinched lightly, and her eyes slid closed again. She vaguely perceived him levering his body above her, but she felt his lips on her neck like fire. She moaned and soon his
hands covered her breasts, his thumbs sinuously rubbing her nipples. Nothing could possibly feel this good. . . .

Was he working his hand inside her nightdress? The jolt of his hot skin directly against her breast roused her, made her remember who this was and what they were doing. When she swatted his hand, he grasped her wholly. She tried to wriggle from him, and he groaned.

“MacCarrick, let go of me!”

“Let me touch you.”
He growled the words.

“No!” She broke from him, turning away, her breathing heavy. Her breasts were sensitive as if protesting the lack of his touch. She ached between her legs more strongly than she ever had alone in her bed, and to her shame she'd grown wet there.

She felt him roll on his back and heard him exhale a pent-up breath. “You'll be the death of me, Anna.”

•  •  •

When dawn neared and he heard her finally sleeping, he rose, still hard as iron, miserable as only a man denied could be. He'd never felt skin so soft. Never
dreamed
of skin so soft. And he'd had his hands on her, teasing her to need again. Only his coarse touch had stopped him from uncovering more.

He glared at his scarred hands. They weren't changing.

He supposed he would have to get used to nights filled with heavy, aching erections and no relief in sight. Because apparently, he'd just signed on for many more.

She affected him, and for some reason, around her, he either became like a lowly animal or strove to be noble. Both were asinine in his mind. Noble? Him? He'd had difficulty keeping his hands off her when she was violent toward him. And in the nights before, when he'd removed her shirt to change her bandage, his fingers had itched to sweep across her chest, to slip beneath her chemise and grasp her breasts
and cup her. How noble was that? She most likely still hated him, but now she was teasing him? He was a dead man.

As he washed his face with cold water, he looked in the mirror, scowling at his harsh reflection, seeing nothing there that would make her
want
his touch.

He dried off, then sat for some time watching her sleep, listening to her whisper occasionally in Catalan, wondering why he'd decided to leave his crew and the possibility of any income behind. Why had he promised to get her to safety when all he'd wanted was to pay off Beinn a'Chaorainn?

Court was the only man in his family in memory to have a note on his land, and it shamed him. The only thing that lessened the feeling was knowing it was a
lot
of land. Knowing he'd purchased it for less than half its value helped as well.

To make way for sheep, a foppish English baron had cleared the lands of Beinn a'Chaorainn of tenants, forcing them to the coast to eke out a living there. Then the baron left the administration to factors, who knew little about the land, and without good management the farm couldn't compete with the wool churning out of Australia. Debts from a high life in London forced him to sell at a loss akin to robbery.

Court smiled a mean smile. The violent removal of Highlanders from the land and sometimes even their forced emigration had been happening for years. In fact, many of them had been driven to Australia.

And now they owned those wildly profitable sheep stations that dominated the world wool market and bankrupted shortsighted English barons.

We will always win in the end,
Court thought.

Before they'd been cleared, the tenants had been prosperous, and their rents, when fair, were still substantial—not grossly so, not able to support a high life in London, but comfortable. Court liked comfortable.

He'd planned to ask them back. But he couldn't—not until he owned his home completely and could never lose it. So why the hell had he decided to put his plans on hold? Why had he chosen to help her?

At that moment Anna turned on her back in sleep. Her brows drawn, she softly murmured,
“Wolf.”

He bolted from the room, then stomped down the stairs, uncaring of guests sleeping beneath them. Groot was already up.

“Need a coach,” Court said as he sat at the common table. “And I'll pay extra for a driver worth his salt and horses that doona spook so easily.”

“I can send the boy to Toulouse. Guess you're taking the lady?”

“Aye. I'll need some coin.”

“Should I put the debt on Ethan's or Hugh's tab?”

It would serve them right. “Split it equally.”

Groot chuckled. “And your crew?”

They would not be pleased. “I'll leave a message for them. They should be here soon.” He might have wondered why they hadn't arrived yet, since he and Annalía had made such poor time, but he knew a standoff like that could take days, even weeks, to end, especially since both sides were in such defensible locations. It could take even longer if both doggedly refused to give ground. That was one thing he hated about the job—the bloody downtime.

He would write to Niall and tell him to ride for Otto. If Niall thought the odds good, he should sign them on.

When the coach arrived, he inspected the horses and quizzed the driver—a man called originally enough “Coachy.” Finding both acceptable, he went to wake Annalía. Through the front window of the inn, he spied her rushing down the stairs, smoothing her hair, and looking none the worse for wear for their drinking. His head had been pounding since
he'd sobered. When she strode outside, he asked, “How do you feel?”

She appeared surprised that he was still there, but covered it with a shrug. “I feel fine. Why?”

Because she'd been riding through a downpour last night, recently shot, and then got drunk, he almost answered. He was learning that the black plague personified could kiss her and she'd be fine. “No reason.”

She glanced down and ran the toe of her shoe over some tufted grass by the walk. “I didn't know if you'd still be here.”

Did she think that badly of him? He'd given her his word—when he was soused and under duress from needing to tup her—but still his word. “I made a deal with you, and I plan to keep my side of it.”

She gave him a disbelieving expression. “Don't become testy, MacCarrick. It isn't as if you've presented yourself as the most trustworthy man.”

He moved closer to her, to a point she would deem
impolite.
“If you will no' believe I'll keep my end because I'm a man of my word, then believe I will just so you'll keep yours.”

She blushed and observed the grass again.

“So that means I'll be getting you somewhere I know you'll be safe.”

She frowned when she faced him again. “You told me the posting house was safe. This was where you were going to leave me.”

“Changed my mind after the attack yesterday, and I know a place in London.”

“I'm not traveling to England!” She crossed her arms over her chest. He noticed she put her hands lower because of her injury. “You said you'd help me find Aleix, not take me farther away from him!”

“Your brother's coming for you. The Rechazado said he
was on our trail to save you from the brutal Highlanders and then murder me for revenge. He'll go where we go. And he'll thank me later for taking you to safety in London.”

“Why didn't you tell me this information sooner?”

“When should I have done that? During the downpour or when I was drunkenly trying to get you out of your gown?”

She gasped, eyes wide, but then she narrowed them. “You're attempting to distract me. To keep me from saying yet again that
I am not going to England.”

“Lass, we're leaving. Now. The subject's ended.”

“I can't leave without sending him a message!”