The Devil Wears Plaid (11 page)

As the hills grew steeper, the trees more scarce and the terrain ever more rugged, Emma was almost thankful for his bullying. Without his imposing chest and muscular arms to support her, she probably would have gone tumbling into some stony ravine and broken her neck.

They all had cause to be thankful they’d started their journey with full bellies since Jamie only allowed them a handful of breaks to meet the most
basic of their needs for food, water and respite. Judging by the gruff impatience with which he urged them to hurry up and remount, the breaks were more for the horses’ benefit than their own.

With each league they traveled, the air grew thinner, making the wind feel like the stinging snap of a whip against Emma’s tender skin. Patches of dingy snow began to appear beneath the sparse clusters of birch and cedar as they left even the most elusive hint of spring far behind them.

Emma’s world soon narrowed to the well-muscled cradle of Jamie’s body and the steady sway of the horse between her thighs. Her memories of England—of sunlight dancing over the tender spring grass and larks singing in the budding hedgerows—seemed nothing more than the distant echoes of a dream. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly grow any more wretched, a chill drizzle began to fall from the leaden sky.

Jamie retrieved an oilcloth from his pack and used it to fashion a makeshift tent over both their heads. His efforts were wasted when the capricious wind shifted and began to drive the icy needles of rain into their faces. It was soon dripping off Emma’s eyelashes and running down her cheeks like tears. Forsaking her battered pride, she huddled against Jamie, shivering and soaked to the skin.

Before long they were forced to slow their pace
so the horses could pick their way over the slippery rocks. Emma’s head began to droop. She could not have said if she drifted into sleep or stupor, but when she opened her eyes, it was to a world both achingly familiar and utterly alien.

She must be dreaming, she thought, her exhaustion melting to a haze of wide-eyed wonder. How else was she to explain the enchanted tableau before her eyes? She blinked, but still the vision remained, cozy and substantial enough to put a lump of longing in her throat.

The rain had shifted to snow while she drowsed—fluffy white flakes that waltzed through the clearing before them in the arms of the wind. In the middle of the clearing sat a cottage. This was no tumbledown crofter’s hut but a sturdy structure fashioned from weathered gray stone and crowned by a thatched roof. The cheery glow of lamplight spilled from its deep-set windows like a beacon to welcome the weary traveler.

To Emma’s eyes, the cottage looked as if it should have been spun from gingerbread and marzipan instead of stone and mortar. She half-expected to see a bony, white-haired crone beckoning from the doorway, eager to offer her sugar plums and sweetmeats before stuffing her into a waiting oven.

It was a fate she might actually welcome at the moment, she thought, wracked by a fresh round of shivers.

Since the horse had finally ceased its rocking, there was only one other constant in her life—Jamie’s arms. He dismounted, pulling her off the beast with him in one fluid motion. Instead of setting her on her feet, he gathered her to his chest and went striding toward the cottage, carrying her like a child.

Emma stole a furtive glance at him. Fresh snow-flakes dusted the rich sable of his hair and caught like diamond dust in his lashes.

She knew she should have protested his high-handed treatment of her. Should have insisted he put her down that very instant. But she wasn’t entirely sure her trembling legs would support her. So she looped one arm around his neck, telling herself it was less humiliating than going sprawling to the ground at his feet. As she rested her weary head against his shoulder, she thought how unfair it was that someone so untrustworthy should feel so strong and warm and solid.

As they approached the cottage’s stone stoop, the wooden door swung open as if by magic.

Jamie ducked beneath the low door frame. They were immediately enveloped in a cloud of warm air, faintly scented with the delicious aroma of cinnamon biscuits.

It took Emma a dazed moment to realize it was no cackling crone who had granted them entry, but a ruddy-cheeked woman who was nearly as broad as
she was tall. It wasn’t a very difficult feat to achieve since the top of her head barely came to Jamie’s elbow.

Judging by her rumpled tent of a nightdress and the long white braids draped over her shoulders, their arrival had roused their hostess from her bed. But that didn’t seem to dim her delight.

She clapped her hands, a smile wreathing her rosy cheeks. “Jamie, me darlin’ lad! Why, ye’re a sight fer a puir auld woman’s sore eyes!”

Even burdened with Emma’s weight, Jamie still managed to bend down and graze the top of the woman’s snowy head with a kiss. “There’s no need for false modesty, Muira. You know you’re still the bonniest lass north of Edinburgh. I’ve been half in love with you myself since I was but a wee lad.”

“Only half?” she inquired coyly, giggling like a schoolgirl. “I’m still waitin’ fer ye to come to yer senses and ask me to be yer wife.”

“And you know I would if I thought your husband wouldn’t mind.” Jamie straightened, glancing around the cozy but spacious chamber that appeared to serve as both parlor and dining room for the cottage. “Where is he?”

“He’s off huntin’ with the lads again.” The old woman’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “’Twould serve him right if he returned to find a randy young lover in me bed.”

“Bite your tongue, woman. You know he’d shoot
any mon foolish enough to trifle with his blushing young bride. He almost shot my grandfather once and all he did was wink at you.”

She swatted Jamie on the shoulder. “After thirty-five years o’ bein’ wed to Drummond MacAlister, ’twill take more than a spoonful o’ flattery from a honey-tongued lad such as yerself to make this bride blush. So how is that grandfather o’ yers? I was hopin’ the stubborn auld rascal would come doon from the mountain and pay us a visit before the winter snows set in, but we’ve seen neither hide nor hair o’ him all these long months.”

From Emma’s angle, it was impossible to miss the sudden tension in Jamie’s jaw or the faint quickening of the pulse in his throat. “He’s staying closer to home these days. I haven’t seen him myself for nigh on two months.”

Muira snorted. “Ye canna expect me to believe the auld divil’s retired to his rockin’ chair. If ’twas up to him, he’d still be leadin’ the lads and ye’d still be in St. Andrews or Edinburgh playin’ the gent.”

A mock shudder raked Jamie. “I would have never survived. The whisky was weak and the lasses weren’t nearly as bonny as you.”

Worry dimmed the twinkle in Muira’s eye as she peered past them into the shadows of the yard. “Shall I fetch the pistols and bolt the door? Are ye bein’ followed?”

“Not at the moment. Except by a band of wet, hungry, weary men who would gladly trade their mortal souls for a bowl of hot neeps and tatties and an invitation to bed down in your stable for the night.”

Muira rubbed her plump hands together, as if being stirred from her sleep in the dead of night to feed a dozen ravenous men was her idea of paradise. “I’ll put a pot on the kitchen hearth right away. And tell young Nab to lock up the sheep,” she added with a ribald wink. She turned her attention to Emma, her toffee-colored eyes as bright and inquisitive as a robin’s. “And what have ye here? Did ye find some half-drowned muskrat doon on the moors?”

Any other time Emma might have balked at being likened to a rodent. But at the moment she was helpless to squeeze so much as a squeak of protest past her chattering teeth.

She felt Jamie’s arms tighten around her. “I was hoping you’d look after her while I tend to the men and the horses.”

“That I will, lad.” Clucking like an aggrieved mother hen, Muira gave him a chiding look. “And from the looks o’ the puir child, I’ll do a damn sight finer job of it than ye.”

Plucking a glowing oil lamp from its hook, their hostess ushered them across the room. After sleeping on the cold ground for two nights, the cozy cottage with its low plastered ceilings and neatly swept
flagstone floor looked like a king’s palace to Emma. A narrow wooden staircase was tucked into an alcove in the corner. Apparently, the cottage had a full second story instead of just a sleeping loft.

Fragrant bunches of dried rosemary and thyme had been hung from iron hooks set in the exposed oak rafters along with an impressive array of iron pots and copper kettles. Jamie had to duck to avoid banging his head on the largest of them.

Emma forgot about all of the room’s other charms when she saw the fire crackling merrily on the stone hearth. An ancient hound with a grizzled muzzle was dozing on a rag rug in front of the fire. It was all she could do not to shoo him away so she could curl up in his place.

Jamie gently deposited her on the bench closest to the hearth, then straightened just enough to whisper something in Muira’s ear.

“Aye, I’ll see to that as well, lad.” The woman bobbed her head, the sly twinkle returning to her eye. “’Twill be ready when ye return.”

As if eager to make good on her mysterious promise, she turned toward the back of the cottage and clapped briskly. Emma craned her neck, waiting to see if a trio of elves or perhaps a unicorn would appear to do her bidding.

But it was simply two servant girls who emerged from what must have been the kitchen, rubbing their
bleary eyes. The one with the ruddy complexion and pug nose was nearly as short and stout as her mistress but the other was a tall, comely young creature with dark, glossy gypsy ringlets and plump breasts on the verge of tumbling out of her low-cut bodice.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Jamie, making Muira’s welcome seem positively chilly in comparison. “Why, Jamie Sinclair, as I live and breathe,” she purred, resting a hand on one shapely hip. “’Tis been far too long since ye’ve paid me… I mean, us… a visit.”

S
TEADFASTLY AVOIDING
Emma’s eyes, Jamie bobbed his head briefly. “You’re looking well, Brigid. As always.”

Emma could only stare, fascinated by the hint of color gracing his high cheekbones. She wouldn’t have thought him a man capable of blushing.

“Not nearly as well as ye,” Brigid replied, looking him up and down as if she’d like nothing better than to lure him off to the nearest hayloft for a lusty tumble. And not for the first time, if the way she was licking her ripe lips was any indication.

Emma glared at the impertinent chit through the sodden ropes of her hair, then quickly lowered her eyes when she realized what she was doing. Fortunately, Jamie had already turned and was striding back toward the door, no doubt relieved to be free of the burden she had become.

Muira shooed both the servants back toward the
kitchen. “Go on with ye now! There’s no time for gawkin’ and dallyin’! We’ve much to do and little time to do it.”

Brigid spared Emma a disdainful glance before flouncing back into the kitchen with Muira and the other maidservant following at her heels.

Emma tugged off her boots and huddled in front of the fire, perfectly happy to bask in its warmth and keep company with the grizzled old hound. The moments were punctuated by the muffled clang of pots, the occasional Gaelic curse, and the sound of footsteps trudging up and down the stairs behind her. Her garments were just starting to go from soaking wet to unpleasantly damp when Muira reappeared to hand her a wooden bowl. Emma quickly spooned down its contents, caring only that they were warm and bore a vague resemblance to vegetables she recognized. She was equally grateful for the cup of hot tea Muira pressed into her still trembling hands.

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, lass,” 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 compassionate 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 bluster, 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, lass. 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 sturdy 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 lass is lucky, that is.”

“And Muira has always been among the luckiest of lasses.” Emma jumped as Jamie’s voice came from just behind her, warning her he’d probably heard every word of her ridiculously passionate 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 fiancé 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 lass 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 passed.

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.

O
H, 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 lust 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 prickly 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 space 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 breasts 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 lass.”

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
eager.”

Jamie didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d been
eager
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 breasts 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.

E
MMA 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 breasts.

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.