The Devil Wears Plaid (6 page)

This was hardly the wedding day—or the wedding night—any woman deserved. The lass had gone utterly still except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, a fact that troubled Jamie even more than if she had still been shivering uncontrollably. A faint blue tinge shadowed her lips, those same lips that had warmed and flowered beneath his own only a short while ago, inviting him to explore the silken heat of her mouth.

As a surge of treacherous lust shot through his body, Jamie raked a hand through his hair, hating himself for feeling so damnably helpless. He was used to looking after his men, but they were a hardy lot, as rugged as a flock of mountain goats. They didn’t need to be protected or coddled so much as herded.

He had gone charging after her without so much as a coat or cloak. All he had to warm her was the fire and the heat of his own body. But after being foolish enough to steal a taste of her lips, the last thing he wanted—or needed—to do was bed down with the Hepburn’s bride for the night.

E
MMA DRIFTED OUT OF
slumber to find herself enveloped in a delicious cocoon of warmth. She was accustomed to waking up with Ernestine’s cold feet pressed to her calf or Edwina’s pointy little elbow digging into her ribs. This felt more like being bundled up in her favorite quilt next to a cozy fire on a snowy winter day.

If this was a dream, she had no desire to wake. She yawned and wiggled her backside, snuggling even closer to the source of that seductive warmth.

She heard a pained grunt, dangerously close to her ear. Something hard and obstinately unyielding pressed against the softness of her rump, nudging her out of her drowsy stupor.

Her eyes flew open. Her heart stuttered into an uneven rhythm. It wasn’t a pillow shielding her head from the hard ground, but a man’s arm—well muscled and lightly bronzed from the kiss of the sun.
Trying not to move or breathe, she slowly shifted her gaze downward. A matching arm was curled possessively around her waist.

As her dream turned into a nightmare, Emma lunged forward and gathered her breath to scream. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound before it could escape. The arm around her waist cinched tight, forcing her back against her attacker’s unyielding body.

He must have been awake all along, just waiting for this moment.

A helpless shudder raked her as Jamie Sinclair’s husky whisper poured into her ear like a shot of warm whisky. “Hush, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She remained as rigid as a board.

“Or rape you,” he added, his voice deepening to an impossible octave.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, heat rushing to her cheeks. She’d never heard such a shocking word on any man’s lips. Where she came from, women weren’t raped. They were compromised. Or ruined. Or were foolish enough to allow a gentleman too many liberties, or careless enough to take a wrong turn down a shadowy alley. Whatever grim fate befell them, it was always somehow implied that they’d had a hand in their own destruction.

When she remained frozen in his arms, Jamie must have realized his promise sounded less than
credible with his rock-hard arousal still nudging her bottom.

His beleaguered sigh tickled the tiny hairs behind her ear. “I know you don’t know much of men and their ways, but this is a state they often find themselves in when they first awaken. It has naught to do with you.”

Even he didn’t sound completely convinced. Oddly enough, it was the strained note in his voice that gave her the confidence to trust him. As she slowly relaxed into the warm cup of his body, he slid his hand away from her mouth.

He was right. She’d grown up with a mother, three sisters, and a father who had been absent more often than not in the past few years. She knew very little of men and their ways, and what she did know was becoming increasingly perplexing.

After an awkward moment of silence, her curiosity overcame her fear and she whispered, “Is it painful?”

He pondered her question before quietly saying, “At the moment, I believe I’d prefer a pistol ball between the eyes.”

“If you’ll hand me your pistol, that could be arranged.”

She would have almost sworn she heard a rueful chuckle. As she wiggled cautiously around to face him, his hand drifted down from her waist, coming to rest lightly against her hip as if it belonged there.
She gazed up at him in the murky half-light of dawn. The beard-shadow on his jaw had darkened during the night, giving him the lean, hard look of a pirate.

He really was an uncommonly beautiful man. For a common ruffian. Before she could stop the wayward turn of her thoughts, she caught herself wondering what it might be like to wake up in the arms of such a man every morning.

And to sleep in his arms every night.

His next words jerked her back to the reality of the cold, damp dawn. “You were half-froze and damn near to falling down from exhaustion last night. I had no choice but to build a fire and make camp for the night.”

“How very considerate of you,” she said stiffly, her tone implying the opposite. “I suppose you had no choice but to cuddle me as well.”

His eyes darkened. “I thought I made it clear last night that you have naught to fear from me on that account as long as you don’t try to run away again.”

If that was true, then why did his touch leave her feeling as if she had everything to fear and everything to lose? “You promised not to hurt me as long as the earl gives you what you want. But what if he refuses?” she asked against her better judgment.

Jamie’s only answer was a tightening of his rugged jaw and a flash of something in his eyes that might have been regret.

*   *   *

B
Y THE TIME THEY
reached camp, Jamie’s men were just beginning to roll out of their bedrolls and mill about. Some scratched at their bellies or their heads while others stumbled off toward the shelter of the trees to relieve themselves. Emma hung back at the edge of the trees, watching their disheveled and bumbling pantomime with a wide-eyed mixture of amusement and horror. She was torn between giggling and clapping a hand over her eyes. Even at his most dissolute, her papa had always appeared at the breakfast table with nary a hair out of place. His purse might be empty and his eyes bloodshot from the ravages of swilling too much gin the night before but his waistcoat was always pressed and his cravat neatly tied.

Given the amount of whisky she’d witnessed these men imbibing the previous night, she was amazed that any of them were stirring before noon.

A gangly lad with an untidy shock of saffron-colored hair paused in mid-yawn to send a curious glance their way. Emma clutched at Jamie’s elbow, seized by a sudden wave of mortification. “What about my reputation? If your men see us returning from the woods together, won’t they imagine the worst?”

“They might,” Jamie admitted, a thoughtful look dawning in his eyes. “But only if we let them.”

“I don’t understand. How do we stop them?”

He shrugged. “What better way to protect your reputation than to give you a chance to defend it?”

“Against what?”

“This,” he said, flashing his white teeth in a lazy grin that set her pulse to wildly pounding. Before she could heed its warning, Jamie wrapped one arm around her waist and bent her back over his other arm, his lips laying claim to hers with a lusty hunger that took her breath away.

Even through her haze of shock and yearning, Emma had to give him credit. It was exactly the sort of kiss a bandit might steal from the lady he had abducted. The sort of kiss a pirate might press upon a damsel’s lips before forcing her to walk his plank. The sort of kiss the Lord of the Underworld might have thrust upon Persephone before carrying her off to his lair to introduce her to darker and even more irresistible delights.

By the time he allowed her a shuddering breath, she was dangerously near to forgetting all about the presence of his men. As well as her own name.

“Hit me,” he muttered against her lips.

“Pardon?” she gasped.

“Hit me,” he repeated. “And make it convincing.”

As he leaned away from her, a smug smile curving his lips, Emma wanted nothing more than to seize him by the ears and drag his mouth back down to hers.

Instead, she drew back her fist and slugged him in the jaw hard enough to make him stagger.

She half-expected him to break his promise not to harm her by clouting her into insensibility with one of his big fists. But he simply cocked one eyebrow, his expression bemused, and rubbed a hand gingerly over his jaw.

Emma’s voice rose on a shrill note deliberately calculated to reach every eardrum within hearing. “I don’t know what makes you think I’d want to kiss a beast like you. Why, I’d be willing to wager you Scots treat your sheep with more respect than your women!” Turning slightly so that Jamie’s powerful shoulders would block his men’s view of her face, she smiled sweetly at him and added
sotto voce,
“There… was that convincing enough?”

The quizzical gleam in his eyes slowly deepened to an admiring one. “A ladylike slap would have been sufficient,” he muttered. He leaned toward her in a menacing fashion and said in a booming voice, “I’ll have you know that our sheep don’t require kisses when we’re courting them. A simple pat on the rump will usually suffice.”

A choked hoot of laughter went up from one of Jamie’s men. They had dropped all pretense of scratching and pissing and were now standing goggle-eyed and open-mouthed, shamelessly eavesdropping on their exchange.

Emma rested her hands on her hips, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. In happier days, she and her sisters had put on pantomimes and amateur theatricals for their parents each year at Christmas. At eleven, she’d made a very convincing Kate in
The Taming of the Shrew
opposite Ernestine’s lisping Petruchio. “Your sheep may find your crude attempts at wooing irresistible, sir, but I’ll thank you to keep your filthy Sinclair paws off me!”

He leered down at her. “It might surprise you to learn that I don’t usually get any complaints from the ladies about where I put my filthy Sinclair paws.”

“Ladies?
Ha!
Barmaids and goose girls hardly qualify as ladies, especially not when you have to pay them with stolen coin to procure their good will. A true lady would never welcome the advances of a brutish, bride-snatching barbarian such as yourself!”

He reached down to smooth a tumbled curl from her cheek, his fingers grazing her skin in a mocking caress. “You can protest all you like, lass, but I was only seeking to give you a taste of what every woman wants—lady or no. Something that withered auld bridegroom of yours will
never
be able to do.”

Thanks to the kernel of truth in his words, Emma had to struggle to look outraged instead of woebegone as she watched him turn and walk away from
her, his lean hips rolling in a natural swagger. As his men averted their eyes and quickly set themselves to other tasks, she touched her trembling fingertips to her lips, wondering if in defending her reputation, they had put something even more vulnerable at risk.

T
O EMMA’S KEEN RELIEF,
Jamie allowed the lanky lad with the saffron-colored shock of hair to stand guard while she performed her morning ablutions on the bank of a nearby brook. After finding herself so deeply shaken by what was only intended to be a mock kiss, she doubted she could have found the courage to disrobe if Jamie were anywhere in the vicinity.

The last of the clouds had scattered during the night, leaving the sky a dazzling shade of azure. Although a chill still hung in the air, glowing shafts of sunlight pierced the boughs of the slender birches growing along the banks of the brook, their warming rays releasing the smell of the quickening earth. Emma could not resist drawing a bracing breath of the crisp air into her lungs. It was almost possible to believe spring might yet come, even to these harsh and wintry climes.

After taking care of her most pressing need, she knelt beside the brook and splashed handfuls of icy water over her face. Eager to divest herself of the tattered rag that had once been her wedding gown, she climbed to her feet and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. After depositing a pile of garments on a nearby stump, the boy had retreated to stand at stiff attention at the edge of the pines, his back to her.

“You’re not going to peek, are you?” she called out to him.

“Oh, no, m’lady,” he assured her, his nervous swallow audible even over the babbling of the brook. “Jamie said if he caught me peekin’, he’d tan me hide, he would.”

Emma frowned. “Does your Jamie often threaten to tan your hide?”

“Not unless I deserve it,” he replied as she awkwardly groped behind her for the endless row of mother-of-pearl buttons securing her bodice. It would have been much more convenient if Jamie had abducted her maid as well.

After a brief and largely futile struggle, she hooked her fingers between the buttons and yanked. The expensive silk gave way at the seams, sending buttons popping every which way. She felt a treacherous twinge of satisfaction, followed by a sharp pang of guilt. The earl had probably paid a fortune for the gown. He’d insisted on providing an entire
trousseau for her designed by the most fashionable French modiste in London. Her sisters had also reaped the benefits of his generosity. A trunk overflowing with new gowns, slippers and bonnets had arrived at the manor house just in time for their journey to the Highlands. The house rang with their joyful squeals as they pirouetted in front of the dusty cheval glass in their mother’s bedchamber and sent bonnets sailing back and forth through the air as each determined which style was the most flattering to her coloring.

Emma knew she ought to be doubly shamed by how seldom her thoughts had turned to her bridegroom since being snatched from his arms. She doubted his frail heart could take too many shocks before giving away entirely. Jamie Sinclair might try to turn her against the earl with his half-truths and unreasoning hatred, but she would do well to remember where her loyalties belonged.

She peeled away the bodice’s built-in stays as if she were escaping from a cage, massaging the red welts the stiff whalebone had left on her tender skin.

“You seem rather young to be riding with a band of outlaws,” she observed to her companion as she moved to investigate the pile of garments on the stump. Jamie had provided her with a long-sleeved tunic and a pair of trousers that would doubtless make a fine pair of pantaloons to be worn under her skirts. If she had any skirts.

“Oh, I’m full grown, m’lady. I’ll be fourteen come summer.”

The same age as Edwina, who still slept with her battered and much beloved rag doll tucked beneath her chin.

Scowling, Emma slipped the tunic over her head. The beaten buckskin covered her to mid-thigh. The fabric felt as soft as velvet against her skin yet was sturdy enough to shield her from the sharp bite of the wind. “Just how did you come to ride with such a motley crew? Did Sinclair abduct you, too?”

“Aye, m’lady. He abducted me from the Hepburn’s gamekeeper just before the mon’s ax could come down and chop off me right hand.”

Emma spun around, clutching the trousers to her chest. True to his word the boy was still standing at rigid attention and facing the opposite way, as stalwart as any soldier beneath orders from his commanding officer.

He must have heard her gasp though because he continued, his tone matter-of-fact, even apologetic. “I’d been caught poachin’ a string o’ hares on the earl’s lands, ye see. It had been a long winter and the scarlet fever had taken me mum and me da. Me belly was turribly empty but ‘twas still me own fault. Everyone knows the punishment for thievery and I was almost nine then, auld enough to know what I was about.”

Suffused with horror, Emma clapped one hand
over her mouth. What sort of monster would order his servant to cut off a hungry child’s hand for poaching a rabbit? Surely a civilized nobleman wouldn’t sanction such an atrocity. Perhaps the earl had been wintering at his London townhouse at the time and the gamekeeper had simply taken it upon himself to mete out such harsh and terrible justice without the earl’s knowledge.

“What happened to the gamekeeper?” she asked, regretting the question the moment it left her lips.

She didn’t have to see the boy’s face. She could hear the smile in his voice. “The earl had to hire a new one.”

Emma slowly turned back around, her fingers digging into the supple fabric of the trousers. She wanted to feel nothing but disgust and contempt for Jamie Sinclair, but all she could see in her mind’s eye was an upraised ax glinting in the sunlight, a little boy’s thin, dirty face blanched with terror.

Shaking off the disturbing spell the lad’s story had cast over her, she slipped into the trousers. Once she had rolled up the cuffs to keep them from dragging the ground, they were a near perfect fit. Jamie must have confiscated the garb from one of his smaller men. His own garments would have swallowed her whole.

Emma stole a peek over her shoulder at her own backside, marveling at the decadent way the buckskin molded itself to her curves. A grin curved her
lips as she imagined her mother fainting dead away if she saw her in this getup. Back in Lancashire a mere glimpse of feminine ankle was enough to ignite a scandal that could persist for generations. Why, Dolly Strothers and Meriweather Dillingham had been forced to wed after Dolly had tripped while exciting a carriage and inadvertently exposed the garter above her knee to the blushing young curate!

Her mother had preferred to turn a blind eye to the fact that Emma had slipped out of the house on more than one cold winter’s morning, garbed in her papa’s hunting coat and a pair of his oversized trousers. When a freshly roasted grouse or hare would turn up on their supper table after a week with no meat, her mother would simply bow her head and thank the good Lord for His benevolent care, ignoring the fact that her eldest daughter had risen before dawn to assist Him with His handiwork.

Emma was most relieved to find a pair of sturdy leather boots to replace her flimsy kid slippers. They would have been three sizes too large were it not for the pair of thick woolen stockings that accompanied them.

She was about to tell the boy he could turn around without risking his hide when she realized one of Jamie’s offerings was still draped over the stump.

It was a narrow strip of tanned leather, the perfect length to bind back her hair and keep it from blowing wild in the wind. Bemused by the small kindness,
Emma attempted to rake most of the tangles from her hair with her fingers before using the length of leather to gather the heavy fall of curls at her nape. It wasn’t exactly a satin ribbon plucked from the window of some Bond Street linen drapers shop, but at the moment she would be hard pressed to find a gift more practical or dear.

Without dozens of hairpins poking her tender scalp, she felt positively light-headed. And ridiculously lighthearted—almost as young and carefree as she’d felt as a girl when she and her sisters had tumbled about in the garden of their country house from dawn to dusk like a quartet of sturdy puppies.

But when she turned around, her young guard was waiting for her, a stark reminder that she wasn’t free at all but the captive of a dangerous man willing to resort to thievery, kidnapping and even murder to get what he wanted.

T
HE SINCLAIRS HAD ALWAYS
been known for three things—their quick wits, their quick fists and their quick tempers. In truth, their quick tempers were attached to a slow fuse that might smolder for days—or even decades—before finally exploding in a rage that had been known to blast through castle walls and level entire forests. They might not yell at you if you crossed them but they were perfectly capable of biding their
time until the opportunity came to quietly cut you up and bury you in fifteen different graves.

As Jamie paced beside the horses, waiting for Graeme to return with Emma, he could already hear the sizzling of that fuse in his ears—low-pitched but as inescapable as the sighing of the wind through the pines. Which was exactly why, after nearly half an hour had passed, his men stopped casting him nervous glances and devoted all of their attention to polishing pommels that were already shiny and checking cinches that had been tightened a half dozen times or more.

Jamie knew they were still puzzled over his and Emma’s earlier display. He wasn’t exactly in the habit of forcing his attentions—or his kisses—on any woman, be she Scots or English. As he stopped glowering in the direction of the brook long enough to glance in his cousin’s direction, Bon wiggled his fingers at him and blew him a mocking kiss.

In lieu of throttling Bon with his bare hands, Jamie moved to check the bridle on his own horse. They’d squandered enough time in this place. They needed to reach the higher climes of the mountain just in case he had miscalculated and the Hepburn did decide to send his men to track them before the ransom demand could arrive.

He was beginning to fear Emma had bashed Graeme over the head with a rock and was even now skipping her way merrily back down the mountainside when
she reappeared at the edge of the clearing with the lad following several respectful paces behind her.

The reins in Jamie’s hands slipped through fingers that had gone suddenly numb. When he had first spotted the Hepburn’s bride standing in front of the altar at the abbey, she had been as pale and spiritless as a lamb being led to the slaughter. He had assumed it was fear of him that had drained the color from her cheeks and made her look as if she was wearing a grave shroud instead of bridal clothes.

But if that were so, she had returned to the clearing as the boldest of women. The brisk breeze had stirred roses into her cheeks and kindled a sparkle in her dusky blue eyes. Her fair skin with its coppery dusting of freckles seemed to glow beneath the caress of the sunlight. Even with her slender feet weighed down by the clumsy leather boots, there was a determined spring to her step.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Bon’s mouth fall open. His cousin had no idea that Jamie had pilfered the garments from his saddlebag while he’d been off pissing in the woods. Even Bon would have to admit that Emma looked a damn sight better in the garments than he did. They perfectly suited her lithe grace, making her look like a wood sprite that had just emerged from a hollow tree after a restful hundred-year nap.

As she neared, Jamie’s gaze strayed to the petal
pink softness of her lips. Lips that had twice melted beneath his with an eagerness he had not anticipated, giving him a tantalizing taste of both innocence and a hunger that was echoed in her eyes every time she looked at him. His body was still aching from the memory. It had been a very long time since he had kissed a woman without expecting—or receiving—anything more.

As she approached, he schooled his features into an indifferent mask.

“I suppose I should thank you for the ribbon, sir,” she said. “The wind had whipped my hair into a dreadful tangle.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a gift for m’lady,” he said with a deliberate edge of mockery. “I was just hopin’ if someone spotted us on the road, they’d be more likely to mistake you for a lad.”

If they were daft. And blind.

“What road?” she asked pointedly, squinting at the wilderness surrounding them as if he was the one who’d gone daft.

Ignoring the question, he gathered the horse’s reins, mounted, and offered her a hand.

She took a wary step backward, plainly fearing he intended to toss her facedown over his lap as he had in the abbey.

“If you’ll give me your hand,” Jamie said, “you can pull yourself up to ride behind me.”

Still looking doubtful, she crept closer. Sensing her nervousness, the horse whickered and skittered sideways a few steps, which only caused Emma to retreat again.

Jamie blew out a long-suffering sigh. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for being somewhat leery of them both.

“I promise I won’t let the horse trample you. Or eat you,” Jamie assured her, once again offering her his hand. Still eyeing him with poorly disguised mistrust, she slipped her hand into his. It was the first time he’d paid any heed to her hands in the unforgiving light of day.

They weren’t soft and lily-white as a lady’s should be, but lightly chapped. They didn’t look or feel like hands that spent all their time in genteel pursuits like practicing the pianoforte or painting watercolors. As he turned her hand over, running the pad of his thumb lightly over her callused palm, she tried to tug it back, but he refused to relinquish his grip.

She scowled up at him. “You needn’t pity me simply because I’ve had to chop a little firewood or wash a few pans of dishes in my day. I’m sure that was nothing compared to the rugged hardships the Sinclair women have been forced to endure over the centuries—felling trees, tossing cabers, birthing entire flocks of sheep with their bare hands.”

A reluctant laugh escaped him. “From what my
auld nurse Mags has told me about my mother, she wouldn’t have known one end of the sheep from the other. My grandfather doted upon her. She was more than a wee bit pampered.”

Emma scowl softened. “She died young?”