The Scot and I (27 page)

He didn’t tell her that tomorrow had already arrived. “I agree,” he said, “and not only that. Let’s pretend that there is no Demos, that we’re not on the run, that we don’t have a care in the world.”

She tilted her head so that she could see his face, and her heart cramped. The light from the lamp brought his features into sharp relief. The abrasions on one cheek were deeper than she’d realized, and an ugly cut scored his chin. His injuries, she knew, were the result of the fight on the train. If he hadn’t met her, none of this would have happened to him.

“What have I done to you, Alex?” she asked softly.

He gave a throaty chuckle. “What you have done,” he said, “is waken me from my stupor. For the last few years, all my actions have been governed by a healthy dose of cynicism. Since our paths crossed, I’ve experienced every emotion under the sun. And, let me tell you, I’m not sure that I like it.”

He rested his brow on hers. “I may regret the way we met, but I shall never regret meeting you.”

His smile coaxed a smile out of her. “It’s been the same for me,” she said.

He could feel his heart turn over. There was no other way to describe it. This slight slip of a girl had taken on burdens that most men would have broken under. Ariel had broken him, but nothing had broken Mahri, not for long, not just because she was strong but because her passion for life was irrepressible. He swore then, as God was his witness, that he’d rather cut off his right hand than hurt her.

He drew her close on a moan and kissed her softly, carefully, when what he really wanted to do was devour her.
Slowly, easily,
he warned himself.

She pulled back with a laugh and licked her lips. “You taste of whiskey,” she said.

“So do you. From this day forward, whenever I taste whiskey, I’ll think of you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He raised his head and gave her one of his wickedly roguish grins. “Of course it’s a compliment. Show me a Scot who doesn’t like whiskey.”

“You’re looking at one, and I consider myself more of a Scot than you.”

There was an impish gleam in her eyes. It occurred to him that there was a double meaning to her words, but before he could reflect on it, she began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

When her fingers slowed then stopped, he said, “You’re having second thoughts about this?”

“No. I may have exaggerated my competence; that’s all.”

“You mean, you’re a novice?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

He couldn’t help laughing. She was such a delight to him. Kissing the pout from her lips, he said, “I feel like a novice, too. It’s never been like this for me, before you.”

He said something else, something about his right hand that she didn’t understand, then his lips were on hers, not so gentle this time, open, hot, sweetly passionate. Her bones seemed to melt, her blood heated, and there was a pleasant buzz in her head. She had no idea why she felt like crying.

His hands left her shoulders and brushed over every curve and valley, but fleetingly. He wanted to accustom her to the intimate touch of his hands, not frighten her. He should have known that Mahri didn’t frighten easily. Her hands began to brush over him, touching him as intimately as he was touching her.

When they broke apart, Alex was appalled. He was trembling like a callow youth. He could hardly get his breath. His fingers fisted helplessly in the soft curls at her nape. He thanked the deity that he was still fully clothed, else he might have fallen on her like a love-struck schoolboy.

For her sake, he had to slow down. Mahri didn’t understand. She was back to undoing the buttons on his shirt. If she knew how intensely his body craved hers, she wouldn’t look at him with such big, trusting eyes.

When she parted the edges of his shirt and put her hands on his bare skin, a jolt of desire whipped through him. On a shaken laugh, he captured her wrists. “Mahri,” he said, “I’m outpacing you. Can we prolong the pleasure? And this time, be gentle with me.”

He tugged on her wrists, bringing her down to his level, and he buried his face against her hair. “You have to understand how it is with me,” he said. “I’ve never wanted a woman more, never dreamed there could be someone like you for me.”

She turned her face till their lips met. “I’ve used up all my competence,” she said. “I really don’t know how to seduce a man.”

“Seduce?” He sounded angry. “Didn’t you hear a word I said? You don’t have to seduce me. I have never wanted a woman more.”

She looked into his eyes, and what she saw there took her breath away. He wasn’t trying to hide his feelings. There was desire there, and something else, something she was afraid to name.

She knew that she couldn’t hold a candle to the women he mixed with in London. At her best, she was passing pretty; that was all. She couldn’t imagine what he saw in her, but she knew how he made her feel. Special. Unique. Confident . . .

Her eyes were tearing again, and she blinked the tears away. Her voice was husky. “I’ll try to do right by you.”

Her words arrested him.

Fearing she had said too much, she rubbed her body suggestively against his. “All right, Mr. Know-it-all,” she said playfully, “show me how competent
you
are.”

He sucked in a breath, and the question that was forming in his mind quietly slipped away. He reached for her and rolled with her on the bed. When he ground himself into her, letting her feel his hard shaft, she went perfectly still.

He raised his head. Eyes wide with surprise, she said, “Thomas doesn’t know nearly as much as he thinks he knows.” Then, smiling, she stretched catlike and molded herself to the length of his body.

Alex’s breath was practically strangling him. When he could breathe again, his mouth took hers in a ravenous kiss. She answered that demand with a passion that made his heart sing. A torrent of heat engulfed them both.

He tried to slow down, but she’d taken the initiative away from him. He wasn’t leading her; she was leading him.

She had no fears, no inhibitions. She was a beautiful and desirable creature who had captured the man she loved.

He began to disrobe. Mahri lost no time in following his example. His hands didn’t brush over her now. They took possession of every curve and valley, playing her like a highly strung violin, but the only sounds that came from her lips were soft mewls. She moved restlessly as he replaced his fingers with his lips and tongue, and she clutched at his shoulders as though she were drowning. When he laughed low in his throat, obviously relishing her distress, she reared up and pushed him into the mattress.

With slow deliberation, she explored every inch of his body as he had explored hers. She reveled in the sound of his breathing, rasping in and out of his lungs, delighted in the feel of hard, masculine flesh that tensed beneath her fingertips. She thought him the most beautiful man she had ever known.

“Alex,” she cried softly, “Alex.”

He seemed to know what she wanted. He knelt above her and spread her legs. Eyes on hers, he slowly entered her. And stopped.

“Mahri,” he said, “I don’t want to hurt you, but the first time, so I’ve heard, is never easy for a woman.”

“I know.” She could hardly catch her breath. The fullness inside her was almost unbearable. This was no time to be cowardly. “Thomas told me.”

With that, she scored his back with her nails. He jerked involuntarily and thrust forward, breaking the delicate barrier. She sucked in a breath, held on to it, then let it out slowly.

When he raised his head to look at her, he said sternly, “I suppose Thomas taught you that trick, too?”

She nodded. “It’s amazing what a lad can pick up in inns and alehouses. You were supposed to distract me. Since you didn’t, I decided to distract you.”

In the same stern voice, he said, “It’s amazing to me that you have managed to remain a virgin all these years. Don’t you know—”

She stopped his words with a kiss, a slow, openmouthed kiss that made him forget what he was going to say. When he could breathe again, he kissed her brows, her ears, her chin. Then he began to move. Each thrust had her gasping for breath. Never had she been so aware of every pulse point in her body. Never had she felt sensations that were part pleasure, part pain. The need built slowly till she was frantic for something she only half understood, something just out of reach.

Her little sounds of arousal almost broke his control. His skill and experience counted for nothing now. This was primeval; this was dark and glorious and unlike anything he had ever known.

As his rhythm became reckless, faster, unrestrained, she wound herself around him and locked his body to hers. All sense of time and place vanished. There was only Alex. Her muscles strained; her body tightened. When she thought that she could not bear it one moment more, she gave a helpless little cry and shattered into a thousand pieces. Alex was only a heartbeat behind her. As the rapture hurled him over the crest, he buried his face against her throat.

When they could catch their breath, he held her close. Mahri turned into him, gave a sigh of repletion, and promptly slipped into sleep.

 

 

He pulled the quilt over them and, while Mahri slept, he lay with fingers laced behind his neck, staring up at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his mind was alert. He was remembering the glint in her eye when she’d told him that she was more of a Scot than he. There was a double edge to that artless quip, a message that she hugged to herself like a child with a secret. She should have remembered that breaking codes was child’s play to him.

More of a Scot than he. She spoke Gaelic. As Thomas, she wore tartan trews. She could eat lumpy porridge without batting an eyelash. But she didn’t like whiskey. He had her there. A true Scot would never confess that he didn’t like whiskey. He was more of a Scot than she.

He started over. Who was a true Scot and who was not? He let the thought revolve in his mind. She was a Scot, more of a Scot than he, because he was . . . he was . . . a Hepburn.

Mahri Scot? His tardy sixth sense came fully awake. An impression skirted the edge of his mind.
We Scots.
Where had he heard that recently? Not an impression but a vision. Mahri taking a fence on her horse. A male figure applauding. What was it he said? “
We Scots thrive on a challenge.
”

Scot. Was that her family name? Mahri Scot. Why was she frightened of Demos? And why wouldn’t she give him their names?

That brought to mind the question that had been puzzling him for some time. If Demos was afraid that she would give the authorities enough evidence to hang them all, why not simply kill her? There had been ample opportunity for Murray to do it when he’d abducted her. They’d tried to kill him, but they’d spared her. Why?

They’d want to know who she’d spoken to and how much she’d told them. They must know they were safe, or they would all have been rounded up and arrested by now. So what were they truly after? What did she have that they wanted?

It wasn’t over yet, not nearly over. He’d told Mahri one part of the prophecy, but the rest was still to come. “
You shall pass through fire, but the fire will not consume you if your trust your intuition.
”

He could almost hear his granny’s wavering voice as she’d warned each of her grandsons what lay in store for them. Each had a different prophecy, and not one of them had taken Granny McEcheran’s words to heart. But that was before the gift she had passed on had begun to manifest itself.

Trust your intuition.
To his granny, that meant one thing:
Trust your psychic powers.

She could have taught her grandsons so much more when she was alive if they had not been such confirmed skeptics. Now, with no Granny to guide them, they were like fledglings who had never learned to fly.

From the very beginning, when he’d first set eyes on Mahri, he’d been given a sign. When their eyes met, he’d felt as though an electric current had passed right through his brain. His intuition had been going full blast then. But instead of doing everything in his power to protect her as he was sure now that he was meant to do, he’d hunted her and terrorized her and accused her of plotting to kill him.

It had to be Mungo who had betrayed them. He was the only one who knew their plan. He didn’t know how Demos had found out about Mungo, but he could imagine the methods they had used to get Mungo to talk. And when they got the information they wanted, Demos would have killed him.

He shoved the thought away from him. Not again! He’d lost three friends he had recruited to the service. If there were a God, he wouldn’t let it happen again.

He made himself a silent promise. If Mungo were dead, he’d make them pay for this crime and everyone else who had a hand in it. He’d track them down and annihilate them, one by one.

There would be no need to track them down, because he had something they wanted: Mahri. When they came for her, as they surely would, he’d be ready for them. He thought of what had happened to Ariel, and fear tightened his chest. It wasn’t going to happen to Mahri.

He had to find a way to keep her in his orbit.

Bending his head to hers, he whispered, “If you want to do right by me, you’ll marry me.”

A fleeting smile touched her lips. Her body was lax. She was steeped in the afterglow of pleasure. Her lashes fluttered, then her eyes flew open. There was a moment of incomprehension, then she hauled herself up. “What did you say?”

“I said that if you want to do right by me, you’ll marry me.”

Her jaw went slack. “You’re joking, of course.”

“It’s hardly something I would joke about.”

Her eyes searched his face. His gaze was guarded; his thoughts were veiled from her. This honorable proposal was not what she wanted to hear. “If this is an attack of conscience on your part, I absolve you. You didn’t seduce me. I came to you of my own free will.”