My Seduction Page 8

  “Mrs. Blackburn.”

  She looked around. MacNeill stood over his plaid, neatly folded at his feet into some semblance of a bedsheet.

  “You can sleep here. I am going to see to Doran and find some more wood. If you’re wise, you’ll eat and go to sleep.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer, but before he stepped out into the night he said, “You have nothing to fear from me, lass.” Then added so softly she might have imagined it, “The moon doesn’t fear the wolf’s howls. Hell. She doesn’t even know he’s howling.”

  “Time to rise, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  Kate rolled over and with great effort kept from moaning. She peeked out of one eye. It was still dark. “We should wait until it’s lighter,” she muttered. “Your horse’s welfare and all…”

  “It’s lighter outside, and there’s a storm bearing down on us from the north. I don’t want to be on the moors when it overtakes us. We’ll start now.”

  She didn’t protest. Late last night she had promised herself not to give in to any more low impulses. She was a lady. She may have momentarily forgotten that, but she wouldn’t again. She got up stiffly, noting that the embers had already been doused and her trunk already removed.

  He’d let her sleep as long as possible.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a short cylindrical object. “It’s a sort of mountain tea. Drink up, and we’ll eat on the road.”

  She accepted it in surprise, gratefully cupping the warm metal between her cool palms. “But where did you find a vessel?”

  “It’s the cap off the telescope in your trunk. I saw it when I shut the lid.” He’d actually given credence to her snappish demands? She stared at him, mystified by such unexpected gallantry.

  “I wasn’t going through your things, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said wryly. “As a Scot, I’d consider it unmanly.”

  “Of course not.” She flushed and was amazed by the smile that flickered across his face. She drank the bitter, hot liquid, uncertain whether he was teasing or not.

  She followed him outside, tucking the empty brass cap in her pocket and climbing into the carriage without waiting for his aid. She would prove to him that she wasn’t a complete fribble of femininity.

  If he was impressed, he didn’t show it. He made some adjustments to Doran’s harness and sprang into the seat beside her, picking up the reins and snapping them sharply across the gelding’s rump.

  They did not eat either soon or later. Within a few miles of the abandoned village they forded a fastmoving stream. The carriage’s rear wheel caught on a rock hidden in the bottom, and the entire vehicle rose against the current, tilting sharply and threatening to spill them into the icy water. MacNeill grabbed her around the waist and pitched them both toward the rising side, shouting at Doran, who strained forward against the current and finally pulled the carriage clear.

  They dropped with a splash that sent their basket of food tumbling into the water, upending as it spun into the current. Only the fact that MacNeill’s saddle and her trunk had been strapped to the back had saved them from a similar fate. Not that that proved much comfort hours later as Kate sat huddled on the hard plank seat, her raw chin burrowed in the folds of the cape, her arms wrapped tightly beneath, her stomach growling insistently.

  Near noon, they crested a low hill that marked the entrance to the high, desolate landscape of the moors. The wind howled down upon them like a beast that had been lying in wait. The phaeton shook and rocked with every blast of wind, snatching the breath from Kate’s lungs. Icy fingers stabbed through her cloak, and the air frosted in her nostril. She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

  She could not remember ever being so cold.

  She squinted through the buffeting winds. Dull mustard-colored gorse and dank green bracken shifted and whirled, undulating across the endless horizon. A thin, ox-blood colored line of clouds separated the earth from a gunmetal gray sky. The storm that had assailed them two nights ago had regrouped for another attack.

  The thought of being out here when it broke sent Kate’s spirits plummeting. She didn’t say anything to MacNeill, though. What was there to say? There was nothing to do but drive until they reached the other side of this emptiness. Complaints would be useless, or worse, received with scorn. He seemed impervious to the cold, as if the elements had long ago ceased to affect him.

  She needed only to endure. And at that, she’d had nearly three years of practice.

  SIX

  FASHION OR HEALTH? A CHOICE IMPOSED BY ECONOMIC NECESSITY

  KATE SLUMPED AGAINST KIT and didn’t jerk away. That alone told him something was wrong. The girl—for all her widowhood implied, there was something heart-achingly young about her—was nothing if not proper.

  He pulled Doran to a halt, and she drooped forward and would have pitched to the floor if he hadn’t caught her. He pulled her onto his lap, looking down at her face. Her eyelids were as white as alabaster, tinged with blue, and her lips were colorless. She’d fainted.

  “Mrs. Blackburn!”

  He shook her gently, and her eyelids fluttered open. “Have we made it across? Is it over?”

  “Not yet.” Damn. They still had hours to go before making it out of the moors. He scanned the horizon, looking for a familiar landmark. A thin, freezing rain had begun to fall, driven sideways by a blasting wind. The tattered hood was no protection. He was her only protection. He gathered her nearer, looking about. There had to be something that would offer shelter: A croft, even an outcropping of stone, any place—

  He saw it then, some distance away, like a ghost ship adrift in an uncharted sea of mist. His heart thundered in recognition. He hadn’t realized they were so close to the castle.

  He snapped the reins over Doran’s back, pulling the carriage around and heading south. It looked to be about a mile away.

  A mile, give or take a lifetime.

  “Whose is it, do you think?” Dand asked, his dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully on the hulking ruin.

  “Was,” Ramsey said, shrugging in disdain. “Whose ever it was, it belongs to the moor now.”

  “I heard Father Abbot say it belonged to one of the lairds that fought in the Forty-five,” Douglas said. “A great warrior chief.”

  “A greater fool if he fought against the throne at Culloden Moor,” Ramsey said.

  “All great warriors are fools,” Dand answered.

  The Castle. Kit had never heard it referred to by any other name. None of them had. Its ragged outline rose starkly against the sky like an artist’s rendition of a witch’s tower. Most castles sat atop rocky plateaus or cliffs; some squatted in thick forest or at the branching of a river. For whatever reason, hubris or folly, the builder of this castle had decided to make the moors the castle’s guardian.

  Kit pulled Doran to a halt before the huge gap that had once held massive doors, conscious only of Kate’s light, chill body in his arm and the need to warm her. He lifted her carefully and climbed the stairs into the castle. He carried her down the long empty corridor, heedless of the wind muttering in the exposed rafters, his boot heels muffled by the rotting leaves of more than fifty autumns that carpeted the cracked and heaving floor.

  “Where are we?” Kate murmured. Her eyes were still closed, but a frown marked twin lines between her brows.

  “Rest.”

  At the end of the hall, he descended a short flight of stairs, emerging into a subterranean kitchen where, high in an exterior corner, a smoke hole allowed in the afternoon’s pallid light. The chimneys in the other rooms had long since been clogged with debris. This would be the only place a fire could burn safely.

  He knelt and eased Kate down, spread his plaid on the floor, and shifted her atop it before tucking the wool blanket about her. He straightened. “I’ll build a fire.”

  Her eyes flickered open. “Thank you.”

  She would probably have thanked the devil for opening the gates of hell for her. Aristocrats. Such bloody goo
d manners. Except for last night when fear had unleashed an unexpected and impressive temper from her.

  He searched the room for something with which to make a fire and gathered up what bits he could find.

  “What is this place?” he heard Kate ask.

  “An old rubble pile. Once was a castle.”

  “How did you know it was here?”

  “I came here when I was a boy. We used to sneak out of the dormitory and spend the night and be back by matins.”

  “Matins? You were at a monastery?”

  “An abbey. St. Bride’s.”

  “You trained to be a monk?” Even weak as her voice was, he could hear her amazement.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She suddenly pushed herself up on her elbows. “If you could come here as a boy, this abbey must be nearby then,” she said.

  He struck a spark into a pile of shavings. “Two hours as the crow flies, but Doran is no crow. It would take us five hours or more following the roads, and the storm has come in full now. We can’t go until the weather breaks.”

  “Oh.”

  He blew on the little ember, and the kindling burst into flame. Quickly, he fed the fire until he had a proper blaze going, then he returned to where Kate lay. Her eyes had fallen shut while he’d tended the fire, and thinking she’d fallen asleep, he reached down to take the damp cloak from around her.

  As soon as he touched her, her eyes snapped open and she bolted upright, scuttling backward on her heels as her hands clutched the cloak.

  “I assure you, I am not going to ravage you.” He sat back on his heels. “Not only is it unmanly, and thus un-Scotslike, it’s too bloody cold.”

  That won an unwilling smile from her.

  She wouldn’t have looked so comforted had she known it for the lie it was. She had no idea how appealing she looked, lying on his pooled plaid, her hair a witchy tumble about her face, her eyes dark and apprehensive. He was the worst sort of dog, panting after a woman who could barely hold her head up. But he did.

  “Your cloak is wet,” he said gruffly, holding out his hand. “Take it off, and I’ll hang it near the fire.”

  Her gaze fixed on his face, she untied the laces at her throat. The cape slipped from her shoulder. When he saw her dress, he swore under his breath. She had on the same thin cotton gown she’d worn yesterday. No wonder she was freezing.

  Without waiting for her permission he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her. She didn’t protest, and that sent unfamiliar ripples of alarm racing through him. How could he have failed to notice she wasn’t dressed for such a journey as they’d undertaken?

  Easily. He’d assumed she would be well insulated because she was traveling in Scotland in November. He hadn’t considered that, never having traveled in Scotland in November, she would not know what was required. But being a lady, she had dressed to travel in the style in which a lady travels.

  “Why would anyone risk her health for fashion’s sake, when—”

  “I hate to contradict you, MacNeill!” Kate interrupted with a faint but triumphant smile. “But my gown isn’t a fashionable choice; It’s my only choice.”

  “Don’t smile at me,” he said roughly. “Do you not understand? I may have killed you with my ignorance!”

  Her eyes rounded in surprise and then softened, dealing a far more telling blow to him than her scorn or accusation ever could have done. “Well, if this is the afterlife, MacNeill, there’s a priest in York who has a fair bit of explaining to do. Don’t look like that. I just need to warm up a bit and—” She broke off, coloring so that Kit knew she had been about to request something to eat. There was nothing. Not yet.

  He straightened. “I’m going to see to Doran and then have a look about. There used to be rabbits aplenty on the moors.” He didn’t tell her that the rabbits, being far more sensible than their two-legged counterparts, burrowed deep during storms. But he would do everything in his power to find some food.

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll be fine here.”

  “I know.”

  “The hearth is deep enough that no sparks will fly out, and I’ll be back before the embers die. You rest.”

  “Of course.

  If he stayed longer, he wouldn’t leave, and she needed food, fresh water at the least. He looked down at her. She’d shut her eyes and was already mostly asleep. She would be fine here. No one came to the castle. No one ever had.

  He found Doran where he’d left him, fidgeting nervously in his traces as the wind buffeted the carriage from side to side. He unhitched and hobbled him, leading him to the ruined side of the castle where a creek overflowed its banks, and let him go.

  Then, after loading and priming his rifle, he headed out into the storm.

  Kate slept in fits and starts, awakening with her limbs shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She couldn’t seem to get warm, no matter how close she snuggled to the fire, even though its heat pricked her cheeks and scorched her knuckles as she gripped the blanket to her chin. It seemed forever before she heard MacNeill’s voice.

  “Kate. Drink this.” He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her, patiently trickling the water into her mouth. He was wet. Not damp but soaked through. And cold. So cold. The water wicked into her dress, setting her to violent trembling.

  “I’m so cold,” she mumbled plaintively.

  He eased her to the ground, and she curled on her side, trying to stop the quaking, watching him through slit eyes. He stood up, dropped the sodden cape to the ground, and with a quick, easy movement stripped his shirt over his head. Backlit against the guttering light, his lean body gleamed strong and sleekly muscled, broad and flat-bellied. The firelight prowled over his broad shoulders and curled around his throat but could not reach his features, leaving them in dusky shadow.

  He knelt and gathered her against his naked chest. Already the heat of his blood had reached his skin, and now it sank into her, delicious and warm and life-giving. She should be mortified. She should be trying to free herself. Instead, she burrowed as close as she could physically get, wrapping her arms around his flanks and pushing her cheek into the dense muscle of his chest. She relaxed, absorbing his heat, accepting his body as her bed.

  And slept.

  Kit sank down with his back against the wall, his leg stretched out before him, Kate on his lap. Hesitantly, he stroked the hair back from her face. It curled around his fingers, silky and soft as kitten’s fur, black as oiled satin. He tipped his head back and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

  She slept on, perfectly relaxed, exquisitely vulnerable, sublimely undone. Deep within him, hunger awoke and prowled. Her soft contours melted against him, conforming to his hard angles like warm wax while, with a sigh of lush abandonment, she nestled her head beneath his chin. Her hand strayed up his chest, her fingers lax. Her breath sluiced across his skin, as gentle as the childhood dreams he’d never had, as sweet as summers he couldn’t remember.

  He looked down. Her lips parted, her lashes trembled against the crest of her cheekbone as she dreamed. She was elegant and refined, even in sleep. What would the likes of him do with a creature like this? A creature whose main interest lay in finding someone to put her and her sisters back in paisley shawls?

  Even three years ago he’d realized that the brief exchange they’d shared had been an accident. He shouldn’t have remained in the drawing room; he should have gone with the others. She shouldn’t have stayed with him. She had spoken to him as an equal, and he wasn’t. In any other place, at any other time, it wouldn’t have happened.

  He’d left the Nashes’ York townhouse and headed for the docks, intent on getting drunk. He’d managed that, right enough, and woken to discover he’d been conscripted into the army and was aboard a transport ship heading for India. Now, if there was one thing a foot soldier in His Majesty’s army has, it is time to think.

  He’d thought about two things, the first being Kate. There was no harm in it. The harm came in not know
ing a fancy from reality. His burned skin and blistered lungs were real; the open sores that covered his feet beneath the ill-fitting boots were real; the salty rivulets that pasted his uniform to his back were real; the blood of the men who died was real. Aye. He knew reality, well enough. Kate Blackburn was a harmless diversion from it.

  So he didn’t begrudge himself the pleasure of thinking of her; the midnight color of her eyes and the shimmer of the sun in her sable hair, her white skin and narrow-boned wrists and soft, plush mouth. She was just a place to flee when reality got a bit overpowering, was all. He never thought to see her again. He’d read the pride in her easily enough during those short minutes in the drawing room. She’d never send a yellow rose to St. Bride’s.

  But there were times when the death and cries of the wounded, the memories of battle, were so vivid that he could not conjure her image. Then he thought of betrayal. Then he thought of the man who had murdered Douglas Stewart as surely as if he’d dropped the guillotine blade himself.

  While Kit pondered the identity of the traitor, the army marched. The war with France spilled over into wars with Indian potentates and Russians and Spaniards. Before he was finished, Kit had seen dozens of skirmishes and battles. It really only needed a matter of time and a bit of luck before his “talents” were noted. What with officers falling in battle like wheat before the scythe, his skills were rewarded on blood-soaked ground with a battlefield commission. Not once, but thrice.

  He was, he realized, a good commander. His men trusted him, depended on his judgment. But each time he was promoted, each time more men’s lives were entrusted to him, the betrayal in the past loomed greater and greater. How could he trust his judgment when it had been so blinding, so disastrously defective? It became an obsession with him. He had to discover the identity of his betrayer and confront him, and in doing so discover and confront his own failings. He had requested and been granted a leave from the army.