If You Dare (14 page)

She balled her hands into fists and recalled when she'd once asked Vitale how he'd managed to survive on the streets of Paris. “If I hit someone,” he'd answered, “I made sure they didn't see it coming.” She'd shaken her head, scarcely comprehending that kind of existence, but he'd told her that she could have survived as well—that
she
could be as cunning and fierce and dangerous as the situation demanded.

Cunning? Yes. Fierce? Probably. Why not use MacCarrick to find out if she could be
dangerous?

He wouldn't see it coming.

•  •  •

Court stormed from the room and found the others sitting around the table or lounging on chairs, waiting anxiously, yet attempting nonchalance.

“So she will no' believe you?” Gavin asked.

“No' at all.”

Niall scratched his chin. “Let me go talk to her, then.”

Court exhaled a long breath. “Pascal told her her brother lives, and his daughter did as well. Why would Annalía believe you or me when she hates us? She thinks we're savage foreigners—she will no' believe us over accomplished liars from her own culture.”

“Still . . .”

“Niall, if you want to be the one to persuade her that her
brother's dead, go try.” He lowered his voice to say, “And while you're at it, you can be the one to tell her that if her brother was no' dead before we took her, he sure as hell will be now.” Broken glass snapped beneath his boot and he scowled. “What I want to know is why she was able to cast every object from that room. Why was she no' tied?”

“She promised us she would behave,” Gavin hastily said. “She told us she'd be better than before.”

“Was she worse than this?” Court asked in amazement as he sank heavily onto a wooden bench.

“Aye,” both he and Liam answered at once.

“I know you said doona muck this up,” Gavin said. “But she's a sly one.”

Liam was nodding. “A clever lass. She looks up to you with those big green eyes . . .”

They aren't green,
Court thought.
They're gold.

“ . . . and then promises no' to fight or bite again.”

“She
bit
you?”

A few men chuckled.

“She bit, she clawed, and she kicked.”

“Aye, and she's got some really strong legs for a lass. Must be from the mountains.”

Shuddering, Liam said, “Those little white teeth of hers sank deep.”

He could hardly fathom it. Prim and proper Annalía
bit
Gavin and Liam? So the wine bottle incident wasn't just a fluke. She really was a fighter, as fiery as they came.

And Pascal would've been bedding her, slowly killing that spirit, if they hadn't stolen her. Maybe even starting tonight, the way he'd dressed her. . . . The thought made him gnash his teeth, clenching his jaw. His filthy hands on her body—

“Court, are you all right?” Niall asked. He was staring at Court's whitened fists.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door from
inside
the room.

Court swung his head around, eyes narrowed as he rose. He strode through glass to snatch the door open and found her defiant, chin jutted in the air.

“I want to leave the room. I don't like being shut in like this.”

Not a request—a statement of want. He was tired of her treating him like a lackey, tired of her looking down her little nose at him. “I'll let you out. But only to clean the mess you made.”

She made a scoffing noise and began to shut the door. On
him.
Again laughter.

He wrapped his fingers around the edge, stopping her. “You're going to clean it regardless.”

“Absolutely not, MacCarrick. I refuse,” she said with a sniff. “You deserved it—
they
deserved it—for kidnapping me.”

“You want out, you clean.”

Her face took on an even haughtier look, and she parted her lips to speak what he knew would be a cutting retort. Instead, her head tilted and she bit her lip. “Very well,” she mumbled.

This he never expected. “Why the sudden reversal?”

“I hate being locked up. And I'm hungry.”

He knew she was up to something, but he couldn't find a reason not to let her clean up the things she'd used as weapons. “Good, then. I'll have Liam help you sweep.”

She nodded, then sauntered, swishing her skirts, to the worst pile of debris. When she eased down, he tried not to stare at her ineffectual bodice.

Someone breathed,
“Christ almighty.”
Fergus? He was awake just for this?

Court noticed the others weren't any more successful in
prying their gazes from her breasts as her chest rose and fell with her short breaths.

With clenched fists and a glower at all of them, he stood directly in front of her to block their view. She looked at his boots, then slowly up his body, raising her head until her eyes caught his.

Damn that dress.
And it
was
the dress. Not the way she regarded him with her head tilted so her hair flowed to the side. Not because he'd touched his tongue to that golden skin and knew her addictive taste.

She returned her attention to cleaning and picked up several silver accessories, a wooden jewelry box that somehow had managed not to break, and then a silver hairbrush and hand mirror—a broken mirror.

“You'll have bad luck for that,” Liam said warily.

She addressed Court when she answered, “As opposed to before the breaking?”

He ground his teeth. “Liam will finish. When you've stowed those things, come eat.”

She hesitated a moment, then, though she was on her knees before him, she nodded to him like a queen deigning a favor. When she returned, her hair was up and her chest was red, no doubt from where she had been tugging at the dress. She might have accomplished a quarter inch.

He sat her beside him and tossed bread, cheese, and an apple in front of her. She'd said she was hungry, but she ate nothing. And still that fire-red dress attracted every eye until
he
was uncomfortable. Under his breath, he said, “Do you no' have something less . . . garish?”

“No, I do no
t,”
she answered with stress on the
t
he rarely could manage with the word. “Your young henchman—Liam, I believe is his name—packed low-cut ball gowns.”

Court removed his jacket. “Take this.” When she stared at it as though it would bite, he said more forcefully, “Take it.”

She stood to slip it on. The jacket fell past her knees and a foot below her hands.

“Roll up the sleeves, sit down, and eat. I know it's no' food like you're used to, but you'll have to make do.” When she remained standing, Court snared the jacket and pulled her into the seat.

Two seconds later: “I am uncomfortable and would like to leave.”

Without eating. “Are our table manners lacking?”

She feigned considering the question, then said, “Hmmm. That's not it . . . I believe it's your abduction etiquette that's questionable. I've never been kidnapped. So rudely.”

Strange, but he almost grinned. She had a well-timed wit, he would give her that. When she stood to go to her room, he did as well. She grabbed the apple, looked Court up and down, raised her nose, then turned on her heel. He let her go alone the short distance, but his gaze followed her until she reached the door.

“Looks like you've got a real soft touch there,” Gavin said with a chuckle.

Court turned to them. “She adores me. Gettin' embarrasin'.”

His wadded-up jacket collided with his head.

T
o clear his mind, Court had ridden alone for most of the next morning, hunting and exploring the area, but he hadn't been able to shake his thoughts of Annalía. When he found a lake, he stripped, then plunged into the icy water, remaining until his skin was numbed and his desire for her cooled. At least to a manageable degree. Only then did he allow himself to dress and return.

Straight away, he knew something was off. The men were acting strangely, glancing at the sky when Court looked at them, most setting off at once to go fish or ride. He strode to the lodge, half expecting her to be gone, but he found her still in her room as he'd ordered.

She was pacing furiously, cheeks pinkened, and for some reason this morning, it just seemed cruel to confine her in such a small room when she was like this. Chit would get dizzy. “You can come outside if you want,” he muttered. Once she swept from her room, he sat, forcing himself to read a dated newspaper and to ignore flashes of scarlet as she paced by.

When she stopped to stand just before him, he lowered the paper and found her glaring at him. “I desire a bath.”

He wondered how he would react if she managed to ask him for something.

Court knew she was planning some little coup. Everyone on earth, save perhaps Liam and Gavin, would know she was. “There's a stream nearby.” He folded the paper and tossed it away. “You can avail yourself.” With almost all his men out hunting, and the ones who stayed caring for the horses, she would have privacy.

“You're not afraid I'll escape?”

“We're miles and mountains away from any village, and if you doona have a horse—or shoes—you will no' get far.”
And if I go with you and see you bathe . . .

“No shoes—?”

She didn't get the question out before he'd risen, taken her by the waist, and plopped her in his seat. He set to her slippers, pulling them off for her. “Clear? No shoes.”

“But my feet!”

She had good cause to worry. Like her hands, they were as soft as baby's skin. “The walk down to the stream is fine. It's only once you leave the trail that your feet will get sliced.” He lifted her by the waist, then set her on her feet toward the door. “So doona leave the trail,” he ordered as he swatted her backside.

She pivoted around, sputtering at the indignity. “You are no gentleman!”

“Established.”

She cursed him in Catalan, then, in a flurry of red, swished out of the room. She still hadn't returned when he'd finished attempting the paper and two very poor cups of coffee.

Mouthing a harsh oath, he stormed from the house to the stream and swung his head around. No sign of her. Christ,
she chapped him. Any other woman would've stayed. The slate in the area was sharp and murderous on a horse's hooves, much less a lady's feet, and she damn well knew they were much too far into the mountains for her to make it out with no horse. She damn well knew he'd easily catch up with her.

Court sprinted back up the hill to the stable, his ribs paining him, bellowing for Liam to saddle his horse. He rode out to follow the stream, scanning the shoreline both ways, and spotted red some distance ahead well off the beaten trail. He prodded his horse, then dropped down just behind her.

When he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her, he found her eyes were watering, her bottom lip trembling—a sight that did odd things to his chest. Was she injured? “What's wrong with you, woman?” he barked.

“MacCarrick,” she said softly. “I've hurt my feet.”

He looked down. They were cut, bloodied, briars still embedded.

Without thought he dropped down on one knee. “Look what you've done, you daft little—”

Her knee shot up to his chin, snapping his jaw shut. He fell forward to both his knees, and saw from the corner of his eye her skirt swinging toward his face. Strange, the material was hard as rock as it crushed into his temple.

“Christ, witch!”
By the time his eyes focused again, she'd abandoned the rock hidden in her skirt, run to the horse, and was in the saddle, trying to calm its rearing. Court loped forward, fell for the reins, and snatched them just as the horse was tensing to run. She
had known
she needed a horse.

He grabbed her by the waist, dragging her down in a froth of silk, petticoats, and flailing arms and legs. After he caught his breath and the world righted itself, he growled, “Ye wanted a bath?”

Her eyes grew wide. While she thrashed, he stalked to the closest pool, then dumped her into the frigid water. She sputtered, rose, and slipped back in repeatedly, soaking herself.

“You'll pay for this, MacCarrick!” She scraped her thick hair from her face. “Sleep with your eyes open, you bast—”

He plucked her out of the water to swing her over his shoulder. He walked like this, leading the horse, water flooding down on him from her skirts, as she screamed and writhed the entire way back to the lodge.

After he gave the reins to a perplexed Liam, Court adjusted her on his shoulder and ignored her blows to his back. Gavin, sitting back in a chair, smoking his pipe, nodded his approval. “Really the only way to travel with that lass.”

In her room he set her down, more gently on her feet than she deserved. She didn't wince or cry out. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled up one foot behind her at a time as he would a horse. A single small cut on her foot. She must've smeared the blood around to make it look worse. What a calculating—