The Devil Wears Plaid (17 page)

His name broke from her lips on a sob as Emma’s body erupted in one long, glorious, blinding shudder of rapture.

The second she could see and breathe and move again, she dropped to a sitting position and tugged off her boots.

“What are you doing?” he asked, clearly alarmed.

“Rewarding your efforts,” she replied, peeling off her stockings.

“Oh, I was just getting started,” he warned as she returned to her knees and drew her gown over her head.

Tossing it aside, she boldly faced him, knowing she must look like the most shameless of hoydens kneeling before him with her hair tumbling every which way and her cheeks and breasts still flushed from the pleasure he had given her. But any fear that Jamie
might find her lacking was dispelled by the mingled lust and adoration in his eyes as he gazed upon her naked body for the first time.

“You’re so fine,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes slowly devouring every inch of her. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve a grand bed carved o’ the finest mahogany. And mountains o’ feather pillows. And candlelight. And silk sheets. And—”

It was her turn to lay her fingers across his lips. “I may deserve every one of those things. But all I want is you.”

He reached for her then, crushing her naked softness against him as if he could somehow make them one with the sheer passion of his embrace. He was hard where she was soft, unyielding and angled where she was gently curved. Emma twined her fingers through his hair and buried her face against his throat, surprised to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. He smelled like woodsmoke and spring rain and the wind blowing through the pines on a cold winter’s night. He smelled like a freedom she had never known before this night.

“So what must I do to coax you into taking off your clothes?” she murmured, dusting the broad column of his throat with her kisses.

He gently set her away from him, a rakish grin curving his lips. “You, my lady, have only to ask.”

Before Emma had time to catch her breath, he
had divested himself of shirt, stockings and boots. She might have perished from mortification as he reached for the leather laces of his breeches if she hadn’t noticed that his hands were less than steady.

As he peeled off his breeches and rose back to his knees, Emma’s curiosity quickly overcame her maidenly shyness. His was a beautiful body—sleek and taut and masculine, even more thickly muscled than she had imagined.

Unable to resist the temptation, she reached out and trailed a hand over his chest, marveling at the havoc her touch was wreaking on him. Despite the chill in the air he was sweating, his brawny body coated with a glistening sheen of perspiration. Encouraged by the glazed look in his eye, the uneven hitch in his breath, her hand wandered lower—skating over the incredibly well-defined muscles of his abdomen—then lower still, closing gently over the part of him that was jutting forward as if begging for her touch.

He threw back his head with a guttural groan.

Emma’s surge of desire was matched by a surge of delight. He no longer held all the power. She had power over him now, the power to bend him to her will, both literally and figuratively; to mold him with her palm and watch him lengthen and swell even further, although she would have sworn that wasn’t even possible. As she drew her hand along his rigid shaft, a single drop of seed—like the most
rare and precious of pearls—welled up from its velvety crown to dampen her fingertips.

“You once told me it hurt,” she reminded him solemnly, her gaze flicking to his face.

“Aye, lass,” he replied, panting out the words between clenched teeth. “’Tis the sweetest pain I’ve ever known.”

They both knew there was only one way to alleviate his suffering. As he eased her down on the blanket and covered her, shielding her from the moonlight, she realized she had brought him to this place because his was the only shadow she was seeking, the only darkness to which she was willing to surrender herself.

She clung to him, trembling with both anticipation and terror. She was going to do it. She was going to let him inside of her—where no man had ever been before.

He rubbed the heavy ridge of his arousal between her legs, laving himself in the rich cream his caresses had coaxed from her body. As she felt those delicious little tremors begin to dance over her flesh once more, she feared he was seeking to prolong her torment. But when she felt his thickness probing the entrance to her body, she understood it wasn’t his intention to leave her wanting at all but to give her everything she was aching for. And more.

So very much more.

She dug her fingernails into his back as her untried body fought to accept him. She tensed and bit her lip to keep from crying out when she felt a painful tearing sensation. But he did not relent until his throbbing length was sheathed deep within her.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he whispered, touching his lips to her sweat-dampened brow. “Hesitating would have only prolonged the pain.”

“Mine or yours?” she quipped, letting him know she was going to survive.

His big body shuddered with something that might have been laughter in a less urgent moment. “Both.”

As he began to move within her, sipping tenderly from her lips all the while, the pain faded to a dull throb that only sharpened her awareness of the incredible intimacy of what they were doing. She was truly his captive now. There was no escaping him. He surrounded her. He enfolded her. He made her every breath she drew his own, her every wish one only he could fulfill. It was almost as if there was no part of her he was not touching—including her soul.

When he abruptly stopped, she wanted to weep with disappointment.

She opened her eyes to find him peering down at her, his expression quizzical. “Emma? Sweeting? Is there something wrong? Why are you being so still? Is the pain too great for you to bear?”

“My moth—” She clamped her mouth shut and began again. “I was
informed
that if I wriggled a bit beneath the earl, his exertions would be over that much more quickly. So I thought if I stayed completely still…”

She trailed off, allowing him to draw the obvious conclusion.

When he did, a strangled laugh escaped him. “You may wriggle all you like, lass. I’m still going to make this last for as long as I can. Of course, given how incredibly tight and hot and wet you are”—he gritted his teeth against a fresh groan as she gave her hips an experimental shimmy—“that may not be nearly as long as either one of us would like.”

With that warning, Jamie began to rock against her, setting an irresistible rhythm she had no choice but to follow. Soon she was arching her back, lifting her hips to draw him even deeper inside of her. He rewarded her boldness by angling his own hips so that each downward stroke brought him into direct contact with that exquisitely sensitive little bud nestled in her damp nether curls. With each tantalizing stroke, he made good on his promise to both seduce and ravish her.

He must have felt her begin to shiver and clench around him.

“Come with me, Emmaline,” he growled. “Come for me.”

And then she was—in shudder after shudder of raw bliss that sent her soaring over that precipice of ecstasy once again. But this time she would not fall alone. Jamie surrendered to his own plunge over that precipice with a muffled roar, withdrawing from her just in time to spill his hot seed over her belly.

J
AMIE AWOKE BEFORE SUNRISE
with Emma cradled in his arms, much as he had on the morning after he had abducted her. But this time there was one major difference—neither one of them was wearing any clothes.

And a delightful difference it was, Jamie thought, burying his nose in her sweet-smelling curls. Although his arousal was already nudging the softness of her rump in a shameless bid for attention, he was loathe to wake her and put an end to this moment.

He traced the graceful slope of her hip with his palm. After living so long in this rugged land, it was still difficult to believe anything could be so soft, so impossibly silky to the touch. How was he supposed to send her back to the Hepburn in a few hours when all he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day kissing each of the freckles scattered like nutmeg over the glowing alabaster of her skin?

He ought to be celebrating. He had triumphed over his enemy once again. Emma would never
belong to the Hepburn. But the satisfaction he had anticipated was blunted by a jagged edge of desperation. Because she would never belong to him either. These few stolen hours between midnight and dawn were all he would ever have of her.

When she had come to him last night he would have agreed to almost anything just for the chance to hold her in his arms this way. But he’d been a fool to believe he could love her for one night, then let her go without her taking a sliver of his splintered heart with her.

He had already spent much of the night teetering on the edge of disaster. Each time he had made love to her, it had been nearly impossible to force himself to withdraw from her tight, silky sheath when he really wanted to spill his seed deep within her, to mark her as his own in a way that neither the Hepburn nor the rest of the world would ever be able to deny. But he’d been driven to honor their bargain. It was bad enough to send her back to England in disgrace without risking sending her back with his bastard in her belly.

If Gordon Hepburn hadn’t been so careless in such matters, Lianna Sinclair might be alive today. Jamie wasn’t about to make the same mistakes his father had made. As far as he was concerned, the man had been every inch a Hepburn, seeing what he wanted and then taking it with no thought whatsoever to
the cost or the consequences. Jamie had spent his entire life seeking to prove it was Sinclair blood that ran through his veins. He would never be a Hepburn. He would never be his father. He wasn’t greedy or selfish enough to ask Emma to risk her own life just so she could share his.

She didn’t belong with the likes of him. She belonged in some cozy rose arbor in Lancashire taking tea with her sisters with a cat curled up in her lap and a book in her hand. The Hepburn had taken her away from all that but it was within his power to send her back where she belonged. She could live out the rest of her life in comfort and safety, far away from ancient feuds and their terrible casualties.

She stirred, pressing her rounded little bottom against him. The musky scent of their lovemaking lingered on her skin, making him feel positively savage with the desire to possess her again.

“Don’t fret, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “’Tis a state men often find themselves in when they awaken.”

“Mmmm… I’m so glad to know it has absolutely nothing to do with me. Do you realize this is exactly how we woke up the first time I slept in your arms?”

“The thought had occurred to me. But there is one wee difference.”

Tightening his grip, he slid up and into her from behind, sheathing himself all the way to the hilt in one smooth motion.

She shuddered and arched against him. “Forgive me for quibbling, sir,” she gasped out, “but I don’t believe anyone could call that ‘wee.’”

He captured her pert nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and gently tugged. “Does that mean I’m strapping enough for you, lass, as lovers go?”

She nodded her breathless assent. “I do believe Brigid was wrong. You must be twice the man Angus and Malcolm could ever hope to be.”

Closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair, Jamie began to move deep within her, determined to stave off the dawn for as long as he could. “And I have you to thank for letting me prove it.”

J
AMIE WAS ALREADY MOUNTED
astride his horse when Emma emerged from the ruins of the abbey. With perverse timing, the sun had chosen to make its first appearance in days, burning off the last of the mist and coaxing a hopeful serenade of birdsong from the budding branches of the surrounding birches and aspens.

But the slanting rays of the morning sun failed to warm him. Despite the crisp white clouds drifting across the dazzling blue of the sky, a chill had settled deep in his bones, making him feel as if winter lurked just over the southern horizon instead of spring.

He sat motionless in the saddle, watching Emma cross the clearing. Muira’s cloak was draped over her shoulders. She had used the leather thong he had given her to neatly bind her unruly curls at the nape just as she’d used the water he had warmed over the fire for her to wash his scent from her skin.

Unlike the abbey lying in rubble behind her, she did not look ruined to him. Her freckled cheeks were flushed, her lips still slightly swollen from his loving, her eyes slumberous. She looked gloriously…
unruined
. Jamie felt a smoldering fury that society would now deem her less worthy of their regard. They would consider her sullied by his touch, when she was glowing from within like something so fine and precious it hurt his eyes just to look at her.

He had taunted her once by telling her the Hepburn would probably insist that she be examined by a physician to determine if she was still worthy to be his bride. Now the thought of some stranger putting his hands on her, even for such a dispassionate purpose, made Jamie want to smash something with his fists.

As she approached the horse, she glanced around the deserted clearing, her expression troubled. “Where are Bon and the rest of the men?”

“They’ve been waiting at the meeting place since before dawn. You won’t see them. And with any luck, neither will the Hepburn’s men.”

He offered her a hand, both of them knowing it was the last time he would ever do so.

As she settled herself in the saddle behind him, slipping her slender arms around his waist, Jamie had never been so keenly aware of the cold, heavy weight of his pistol against his belly. Or of the centuries of
hatred and violence that had brought them to this place.

For one wild, desperate moment, all he wanted to do was kick the horse into a gallop and ride as fast and far as he was able, to whisk her away to some distant haven where the Hepburn could never find them. But he wasn’t as naïve or foolhardy as his parents had been.

He knew there was no outrunning fate and nowhere he could flee to escape his own destiny.

A
S JAMIE AND EMMA
rode into the mouth of the long, narrow glen from the north, the cheerful chirping of the birds in the surrounding trees seemed to mock them. Jamie had chosen the place for the exchange with deliberate care. Birds weren’t the only creatures sheltered by the lush green boughs of the cedars flanking the glen on both east and west. His own men were tucked away there as well, their pistols and bows cocked and held at the ready. If they spotted any sign of treachery, they would be able to fire before the Hepburn’s men could even draw their weapons, then flee back into the hills without leaving a trace.

Jamie was not surprised to see half a dozen of the Hepburn’s burliest henchmen sitting on horses strung out across the gentle rise in the land at the south end of the glen. They were simply obeying his
own instructions to the Hepburn not to allow them to come any closer.

But he was surprised to find Ian Hepburn himself sitting straight and tall on the back of a chestnut gelding at the very heart of the glen, his dark hair blowing in the wind. With his snowy white cravat and handsome mulberry-colored frock coat, he might have been on his way to take tea with a duchess instead of delivering a ransom.

Jamie had expected the Hepburn to send his latest gamekeeper, not his nephew. This was a development he hadn’t anticipated, one that upped the stakes in an already dangerous game.

He and Ian had spent too much time fighting on the same side, even if it was only against the bullies at St. Andrews. Despite the casual disdain of his bearing, Ian had to know Jamie would never march into battle without his men. He would have already guessed there were unseen pistols trained on his heart and that if anything went wrong, he would be the first to die.

Jamie flicked a tense glance toward the trees, silently praying his men would use every ounce of the restraint he had tried to teach them.

He drew his own horse to a halt a healthy distance from where Ian sat waiting for him. He dismounted, then reached back up to lift Emma from the saddle.

“Wait here,” he commanded her, his hands lingering
against the gentle curve of her waist. “If anything goes wrong, run for that line of trees as fast and as hard as you can. Find Bon. He’ll look after you.”

She nodded. Judging by the solemn expression in her dusky blue eyes, she understood exactly what he was telling her.

And what he was not telling her.

He gazed down into those eyes, keenly aware that their every move was being scrutinized by both allies and enemies. Swallowing back all of the things he wanted to say, he gave her one last nod, then turned and began to walk toward Ian’s horse.

He bridged over half the distance but when Ian showed no sign of dismounting, he stopped in his tracks.

“What ails ye, laddie?” he called out, knowing his familiar smirk would gall Ian far more than his exaggerated burr. “Gettin’ too much enjoyment from sneerin’ down yer nose at a lowly Sinclair?”

Ian glared at him for a minute longer before sliding off the horse to face him. From this distance, he could have been that same proud, aloof boy who had been stoically taking a beating the first time Jamie had laid eyes on him. But as Jamie neared, the contempt written in every line of Ian’s bearing reminded Jamie that he hadn’t been that boy for a very long time.

Jamie didn’t stop until they stood eye to eye for the first time in four years. “Usually your uncle sends one
of his attack dogs to do his dirty work for him. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your company?”

“Perhaps he thought you’d be less likely to gun me down where I stand. Not out of misplaced sentiment or common decency, of course, but to preserve your own loathsome hide.”

Despite his best intentions, Jamie felt his temper begin to rise. “Funny how you didn’t hate me until your uncle told you it was expected of you.”

“I’m sure I would have if you hadn’t deliberately misled me. If you had told me who you were from the beginning.
Exactly
who you were.”

Jamie shook his head sadly. “You still don’t know who I am.”

Ian’s dark eyes glittered with barely suppressed fury. “I know you’re a no-good thief and a murderer. When I hunted you down that day on the mountain after my uncle told me how you had tricked me—how you had played me for a fool all those years at school and made me a laughingstock in his eyes—you didn’t even have the decency to deny shooting down his gamekeeper in cold blood.”

“You just proved my point,” Jamie said softly. “If I had to deny it, you never knew me at all.” He could almost feel Emma’s gaze on his back, knew she was watching every nuance of their exchange even if she could not hear their words. “I didn’t come here today to argue with you. I came to keep my end of our
bargain. As you can see,” he said, jerking his head toward where she stood patiently waiting beside his horse, “Miss Marlowe is unharmed and ready to come with you.”

Unharmed but not unfooked
.

Jamie had to close his eyes briefly as Bon’s impish voice danced through his head, accompanied by a vision of Emma lying naked beneath him on the blankets, her lips parted in a wordless sigh of pleasure as he drove himself deep inside her.

He opened his eyes to banish the vision. “Did your uncle send what I asked for?”

Ian nodded curtly, then turned and signaled toward the far end of the glen.

The six henchmen guarding the south entrance to the glen nudged their horses apart, making room for a flatbed wagon manned by a beefy driver to pass between them. As they closed ranks once again, the wagon came trundling across the grass toward Jamie and Ian. The vehicle made a half-circle, finally rolling to a halt facing the opposite direction a few feet behind Ian.

Jamie scowled at the wooden chests weighting down its bed. “What in the bluidy hell is this?” he demanded, returning his gaze to Ian’s face to search for any sign of treachery. “Some sort of trick?”

“Of course it’s not a trick,” Ian snapped. “It’s exactly what you asked for.”

As Jamie moved forward, Ian’s hands curled into fists. But Jamie stalked right past him, heading for the wagon. The driver eyed him nervously over his shoulder as he snatched up a fallen branch from the ground, but relaxed when Jamie moved to use the branch to pry open the lid of the chest closest to the back of the wagon bed.

The lid fell away with a clatter. The morning sunlight glinted off its contents, nearly blinding him.

Shaking his head in mute disbelief, Jamie moved to pry open the lid of the next chest only to find exactly the same thing awaiting him.

Gold
. A king’s ransom in gold.

He spun around, turning his disbelieving gaze on Ian. “What is this? This isn’t what I asked for! This isn’t what your uncle promised me!”

“Of course it is!” Ian insisted, a shadow of bewilderment softening the contempt in his eyes. “It’s exactly what you demanded in your note. Enough gold for you and your men to live on for the rest of your wretched lives.”

He reached inside his frock coat, forcing Jamie to move his own hand a few inches closer to the butt of his pistol. But it wasn’t a weapon that appeared in Ian’s hand. It was a folded piece of vellum.

He thrust the paper toward Jamie. “My uncle also said to give you this.”

Jamie strode forward and snatched the
missive from Ian’s hand. He tore it open, this time not pausing to admire the fine quality of the paper or the elaborate Hepburn crest stamped into the sealing wax. There were eight words scrawled across the paper in a feeble, spidery hand:
What you seek is not mine to give.

While Ian stood there staring at him as if he were a madman, Jamie crumpled the note in his fist, fury rising like bile in his throat. The crafty auld bastard had done it again. He’d betrayed Jamie and left him standing there empty-handed and half blind with rage.

He lifted his burning gaze to the bed of the wagon. Ian was right. There was enough gold in those chests to last a lifetime. It could keep Muira and her family and all those like them on this mountain in milk and meat for many winters to come. His own men could finally stop running, stop hiding, settle down and have cottages and wives and children of their own if they so desired.

He glanced over his shoulder at Emma. Tension was written in every line of her bearing, as if she sensed something had gone badly amiss.

She had been right as well, Jamie thought bitterly. She was nothing to the earl. Just to have the last laugh in their lifelong battle of wits, the bastard had been willing to gamble that Jamie would set her free in exchange for the gold instead of marching right back
to her, shoving the mouth of his pistol against her temple and pulling the trigger.

Jamie closed his eyes briefly just to block out the sight of her. Despite what his parents had been foolish enough to believe, this feud would never end. But he couldn’t keep dragging Emma all over the Highlands indefinitely. She might not survive the next drenching rain, the next surprise snowstorm, the next harrowing ride up the mountain while trying to elude the Hepburn’s men.

She might not survive him.

“Wait here,” he snarled at Ian.

Rubbing a hand over his rigid jaw, he went striding back across the glen to Emma.

“Did you get what you wanted?” she asked as he approached, the proud tilt of her chin reminding him that he had made her believe there would always be something in this world he wanted more than her.

He couldn’t very well tell her he wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore. That everything he had dreamed of, everything he had fought for up until the day he first laid eyes on her, now seemed less than worthless to him.

So he simply said, “You’re free.”

She nodded, then turned and went walking toward Ian. At first Jamie thought she meant to leave him without so much as a backward glance, which would be no less than what he deserved. But she
had only traveled a few feet before she turned and came running back to him.

Clutching his arm and standing on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his ear and whispered, “There won’t be any strapping young lovers. There will only be you.”

He reached for her but she was already gone. All he could do was stand there and watch her walk away from him, his empty hands slowly curling into fists. Her back was straight, her shoulders unbowed despite everything she had endured since arriving in Scotland.

What a bluidy fool he had been! He had tried to steal something so precious he should have been willing to sacrifice a king’s ransom to possess it.

She was nearly halfway to Ian now. Jamie willed her to turn and look back at him one last time, to see in his eyes all of the things he had been too cowardly to confess. But she just kept walking.

He had to stop her, to tell her that he was even more of a fool than his parents had been. At least they had died with something to show for their folly, even if it was only a few stolen months of happiness. If he let Emma go riding out of that glen with Ian, he would have nothing except the memory of the one night she had spent in his bed and a lifetime of regrets.

He was already taking a step when a beam of
sunlight glinted off something high up in one of the cedars to the east of the wagon, distracting him. He squinted toward the tree, just barely able to make out the gleaming black barrel of a pistol protruding from the dense sweep of boughs.

Jamie frowned. His men knew better than to scale a cedar that high. If something went wrong, it would make it too easy for Hepburn’s henchmen to cut off their escape route.