The Devil Wears Plaid (3 page)

Propping one foot on a fallen log, Jamie tipped back his head to survey the majestic indigo sweep of the night sky. “Our walls are the sheltering branches o’ the pines and our roof a vaulted dome dusted with
gems sprinkled by the hand o’ the Almighty himself. I challenge you to find a grander sight in any London ballroom.”

When silence greeted his words, he slanted her a sidelong glance only to catch her quizzically studying his profile instead of the sky. She quickly lowered her eyes, hiding them beneath the wary russet sweep of her lashes. “I was expecting little more than an unintelligible grunt. It seems the earl was wrong, sir. Your education wasn’t wasted after all. At least not judging by your vocabulary.”

He sketched her a mocking bow so flawless it would have done any gentleman proud. “With enough time and determination, lass, even a savage can learn to mimic his betters.”

“Like Ian Hepburn? From what you said in the abbey, I gather he was one of your betters at the university?”

“There was a time when he might have considered himself my equal. But that was when he only knew me as his dear friend
Sin
. Once his uncle informed him I was nothing but a filthy, stinking Sinclair with dirt under his fingernails and blood on his hands, he wanted nothing more to do with me.”

“After having known you for only a few hours myself, I can’t say that I blame him.”

“Och, lass!” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his chest and giving her a reproachful look. “Ye cut me
to the heart wi’ that wee, sharp tongue o’ yers. Hae ye no’ an ounce o’ pity in yer soul fer a puir ignorant Scotsmon?”

Hoping to hide the melting effect his velvet-edged burr had on her, Emma surged to her feet to face him. “My name isn’t ‘lass.’ It’s Emmaline. Or Miss Marlowe if you’re civilized enough to observe the social niceties. My father is a baronet—one of the gentry.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Jamie snorted. “Genteel enough to auction his daughter off to the highest bidder?”

She lifted her chin again, refusing to quail before his scorn, and said softly, “The
only
bidder.”

Her confession caught Jamie off guard. The lass might be willowy and small breasted, but there was still no denying her feminine charms. If she had been born and raised on this mountain, besotted suitors would have been lining up to cast themselves at her feet.

“And you needn’t make my father out to be some sort of grasping villain from a Gothic melodrama,” she added. “For all you know, I could be madly in love with the earl.”

Jamie barked out a laugh. “And I could be the King of Scotland.” Ignoring his better judgment, he allowed his gaze a bold foray over her. “There’s only one reason a woman like you would wed a moldering auld bag o’ bones like the Hepburn.”

She rested her hands on her slender hips. “You just abducted me a few hours ago. How can you possibly presume to know what manner of woman I am?”

Before he even realized what he was going to do, he had stepped closer to her—close enough to stroke his roughened knuckles down the irresistible softness of her cheek. He’d never been a man given to bullying women but there was something about this tart-tongued girl that made him want to put his hands on her, to coax some sort of reaction out of her, even if it was to his own detriment.

He put his mouth against her ear, deliberately lowering his voice to a husky whisper. “I know you’re still young enough—and comely enough—to need a real mon in your bed.”

A shiver having naught to do with fear or the brisk wind raked her tender flesh. When Jamie drew back to survey her face, she was gazing up at him, her parted lips trembling ever so slightly and her dusky blue eyes large enough to reflect the rising moon.

Before he could succumb to her unwitting invitation, Jamie turned away from her, determined to fetch her a bedroll and be done with her for the night.

Her next words froze him in his tracks.

“You’re wrong about my father, sir. He’s not the greedy one. I am.”

Jamie slowly turned, his eyes narrowing as a
prickle of wariness eased up his spine. He’d felt that unsettling sensation numerous times before, usually just seconds before he was about to be ambushed by a roving gang of Hepburn’s hired guns.

His captive’s posture was no longer forlorn or fearful but openly defiant. Her voice was steady, her eyes as cool as the silvery moonlight playing over her high, freckled cheekbones. “Surely even a common ruffian such as yourself must know that most women would barter not only their bodies but their souls to wed a man as wealthy and powerful as the earl. Once I’m his countess, I’ll have every treasure a woman could desire—jewels, furs, land, and more gold than I could spend, or count, in a lifetime. And I can promise you I’ll not lack for a
mon
in my bed,” she added with a scornful toss of her head. “After I’ve provided him with an heir, I’m sure the earl won’t begrudge me a Season in London and a strapping young lover… or two.”

Jamie simply gazed at her for a long, thoughtful moment before saying, “My name isn’t ‘sir,’ Miss Marlowe. It’s Jamie.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left her standing there, her slender frame buffeted by the wind.

J
AMIE, EMMA THOUGHT. SUCH
an innocuous name for such a dangerous man.

As the moon crested and slowly began its descent, she huddled deeper in the nest of scratchy woolen blankets her captor had provided. They smelled of
him,
a realization that only sharpened the jagged edge of her misery.

The rich masculine musk with its earthy undertones of leather, woodsmoke and horse should have been offensive to her delicate nose. Most men of her acquaintance, including her father and every gentleman she had encountered during her three Seasons in London, smothered their natural scents beneath a choking layer of shaving soaps and floral colognes. One could hardly draw breath when walking into an assembly room crowded with dandies drenched in the most popular of that Season’s sweet waters, whether it be honey or rose. Instead of being repelled by Sinclair’s
exotic scent, she caught herself breathing deep to draw it into her lungs, almost as if it had the power to warm her chilled blood.

She rolled over. The cold, hard ground was as unwelcoming as a slab of rock. Every time she stirred, a new stone or twig seemed to rear up to jab her tender flesh. Not that she was likely to sleep anyway while lying a few scant feet away from a pack of dangerous outlaws in the middle of the Scottish wilderness.

Not even their drunken snores could completely drown out the echo of her own mocking voice:
I’m sure the earl won’t begrudge me a Season in London and a strapping young lover… or two.

Emma moaned aloud and buried her head beneath the blankets, wondering what had possessed her to make such a preposterous boast. She had managed to survive her parents’ forced cheer and her sisters’ pretended envy over her nuptials to the earl, so why had a stranger’s opinion of her proved so galling to her pride?

Somehow as she had stood there in the moonlight, being judged and found wanting beneath the cool appraisal of Jamie Sinclair’s eyes, it had seemed better for him to think her a grasping shrew than some sacrificial lamb marching meekly to her doom. Better to have him loathe her than to pity her. For a few precious seconds, she had felt strong and powerful and in command of her own fate.

Now she just felt ridiculous.

She might have been able to restrain her temper if he hadn’t kept calling her “lass” in that infuriating manner. Thanks to that whisky-and-velvet burr of his, the word had sounded more like an endearment than the overly familiar insult it was. It had made her desperate to put some distance between them, even if it was only by insisting he acknowledge her social superiority by calling her Miss Marlowe. He would probably laugh in her face if he knew her
genteel
father was one flask of brandy and one unlucky round at the faro table away from being cast into debtor’s gaol.

I know you’re still young enough—and comely enough—to need a real mon in your bed
.

As she struggled to pummel a fold of the blanket into some semblance of a pillow, it was his words and not her own that returned to haunt her. A fresh shiver raked her as she remembered how his knuckles had grazed her cheek with such disarming tenderness. His husky whisper had summoned up mysterious and provocative images of the things a
mon
might do to her in that bed. These images had little to do with the disagreeable duty her mother had described. Even now, they held the power to send a rush of heat sizzling through her veins, to burn the chill from her aching bones.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Was Sinclair bold
enough to imply she needed a man like
him
in her bed? A man who wouldn’t simply climb atop her and wiggle and grunt as her mother had told her the earl was likely to do? A man who would woo her with tender, breath-stealing kisses and skillful caresses until she was begging to surrender herself to him?

Her eyes flew open. Being bounced around on the horse’s back must have scrambled her wits. It wasn’t as if a barbarian like Jamie Sinclair could ever be that man. From what she’d heard of the wild Highlanders who still roamed these hills, he was more likely to bend a woman over a table, toss her skirts up over her head and take his pleasure roughly and swiftly without a care for her own.

Emma poked her head out of the blankets, hoping the icy air would cool the sudden fever raging in her cheeks. She was accustomed to hearing her sisters whisper and giggle in bed each night after their mother extinguished the lamp. It gave her an unsettling start to hear instead the low rumble of two men talking between themselves.

“She’s a bonny eno’ lass, I s’pose,” one of them was saying. “Though a bit scrawny for my tastes.”

“Judging by the girth o’ that barmaid in Invergarry, any lass under fifteen stone would be a bit scrawny for your tastes, Bon.” Emma stiffened as she recognized the unmistakable cadences of Sinclair’s murmur. Although she had her back to the fire, she
instinctively closed her eyes so no one would guess she was eavesdropping instead of sleeping.

Sinclair’s observation was met with a fond sigh from the man he’d called Bon. “Aye, me Rosie was a bit o’ a handful, wasn’t she? Two handfuls and a mouthful, if ye must know.”

“I mustn’t, but I’m sure the image will haunt my dreams for nights to come,” Sinclair said dryly.

“Don’t try to play the monk with me, lad. I’m sure ye’d like nothin’ more than to warm yerself between a certain pair o’ soft, white thighs on this cold spring night.”

“You heard me in the abbey,” Sinclair replied, his tones clipped. “I told Hepburn if he met my demands, no harm would come to her.”

“Ah, but ye promised to return her unharmed, not unfooked.” Emma was still puzzling over the unfamiliar term when Sinclair’s companion chuckled. “’Twould be the ultimate revenge, wouldn’t it? Sending her back to the auld buzzard with a Sinclair bastard in her belly?”

Emma’s blood froze in her veins as the full import of the man’s words sank in. She might still be an innocent but she was no fool. If Sinclair decided to use her tender young body to slake his appetite for revenge, there would be little she could do to stop him. No one would heed her desperate struggles or her pleas for mercy. Judging by what his companion had
just said, his men were more likely to gather around and cheer him on than rush to her rescue.

Emma shuddered, remembering anew the dreadful things she had said to him. Since she was the one who had boldly professed her eagerness to take a strapping young lover as soon as the earl would allow it, he might even be able to convince himself that she would welcome his advances.

She held her breath, waiting for Sinclair to deny his man’s words, to rebuke his companion for suggesting something so abominable. But the taut silence remained unbroken except for the cheery crackle and snap of the fire. Though her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut, she could almost see him sitting there before the fire, his regal cheekbones shadowed by its leaping flames as he weighed the wisdom of his man’s counsel.

No longer able to bear the suspense, she dared a furtive glance over her shoulder. Sinclair was sitting with his back to her, facing the fire and blocking her view of the other man. His broad shoulders and back looked even more imposing from this angle.

She had no intention of just lying there and waiting for his shadow to fall over her, blocking out the moonlight and covering her in darkness.

As she eased back a corner of the blanket, his velvet-edged warning echoed through her mind:
If you run, I’ll have to put my hands on you…

She rolled soundlessly out of the bedroll.

If Jamie Sinclair wanted to put his hands on her, he would have to catch her first.

J
AMIE GLARED AT HIS
cousin over the leaping flames of the campfire. Their hellish glow only emphasized the devilish sparkle of Bon’s black eyes and the impish arch of his thin, dark brows.

Bon was one of the few men who could bear up under Jamie’s most fierce glower. He’d had ample practice, both when they were lads running wild over the grounds of the Sinclair stronghold together and during the half dozen or so years that they’d been riding against the Hepburn and his men. The only time they’d been separated was during those long, bleak terms Jamie had spent at St. Andrews.

If Jamie hadn’t known that Bon was deliberately needling him, he would have lunged across the fire and boxed his pointy ears just as he had so many times as a boy. More often than not, the two of them would end up rolling in the dirt, pummeling each other bloody until someone—usually Bon’s mother, God rest her long-suffering soul, or Jamie’s grandfather—dragged them apart by their collars and gave them each a sound shaking.

Their brawling had tapered off when Jamie had turned fourteen and rapidly gained eight inches in
height and two stone in weight on Bon. Since then, Bon had been forced to do battle with his canny wits instead of his fists, wits that were on full display now as he returned Jamie’s glower with an innocent blink of his own.

Jamie should have disputed his cousin’s words outright but he couldn’t deny the truth in them. There were few on this mountain who would condemn him for sampling the auld mon’s bride. After everything the Hepburn had done to his family—including trying to wipe the Sinclair name from the face of the earth—it would be a fitting revenge for Jamie’s seed to live on in the womb of the woman the Hepburn had chosen to bear his own son.

Jamie felt a surprising surge of lust in his loins. For the first time since he and Bon had instituted their little game of wits and wills, Jamie was the first to look away.

Ignoring Bon’s triumphant grin, he picked up a stick and gave the fire a fierce poke, sending a shower of sparks shooting up into the velvety blackness of the night sky. “There’s no need to play these games. I’m well aware you don’t approve o’ me snatchin’ the Hepburn’s bride.”

“And why would I when the only likely outcome is for us to end up danglin’ by our necks from some hangman’s gibbet? Now that ye’ve gone and made off with an Englishwoman, what’s to stop the Hepburn from callin’
the full wrath o’ the British army down on our heads?”

“His pride. You know he’d rather die than ask for help from any mon, be he Scottish or English.”

“Then I wish he’d go ahead and die and spare us all this trouble.” Bon stabbed a finger in the general direction of the bedroll where Jamie had left their captive. “Because I can promise ye that trouble is all that lass is goin’ to be.”

Jamie snorted. “I doubt a prim, stiff-necked lass like that has ever done anything more
troubling
than dropping a stitch while embroidering a scripture on a sampler.” He spared his cousin a sideways glance. “Besides, she couldn’t possibly be more trouble than that bonny wee dairy maid in Torlundy whose husband threatened to tear off your scrawny arm and beat you to death with it when he caught you sneaking out of his bedchamber window in the middle of the night.”

“Ah, my sweet Peg!” Bon sighed wistfully at the memory. “Now there was a lass worth dying for—both between the sheets and out o’ them. Can ye say the same for the Hepburn’s woman?”

Jamie tossed the stick away. “She’s not his woman. At least not yet. And I can promise you I have no intention of dying for her. Not by the hangman’s hand or by any other means.”

“What makes ye think the Hepburn’ll even be willing to pay to get her back? He’s never had a reputation for bein’
overly sentimental. There are some who say he sold his black heart to the divil along with his soul.”

“Oh, he’ll pay. Not because he has any particular fondness for the lass but because he won’t be able to bear the thought of a Sinclair stealing something that belongs to him.” Jamie felt his lips curve in a grim smile. “Especially this particular Sinclair.”

“And what if Ian Hepburn isn’t as proud as his uncle? What if he convinces the auld buzzard to bring in the redcoats to fight on their side?”

Jamie’s gaze was drawn back to the darkness at the very heart of the fire. Even he had to admit that Ian was the unknown quantity in his carefully calculated scheme. It was difficult to pretend he hadn’t been shaken by the depth of the loathing he had glimpsed in his former friend’s eyes as they had faced each other in that abbey.

He gave his head a brisk shake. “If anything, Ian hates me more than his uncle does. He won’t want the redcoats doing their dirty work for them. He’d rather see his own hands around my throat than a hangman’s noose.”

The sparkle in Bon’s dark eyes was dimmed by the shadow of worry. “I don’t know exactly what it is ye plan to ask of the Hepburn in return for his bride but it’s goin’ to have to be one hell of a prize to justify riskin’ all of our necks, includin’ yer own. Are ye sure it’s worth it?”

“Aye.” Jamie looked Bon dead in the eye. Bon had always been more brother than cousin to him and he owed him at least that much of the truth. “That much I can promise you.”

L
ONG AFTER BON HAD
retired for the night, Jamie found himself standing over his captive’s bedroll, hoping he would be able to keep the promise he had made to his cousin. If he was wrong about the Hepburn bringing in the redcoats to retrieve her, he may very well have sealed the doom of his entire clan.

He had long suspected that the Hepburn secretly enjoyed the little game of cat and mouse the two of them had been playing practically from the moment Jamie had been born. Jamie could almost picture the auld man at this very moment, gleefully rubbing his bony hands together as he plotted his next move. To a man like the Hepburn the mountain was naught but his own personal chessboard, and the people who eked out their living from its rocky soil pawns to be moved about at both his whim and his pleasure. There was only one way to beat the man and that was to be cannier… and more ruthless than he was. By kidnapping an innocent woman, Jamie had finally succeeded at both.

He scowled down at the bedroll. The girl who slept at his feet was no less a pawn to the earl. He knew
that it galled Hepburn beyond measure to have outlived his three sons and all their offspring while Jamie had not only survived, but thrived. Hepburn would stop at nothing to procure a new heir for himself.